Identity in Animation: A Journey Into Self, Difference, Culture and the Body 9781138849785, 9781138849778

Table of contents :
Cover......Page 1
Half Title......Page 2
Title Page......Page 4
Copyright Page......Page 5
Dedication......Page 6
Table of Contents......Page 8
List of figures......Page 9
Acknowledgements......Page 11
Introduction......Page 12
1 The boop-oop-a-doop girl: culture, body and Betty Boop......Page 19
2 Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment......Page 37
3 Conflict and connection, body and performance: how Looney Tunes broke out of the asylum......Page 59
4 The case for Wallace and Gromit: Britishness, horror, slapstick and the real......Page 80
5 Who am I? Gender at play: guys in corsets, girls in love......Page 100
6 The misfits: bodies, difference and wandering in the Clayography films of Adam Elliot......Page 126
7 Hayao Miyazaki: place, nostalgia and adolescence......Page 144
8 The ‘thingness’ of CG and the life of the object......Page 162
Conclusion......Page 180
Index......Page 184

Citation preview

IDENTITY IN ANIMATION

Identity in Animation: A Journey into Self, Difference, Culture and the Body uncovers the meaning behind some of the most influential characters in the history of anim ation and questions their unique sense of who they are and how they are formed. Jane Batkin explores how identity polit ics shape the inner psychology of the character and their exter ior motivation, often buoyed along by their question ing of ‘place’ and ‘belong ing’ and driven by issues of self, difference, gender and the body. Through this, Identity in Animation illustrates and questions the construction of stereotypes as well as unconventional represent ations within American, European and Eastern anim ation. It does so with examples such as the strong gender tropes of Japan’s Hayao Miyazaki, the strange relationships created by Australian director Adam Elliot and Nick Park’s depiction of Britishness. In addition, this book discusses Betty Boop’s sexual ity and ulti mate repression, Warner Bros’ anarchic, self- aware characters and Disney’s fascin at ing represent ation of self and society. Identity in Animation is an ideal book for students and researchers of anim ation studies, as well as any media and film studies students taking modules on anim ation as part of their course. Jane Batkin is a Senior Lecturer and joint Programme Leader of the BA (Hons) Animation course at the University of Lincoln, UK. She is a member of the Society of Animation Studies and Society of Film and Media Studies and has presented at the SAS Conference in Toronto, in Canterbury and at the Toy Story at 20 Symposium. Her article ‘Rethinking the Rabbit’, explor ing the history and culture of Looney Tunes, was published by the Society of Animation Studies Journal and she is currently contribut ing to a forthcom ing anthology celebrat ing Toy Story.

IDENTITY IN ANIMATION A Journey into Self, Difference, Culture and the Body

Jane Batkin

First published 2017 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, N Y 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2017 Jane Batkin The right of Jane Batkin to be identi fied as author of this work has been asser ted by her in accord ance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or util ised in any form or by any electronic, mech an ical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, includ ing photocopy ing and record ing, or in any inform ation storage or retrieval system, without permis sion in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corpor ate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identi fication and explan ation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A cata logue record for this book is avail able from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data A catalog record for this book has been requested ISBN: 978-1-138-84977-8 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-138-84978-5 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-315-72521-5 (ebk) Typeset in Bembo by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk

For Hanna and Harry

CONTENTS

List of figures Acknowledgements

viii x

Introduction

1

1

The boop-oop-a-doop girl: culture, body and Betty Boop

8

2

Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment

26

3

Conflict and connection, body and performance: how Looney Tunes broke out of the asylum

48

The case for Wallace and Gromit: Britishness, horror, slapstick and the real

69

5

Who am I? Gender at play: guys in corsets, girls in love

89

6

The misfits: bodies, difference and wander ing in the Clayography films of Adam Elliot

115

7

Hayao Miyazaki: place, nostalgia and adolescence

133

8

The ‘thing ness’ of CG and the life of the object

151

4

Conclusion

169

Index

173

FIGURES

1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.4 4.5 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 6.1 6.2

Betty the half-dog lady, Dizzy Dishes (Fleischer, 1930) Snow White (Fleischer, 1933c) Betty empowered, Boop-Oop-a-Doop (Fleischer, 1932b) Betty victim ized, Boop-Oop-a-Doop (Fleischer, 1932b) Chaplin, The Gold Rush (Chaplin, 1925) Snow White (Hand and Cottrell, 1937) Grumpy, Snow White (Hand and Cottrell, 1937) Snow White (Hand and Cottrell, 1937) Bambi (Algar and Armstrong, 1942) Lilo and Stitch (DeBlois and Sanders, 2002) Bosko the Doughboy (Harmon, 1931) Early Bugs and Elmer, Elmer’s Candid Camera ( Jones, 1940) Gender play, What’s Opera Doc? ( Jones, 1957) Catharsis, What’s Opera Doc? ( Jones, 1957) You Ought to be in Pictures (Freleng, 1940) Duck Amuck ( Jones, 1953b) A Grand Day Out (Park, 1989b) Creature Comforts (Park, 1989a) Slapstick, A Close Shave (Park, 1995) Wallace as ‘other’, The Wrong Trousers (Park, 1993) Gender play, The Curse of the Were-Rabbit (Park, 2005) Ariel, The Little Mermaid (Clements and Musker, 1989) Beryl, Girl’s Night Out (Quinn, 1988) Elsa the outcast, Frozen (Buck and Lee, 2013) Popeye reveals all, Popeye the Sailor (Fleischer, 1933) Elliot and Harvie (2015) Harvie and Koala (2015)

10 15 19 19 29 34 35 36 40 43 50 53 55 56 59 61 73 74 76 81 83 96 100 104 107 117 122

Figures ix

6.3 6.4 7.1 7.2 7.3 7.4 7.5 8.1 8.2 8.3 8.4

Harvie at sea, Harvie Krumpet (Elliot, 2003) Max (2015) The forest, Princess Mononoke (Miyazaki, 1997) Top- down method of Japanese history illustration (author’s own) Children empowered, My Neighbor Totoro (Miyazaki, 1988) Princess Mononoke (Miyazaki, 1997) Nahoko, The Wind Rises (Miyazaki, 2013) Lone robot, WALL-E (Stanton, 2008) Woody and Buzz, Toy Story (Lasseter, 1995) WALL-E (Stanton, 2008) Pocoyo and friends, Pocoyo (García, Cantolla and Gallego, 2005)

124 126 134 136 143 144 148 152 155 156 165

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My sincere thanks go to the follow ing, without whom this book would not have been possible. Thank you to Peter Dodd, Hilary Audus and Joanna Quinn for your wonder ful 2D character insights. Thank you to Nedy Acet of DreamWorks, Chris Page of Cinesite, Noah Crossman of Aardman, Guillermo Garcia Carsi, Adam Elliot and Marie Paccou for your passion ate responses to my questions. Thanks to Andrew Elliott, Sarah Barrow and Jim Cheshire at the University of Lincoln and to Nichola Dobson and Jared Taylor at the Edinburgh College of Art for all your help and encouragement. Thanks to Sheni and Natalie at Taylor & Francis for your continued support throughout this process. A special thank you to Gareth, and to Hanna and Harry, for your patience and love.

INTRODUCTION

The animator gives life to the anim ated – the two surely cannot be separated; their relationship is complicated, frustrated, enlightened and enlighten ing. From still ness to stir ring, animation conjures life out of death. The form awakens, on paper, through clay, on screen and is imbued with liveliness. The character acquires a self-consciousness that is linked to both person hood and society, yet it is authored by the anim ator’s hand. As an identity develops, the character questions who it is and how it should act. But what does it mean to truly be a Self? Identity comprises a set of mean ings that define us, accord ing to our roles (Burke and Stets, 2009: 3). How, then, can we apply identity to the anim ated Toon? How can Bugs, Gromit, Chihiro or WALL-E achieve a self? Animation is an arti ficial construct, yet its malleabil ity offers up a limit lessness that live action cinema does not (Buchan calls anim ation ‘transform ing cinema’ [2013: 1]). Whilst this form is perceived as liberat ing (and self-reflex ive in the anim ator’s author ing of ‘identit ies’), it remains paradox ically anchored by the weight of its own arti ficial construct. The medium is illusionary and rhetor ical, an ethereal presence on the cinema screen; it is a projection of imagination and possibil ity. How can we apply identity to such an elusive ‘thing’? Identity itself is never fixed; self is famil iar yet elusive. It can be viewed as an object as well as a subject. There is a ‘thing ness’ attached to identity and its refusal to be anchored, as there is with anim ation. Self can be ‘an exper iencing “thing” ’ inside a person’s head: we have rather than we are a ‘self ’ (Leary and Tangney, 2012: 5–6). This helps a little in our attempt to anchor anim ation within identity. Ideas of self hood change, mould and shift accord ing to social positions and societal exper iences; as Mead describes, ‘the self has the ability to see itself as an object and also . . . to change and control itself ’ (Cinoglu and Arikan, 2012: 116). The objecti fy ing of self creates a ‘thing’, much as anim ation does. The separation from the idea of ‘am’, ‘are’ or ‘is’ alludes directly to the object.

2

Introduction

Self, like the anim ated self, is a construct, a design, and its valid ity depends utterly on our belief in it. Identity is a way of infer ring mean ings from the world and from other selves. It is interact ive, it can be perform at ive and is always fluid. It attaches itself to culture and nation hood, to place and past, to self and other. Its malleabil ity means that it is often problematic to define, just as anim ation is; there is a refusal to be fixed that resonates through identity theory and permeates the anim ated world. Identity polit ics, in terms of this book, refers to the bring ing together of characters who have a shared identity, as well as those marginal ized for their ‘difference’. So what happens to identity polit ics within animation? This book will adopt an ontological approach to form a methodology that is exploratory in its hypothesis, in which mean ings will be defined, pondered and dissected. I will be apply ing identity theor ies to anim ation, and discussing exist ing texts as well as conduct ing industry inter views to inform my knowledge of this topic. The central premise for this book is how the social organ izing of specific themes in identity become drivers within anim ation. These themes include the Body, Gender, Self, Difference, Place and Culture, and I will be apply ing these to both the classic and contemporary eras of anim ation, to characters such as Betty Boop, Bugs Bunny, the Disney princess, Wallace and Gromit, Harvie Krumpet, Beryl, Lilo and Stitch, Miyazaki’s Shojo girls and WALL-E, among others. By drawing together second ary research from identity theor ists, I will explore animation characters and studios/artists to seek an answer to the question of how identity is established and how the animated form chal lenges concepts of ‘self ’ to form different mean ings. I will also be includ ing primary inter views with industry animators and directors to discover how these notions of identity work within their own cinema. By adopt ing this approach, I hope to high light how my chosen subsections of identity polit ics create chal lenging represent ations of self, the body, difference, gender, place and nation hood within anim ation, as well as engaging with import ant societal issues that create a closer represent ation of the ‘real’. Chapter 1 will explore national identity, culture and nostalgia to establish Betty Boop’s importance within the history of anim ation. By placing Betty within the context of the 1920s (the era she reflects), we view her as flapper, liberated spirit, embod ied sexual icon and ‘player’; America as a performative nation will enforce this argument. Betty’s body becomes central to the debate about her identity, within a framework of class and femin in ity. Baumeister posits that self ‘begins with the physical body’ (2011: 48). In animation, there is no physical body to be dissected; however, Crafton claims that cartoons are able to achieve ‘presence’ through the implied body (2012: 16). The body as a site of play and objectification will be studied, as will notions of animism and neoteny. The relationship between the flapper, icon and perform ance is significant to national identity, as is the hedonism that under pins Betty’s filmography. Self and difference

Introduction 3

are visible signifiers in establish ing the influence of screen sirens and the idea of the chase, capture and ‘gaze’. I will also address the censor ship code that led to the ultimate unravel ling of Betty’s identity. The 1930s heralded a rever sion to traditional ism within national culture. This allowed Disney to reject the anarchic gag- driven short for a morally centred feature anim ation that was driven by a collect ive identity. This can be seen in the Fordist approach to Disney’s studio dynamic, where, Barrier argues, iden tit ies were ‘swal lowed up’ for the greater good (1999: 137–138). Collectivism is linked to national culture of the 1930s, with Kammen suggest ing that it is part of the American psyche to see the past as vital ‘rather than dead’ (1993: 5). Studio innovation fuels the development of Disney’s feature anim ation, whilst patriarchy is addressed as a mode for erasure; the law of the father (Walt) is central to the debate about self, and how identity is indelibly stamped upon the Disney canon, and this will be included in Chapter 2. The body continues to be a site for debate and here we find punish ment aligned with individual ity, conform ity with ‘belong ing’. Snow White’s identity confusion is relevant to identity polit ics, along with Disney’s missing mothers, and whether the child can achieve self hood within this framework. Lilo and Stitch (DeBlois and Sanders, 2002) will form a case study of place and diaspora, as well as pointing to a new direction in identity polit ics within the Disney franchise. Self becomes a celebration within the Looney Tunes filmography, wherein identity theor ies can be applied in terms of the characters’ psychological profiles and behaviour, and this is the focus of Chapter 3. Bugs Bunny applies self as subject, as ‘I’. His capacity for self-reflection is extraordinary, and the debate about methods of fixing self will be addressed, using Leary and Tangney’s theory that it is a ‘thing’ rather than a coherent notion of person hood (2012: 1) – therefore we can apply it to a Toon. Self within Warner Bros. anim ation is embod ied through a chaotic community, with characters’ self-reflex iv ity allow ing them to contradict and disrupt settings and raise industry issues such as low pay and lack of crit ical recog nition. Self is harnessed by the likes of Chuck Jones and Tex Avery and expressed with manic vibrancy through Looney Tunes. Place, space and its absence, as well as the body as a site for torture and punish ment, will also be dissected. Blackman sees the body as an ‘absent presence’ (2008: 15). It can be under stood to be a more abstract idea, and becomes social (Fox, Moore, Foucault, Bourdieu); something to be managed or unmanaged. Culture is a marker of identity polit ics, applied readily to anim ation. Nick Park’s cinema establishes a strong sense of nationhood, through its nostalgic community of the North. Britishness will be discussed in Chapter 4 in terms of how we form an attach ment to the traditional, yet paradox ically satir ize it (Christie, 2013), and also how the peculiar it ies of being British are further highlighted by the presence of outsiders (Kumar, 2010: 472). Grube argues that for someone to be ‘in’, someone else must be ‘out’ (2011: 633). This applies to the world of Wallace and Gromit, where intruders threaten the borders of the famil iar, and I will be demonstrat ing the narcissistic nature of Park’s villains. The slapstick

4

Introduction

hero is also vital to under stand ing the body; we will consider the ‘thing ness’ of Buster Keaton and Gromit and how they intercon nect, using Cott’s theory that Keaton was an ‘object’ among men (1975: 100–101), thus aligning him more with the animated figure. Gender is a visible marker of identity polit ics, and anim ation essentially needs ground ing within this in order to inform views of self and other. Chapter 5 will include a snapshot of femin ist and mascu line studies and the ‘trap’ that enslaves women, within which we will ask whether the body itself is enslav ing. Simone de Beauvoir writes that ‘Woman is the Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, Snow White, she who receives and submits’ (1989: 291). Femininity aligns with perform ance and passiv ity in fairy tales. Judith Butler’s (1990) theory of gender as performance, as a ‘doing’ rather than a ‘being’, will be applied to anim ation in order to establish whether this offers liber ation from constraints. Disney’s own paradoxical view of gender is signi ficant, and we will focus on the Disney filmography as a looking glass to society, using consumer ism as a marker for identity within the classic era of animation, as well as the notion of conform ity and its power on self. Frozen (Buck and Lee, 2013) provides a valid case study on voice and difference within the context of gender. Cross-dressing in anim ation is vibrant and important, as is the gender confusion created through exper i ment al ism and comedy (through Bugs, Popeye and Bart Simpson). Garber argues that transvest ism ‘points towards itself – or, rather, toward the place where it is not’ (1993: 37). Rather than creat ing an absence of self, gender-bending within anim ation points to identity as something rich and power ful, a riot of colour and anarchy that is impossible to pin down within binary codes. Culture informs identity polit ics, and plays an important role in the developing self, whilst place establishes identity. Chapter 6 will explore shift ing selves and shift ing land scapes in the work of Adam Elliot. Harvie Krumpet (2003) forms his identity on the move as a pilgrim, reflect ing on loss of place in relation to personal identity. Elliot’s films reflect our fear of fixed ness, whilst also trying to come to terms with national culture and the idea of displacement. Rapport and Dawson (1998) place modern culture as a ‘wander ing’ phenomenon and this will be a recur ring theme throughout this book. Difference and stigma create that part of identity theory that we releg ate to dark ness, Siebers suggests (2005: 2). Difference represents the night mare, as well as the solution: to have an identity ‘is to know what one is not’ (Naficy and Gabriel, 1993: 226). In anim ation, where worlds and identit ies become constant shape-shifters, disruption and chaos ensue when we try to position other ness in a fixed place. Kearney posits that ‘figures of Otherness occupy the frontier zone where reason falters and fantasies flour ish’ (2003: 3). Identity and ideas of self are threatened by strangeness, but anim ation can allow other to become famil iar. The other worldly visions of place created by Hayao Miyazaki are enlighten ing when it comes to discover ing notions of nostalgia and a recall ing of the past that ultimately informs the present. Miyazaki ponders identity on many levels and we will focus, in Chapter 7, on national culture, its history, nature and the emer gence

Introduction 5

of the adolescent to reveal distinctions that inform the argument for self in Miyazaki’s animated characters. Our journey will delve into Japan and its past, taking an anthropological view point to reveal the family, place and feminism, before explor ing the themes of self, the body, dualism and its rejection, consumption and difference within this cinema and the Shojo heroines, such as Satsuki, San and Chihiro, who come to embody strong, uncomprom ising ideas of self hood. Finally, Chapter 8 will consider the CG form and the object as ‘real’, and the consideration of empathy and self within Pixar. Nostalgia and consumption again recur here, where we find the story of Pixar being reflected by that of WALL-E (Stanton, 2008). Ackerman argues (2011) that CG characters are more ‘thinglike’ than their 2D counter parts and, Ronen suggests, truth of the object is affected by the human psyche (2002: 11). Nostalgia connects to the object and gives it meaning and we will apply these theor ies to Pixar’s intergalactic, lonely robot to ask if a CG object can contain a soul. Chaplin also emerges as an influence on WALL-E’s identity, where the past appears to be vibrant, the present dead. Our CG story will move beyond Pixar to DreamWorks to consider the industry itself, and will be informed by industry inter views to explain technique and character identity within a medium that has become increasingly scientific. Self and its loss are prevalent themes and represent fear in animation, but why is this? Perhaps the answer lies within representations of place, belong ing and its absence, as well as loss of parent, with which the audience connects. In our investment in the ‘thing ness’ that defines animation, it could be that we feel the loss of such things more palpably. Identity polit ics shape and are shaped by animation in a compel ling manner. Self, difference, the body, gender, place and culture are signposts whose presences are keenly felt. They are embraced, contested, assimilated and dissected as animation moves and evolves, constantly re-shaping and reimagin ing itself. Representation is aligned with artificial ity of the form and allows for more forceful theor ies of truth to emerge because of this very arti fice; in a sense, a hiding in plain sight takes place that enables more vigorous theor ies of truth to surface. The ‘truth’ of an object is continually contested, as we will discuss in this book – the animator’s hand conceives of the illusion of life, long before we view the cartoon. The event we are watch ing has already occurred; it is histor ical, relegated to a specific time and place. Our connection should adjust to mimic the arti ficial ity we seen onscreen. Yet, Berger insists, ‘the relation between what we see and what we know is never settled’ (1972: 7). Each image we view is an embodiment of a different way of seeing. The artifice of animation merges into the background as we behold the image we want to, and form a unique connection. Seeing is subjective and self can be applied to an object; the debate about the ‘real’ will be included throughout this book in terms of identities that are shaped by it. Walter Benjamin likened the painter to a magician, who represented – rather than entered – reality (Decoster and Vansieleghem, 2014: 797). Identity polit ics

6

Introduction

becomes exaggerated in the animated space of represent ation; self, difference and the body become drivers of the debate of the ‘real’, and anim ation essentially chal lenges stereotypes of the famil iar to push bound ar ies. The polit ics of identity arguably become more vibrant within the limit lessness of animation. This identity is often skewed and compel ling, constantly evolving and believable (do we see Bugs as an arti ficial construct or as a power ful character capable of escaping the frame? I vote for the latter). Identity asks import ant questions of animation. If there is no physical presence, what happens to self? If there are no bound ar ies, what of other ness? If binary codes need not apply, what defines the individual? If place is both present and absent, where does the Toon stand? The animator gives life to the anim ated. However, within the illusionary dream scape of animation, we observe as a character of design embraces an identity that is malleable and imbued with such liveliness that the anim ator’s hand (the author) becomes ghostly and veiled, and the character itself becomes conscious of self, of other, of culture and, occa sionally, possibly, even of us.

References Ackerman, A. (2011) Seeing Things: From Shakespeare to Pixar. Toronto: University of Toronto Press Barrier, M. (1999) Hollywood Cartoons – American Animation in its Golden Age. Oxford: Oxford University Press Baumeister, R. F. (2011) ‘Self and Identity: A Brief Overview of What They Are, What They Do and How They Work’, Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1234, pp. 48–55 Berger, J. (1972) Ways of Seeing: Based on the BBC Television Series with John Berger. London: British Broadcasting Corporation/Harmondsworth: Penguin Blackman, L. (2008) The Body: The Key Concepts. Oxford: Berg Publishers Buchan, S. (ed.) (2013) Pervasive Animation. New York and Abingdon: Routledge Burke, P. and Stets, J. (2009) Identity Theory. New York: Oxford University Press Butler, J. (1990) Gender Trouble: Feminism and The Subversion of Identity. New York and London: Routledge Christie, I. (2013) ‘Where Is National Cinema Today (and Do We Still Need It)?’ Film History, 25, 1/2, pp. 19–30 Cinoglu, H. and Arikan, Y. (2012) ‘Self, Identity and Identity Formation: From the Perspectives of Three Major Theories’, International Journal of Human Sciences, 2, pp. 1114–1131 Cott, J. (1975) ‘The Limits of Silent Comedy’, Literature Film Quarterly, 3, pp. 99–107 Crafton, D. (2012) Shadow of a Mouse – Performance, Belief and World-Making in Animation. Berkeley: University of California Press de Beauvoir, S. (1989) The Second Sex, trans. and ed. H. M. Parshley. New York: Vintage Decoster, P. and Vansieleghem, N. (2014) ‘Cinema Education as an Exercise in “Thinking Through Not-Thinking” ’, Educational Philosophy & Theory, 46, 7, pp. 792–804 Garber, M. B. (1993) Vested Interests: Cross-Dressing and Cultural Anxiety. Harmondsworth: Penguin Grube, D. (2011) ‘How can “Britishness” be Re-made?’ Political Quarterly, 82, 4, pp. 628–635

Introduction 7

Kammen, M. G. (1993) Mystic Chords of Memory: The Transformation of Tradition in American Culture. New York: Vintage Books Kearney, R. (2003) Strangers, Gods and Monsters: Interpreting Otherness. London: Routledge Kumar, K. (2010) ‘Negotiating English Identity: Englishness, Britishness and the Future of the United Kingdom’, Nations & Nationalism, 16, 3, pp. 469–487 Leary, M. and Tangney, J. (2012) ‘The Self as an Organizing Construct in the Behavioral and Social Sciences’, in M. Leary and J. Tangney (eds), Handbook of Self and Identity, 2nd edition. New York: Guilford Press, pp. 3–14 Naficy, H. and Gabriel, T. (1993) Otherness and the Media: The Ethnography of the Imagined and the Imaged. Chur: Harwood Academic Publishers Rapport, N. and Dawson, A. (1998) Migrants of Identity: Perceptions of Home in a World of Movement. Oxford: Berg Ronen, R. (2002) Representing the Real – Psychoanalysis and Culture. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi BV Siebers, T. (2005) ‘Disability as Masquerade’, in M. Metzel and S. Poirjer (eds), Difference and Identity: A Special Issue of Literature and Medicine. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press

Filmography Buck, C. and Lee, J. (dir.) (2013) Frozen [DV D] Walt Disney Animation Studios DeBlois, D. and Sanders, C. (2002) Lilo and Stitch [DV D] Walt Disney Pictures Elliot, A. (dir.) (2003) Harvie Krumpet [DV D] Melodrama Pictures, The Australian Film Commission, SBS Independent Stanton, A. (dir.) (2008) WALL-E [DV D] Walt Disney Pictures, Pixar Animation Studios

1 THE BOOP-OOP-A-DOOP GIRL Culture, body and Betty Boop

National culture is a mirror through which we can view anim ation. Place and time are signi fiers of identity and reveal issues of self and difference; culture is a placeholder for identity and identity is embod ied through culture. Indeed, culture plays ‘a pivotal role’ in determ in ing ideas of self (Leary and Tangney, 2012: 13). America, as a nation, is concerned with memory preser vation of its identity, perhaps more so than other nations because it has lived its past through media. From early cinema re-enact ments of assassinations to Civil War, America is a perform at ive nation, intent on captur ing the ‘real’ and certainly its ‘culture’. Rosenstone explains that the motion picture, in the twentieth century, became ‘the chief medium for carry ing the stories our culture tells itself ’ (2006: 3). Berger defines Americans as being ‘what others are not’ (2013: 341). Cultures, he suggests, are like onions: we can peel away layers to reveal myths at the heart of society. Meaning is made here. Culture informs anim ation as it does live action cinema. The idea of anim ation itself, suggests Cholodenko, is as a notion that seeks to implicate ‘the most profound, complex and chal lenging questions of our culture, questions in the areas of being and becom ing, time, space, motion, change – indeed, life itself ’ (2014: 102). Previously a point of contention amongst theor ists (White, 1998), anim ation today is viewed as ‘a cinematic form that can be analysed through almost all formal and styl istic cinematic para meters and theor ised using many film studies approaches’ (Buchan, 2014: 115). Identities can be shaped and understood within animation as they can in live action film. American culture is certainly represented by and defined within the identity of one of its first anim ated national icons: Betty Boop. She is the embod i ment of a bygone decade, a reflection of the hedon istic 1920s. Betty looks back through time and imagines a place where she could belong. Studies in nostalgia cite it as being an important ‘buffer’ to negat iv ity and as offer ing a window to the true

Culture, body and Betty Boop 9

‘self ’ (Baldwin, Biernat and Landau, 2015: 129). America treas ures its past; the existence of Americana (the collect ing of cultural objects) is testi mony to the popular ity of its nostalgia. When we consider the back wards glance of the Betty Boop filmography, we can conceptual ize the importance of nostalgia for the 1920s that occurs in the rather more punish ing early 1930s, at a time when Betty rose to fame and the nation was endur ing the Great Depression. Whilst Betty’s cartoons retain a surreal ism in their settings (often shift ing between continents and dismissing any ‘fixing’ of culture), they are anchored by Betty herself, represent ing a throwback to flapperdom. Star personas of the 1920s were viewed as a contrast to earlier passive ideals, particu larly in terms of the new woman or ‘scandalous flapper’ (Sharot, 2010: 73). Once described as Jessica Rabbit’s grand mother ( James, 1995), Betty is intended to represent the person ification of sex. She is objecti fied, pursued and abducted on numerous occa sions, during which she sings about her sex appeal/virgin ity and winks to camera. Performance is at the heart of this cinema. Within her opening credits, Betty represents a ‘doing’ rather than a ‘being’. She performs coquettishly for camera, break ing the fourth wall and flirt ing directly with her audience. Performance defines anim ation, but here it is also seen to reflect national culture of 1920s America, both in society and in cinema, through the emer gence of the flapper, her emancipation and attitudes. At times representat ive of liberation, at others harassed by objecti fication, Betty enjoys wrong foot ing her audience into think ing they don’t know her at all. This leaves us with a compel ling question. Who was the real Betty Boop and why does she matter? We will explore the rise of this anim ated star of cinema and her relationship with national identity, sexual ity and the body. Betty’s physical (drawn) body, measur ing five of Betty’s heads high, and the idea of the body as sexual object, remain crucial to the discussion. Skeggs argues that femin in ity is a sign and divider of class, but that it is the attitude that makes all the difference (2005: 130–132). However, as Fox states, ‘without a body, we seem to be nothing’ (2012: 2). Does ‘body’ define Betty Boop and, if so, is she objecti fied or empowered through it?

Beginnings Max Fleischer, Betty’s creator, began his career as an errand boy at the Brooklyn Eagle and was fuelled by a desire to draw, but struggled to under stand how to make a living from it. A break came in the form of an art editor’s post at Popular Science Monthly, where Fleischer settled into the role, buoyed along by an urge to develop his artwork (Fleischer, 2005: 7). He was intrigued by the process of animation and particu larly by the question of how to simplify it. He invented an early form of the rotoscope, filmed his brother and created what were to be known as ‘living cartoons’ because of their fusion of live action with 2D. When

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Culture, body and Betty Boop

J. R. Bray mass-produced these films, critics hailed them as further ing the art form with their ‘wit of conception and skill of execution’ (2005: 27). The Fleischer cartoons represented the spirit of New York, depict ing the gritty city as the backdrop to gag- driven shorts. As the brothers’ studio was established, it became renowned for its tech nical advances and adult humour. Max Fleischer invented the 3D set back camera, which enabled it to facilit ate stop motion within a horizontal construction, years before Disney’s multi-plane vertical model, and injected a level of realism into his cartoons through his camera’s depth of field. The Fleischer cartoons became synonymous with quality; their black and white tones were richer and deeper than those of their rivals.1 What the studio was missing, significantly, was a star. Bimbo the dog had been introduced as a rival to Mickey Mouse in the 1920s but the venture proved unsuccessful. Felix the Cat, however, with his ability to reflect the national culture of the time, enjoyed considerable popular ity. Felix was ‘a ubiquitous figure of the jazz age’ (Crafton, 1993: 301–347), sharing the frustrations of adults living in the Prohibition era. His cinema focused on attaining a simple goal, such as food or warmth (which will be discussed further in Chapter 2). However, when Mickey adapted to sound in 1927, Felix did not. Significantly, in the late 1920s, Disney Studios were pushing technological boundar ies and edging ahead of their competitors. The Fleischers decided that Bimbo needed a love interest to draw audiences in, and so they created the cartoon Dizzy Dishes (Fleischer, 1930), featur ing a half- dog, half-human character (see Figure 1.1). Betty had made her debut;

FIGURE 1.1

Betty the half-dog lady, Dizzy Dishes

Source: Fleischer (1930)

Culture, body and Betty Boop 11

however, her identity was in flux – she needed refin ing in order to accentuate her femin in ity and, presum ably, to further her appeal. Grim Natwick was the artist responsible for Betty’s appearance. Maltin claims that Natwick’s extensive exper ience in the field of art gave him an edge and a confidence that no one else shared. No other anim ator had attempted to draw a female character that was real istic, or aesthet ically pleasing. Natwick had studied fine art in Germany and under stood the human form, whilst his fellow artists apparently didn’t grasp its ‘impossible graceful ness’ (Culhane, cited in Maltin, 1987: 100). The body is a defin ite marker, and site, for Betty’s identity. Bogin describes Betty Boop as ‘neotenous’, refer ring to her large head, short arms and child like, often clumsy movements (1999: 159). Neoteny relates to an adult species retaining juven ile character ist ics, and includes the notion of sexual matur ity. Gould argues that neoteny illustrates humans as ‘permanent children’, and this view is suppor ted by Freud and Franklin (1999: 161). The process of neoteny is thought by psychiat rists to create playful attributes in humans, as well as female attract iveness. The idea of the permanent child, yet sexually attractive female, can certainly be applied to Betty. It is, however, a contradiction, a paradox, in its idea. The design of Betty, measured at five heads high, that contains child ish as well as adult attributes, is a deliberate construct that leads to the disquiet ing idea of neoteny. If she is depicted as a neotenous character, how is her audience intended to view her? In the film Is My Palm Read (Fleischer, 1933b), a light is shone on Betty as she dances in her dress, which immediately becomes see-through. Bimbo shows us a vision of child Betty, naked and washing herself in what appears to be a large bowl. Even as a child she is sexual ized with femin ine curves and her bottom clearly displayed, yet Betty’s face remains adult. Natwick offers clarity in an inter view with the Los Angeles Times, claim ing that Betty was never created to be vulgar or obscene, but was ‘a suggestion you could spell in three letters: S-E-X’ (Oliver, 1990).

Identity Helen Kane, the singer, took the Fleischers and Paramount to court in the 1930s, claim ing that their character stole her catchphrase ‘boop-oop-a-doop’, and attempted to sue them for $250,000. The phrase, she argued, was ‘wrong fully appropriated’ (Fleischer, 2005: 56). Max Fleischer often recounted the court sessions to his family, in which the defence and prosec ution debated over how the phrase ‘boop-oop-a-doop’ was spoken (2005: 56). It was finally proven that the catchphrase originated from soul singer Baby Esther, not Kane, and she lost her case. Betty also resembled Clara Bow, silent screen siren of the 1920s. Hers was a look synonymous with the era with her boyish bob, round face and wide, accentuated eyes. When Mae Questel voiced Betty in 1931 (Maltin, 1987: 101), she

12

Culture, body and Betty Boop

gave her a more strik ing identity with the introduction of a Bow-esque colloquial Brooklyn accent. The intention was that Betty be accessible to all. Clara Bow was the ‘It’ poster girl of the 1920s. Silent cinema relied on its connection with the audience to be conveyed through expression in the absence of sound, and Bow seemed to personify ‘It’, which was described as a ‘strange magnet ism that attracts both sexes’ (Pinkerton, 2013). Bow’s cinema presence became unique. She was at once sullen and smoulder ing and began successfully drawing in audiences.2 Bow was defiantly low class, however, and when she adapted to sound in the late 1920s, what was seen as her ‘low-bred Brooklyn brogue’ led to the decline of her career. She was an actor of contrasts: ‘It’ girl and sexual goddess on the one hand, and innocent on the other. Scott Fitzgerald claimed that Bow was ‘the real thing, someone to stir every pulse in the nation’ (Ball, 2001). It is significant that Betty Boop wasn’t modelled on the more revered actresses of the time, such as Mary Pickford or Lillian Gish; Bow offered an earth iness and working-girl spirit and Betty, too, represents a character in touch with her roots. Class may offer a clear answer to Betty’s identity. Femininity is discussed by Skeggs as a class sign, with working-class women feeling that they are ‘trying on’ femin in ity and that it is often the wrong size as if ‘designed for someone with a different body shape’ (2005: 130). Class defines Betty as a working girl, awkward in her femin in ity. She often appears confident in her verbal address (as a New York girl), but her movements are exaggerated and over played. Her child like vulnerabil ity is always present in her perform ance, her neoteny contrast ing with her womanly figure. Betty reflects Bow’s open sexu al ity in cinema – both characters are playful, flir tatious, pursued and captured.

The flapper and performance With the year 1920 came women’s right to vote and an empower ment they had held on to from World War I, when they had worked and asser ted their independence in the absence of men (see Jensen, 2008). The femin ist upsurge, beginning in the nineteenth century, recog nized that women were oppressed throughout society and this focused on stereotypical roles as it progressed into the twentieth century. DuBois notes that, at worst, men were either uninterested or amused by this issue and at best they were incapable of fully grasping it. She argues that ‘woman must lead the way to her own enfranchisement, and work out her own salvation’ (1978: 14). As the 1920s dawned, women felt essentially liberated and import ant. The flapper was the modern woman, braless, painted and brazen. ‘It’ became, as the successful screenplay writer Elinor Glyn defined it, a rare animal quality, a magnet ism and unselfconsciousness that attracted both sexes (Moore, 2008: 81). The flapper represented modern ity in the form of women whose attitudes, appearance and behaviour were wholly different to those of their mothers; she was synonymous with reck lessness and viewed as frivolous in an age when

Culture, body and Betty Boop 13

self-indulgence was the driving force of urban society. Zelda Fitzgerald was immor tal ized as ‘the heroine of the Jazz Age’ (2008: 61), drink ing in public, pursu ing her own interests and allow ing herself to be captured, eventually, by her husband, who wrote her into his iconic novels. We can see from this example that the actions of women became performat ive, recorded and repeated, through different media. The chase and the capture were the signposts of 1920s cinema and of Betty Boop’s own later cartoons. There was a sense of masculin ity being tricked somehow, of femininity allow ing an illusion of capture, but that this was all it represented. When we consider Bow’s continuous extramar ital flir tations in Mantrap (Fleming, 1926) or Mary Pickford’s boy crazy character in Coquette (Taylor, 1929), we can certainly see the journey of women’s emancipation in cinema. Performance maps actresses such as Theda Bara, known as ‘the vamp’ (Moore, 2008: 87), renowned for her risqué outfits and open sexual ity. Pola Negri, meanwhile, embraced the title ‘wildcat’ and famously declared that marriage was not for her. Notably, at the funeral of her lover, Rudolf Valentino, she fainted dramatically over his coffin (King, 2012). Performance became a visible sign during this era of emancipation and ‘play’. 3 Betty Boop’s filmography contains a self-aware perform ance and play ful ness that reflects this ambivalent vision of the 1920s. As she sashays across the screen, her hips, arms and head moving from side to side, she winks to camera as if to announce: this is my world, watch me play. The emphasis is one of empowerment, rather than victim ization, which contrasts with much of the content of the films them selves. Betty remains an enigma, using her body as a marker of sexual ity. She clearly invites the audience into her world. As Naremore states, ‘when people are caught unawares by a camera, they become objects to be looked at . . . when they know they are being photographed, they become role-players of another sort’ (1988: 15). This is the trick that anim ation presents: its players are self-aware constructs who are inked, anim ated and projected onto the screen with their every gesture becom ing perform at ive. Within 1920s film and society, perform ance is plat formed and reveals its own arti fice, such as Bara’s vampy sexual ity or Negri’s very public faint ing. Betty plays at performance in the same way. Artificiality becomes a mirror between mediums. What is particu larly interest ing within Betty’s performance is her lack of emotional engagement with the male characters in her films. Sharot discusses the idea of ‘disinterested love’ within the 1920s, as romance and consumer ism became linked in society. Cross-class relationships establish this idea, reflected in films such as It (1927), within which Clara Bow, a working girl, pursues her boss, realizing that he ‘will provide her with the means to actual ize the fantasies of consumer culture’ (Sharot, 2010: 82). She is the object of the male gaze, but men are also the object of hers (2010: 83). Whilst Betty does not appear to gaze, herself, she does affect an air of disinterest in love and romance in her cinema. Betty Boop is aware of her ‘self ’, her sexual ity and her neoteny, and performs accord ingly.

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Culture, body and Betty Boop

The body The body remains a contestable and compel ling presence within society and cinema and is import ant within identity polit ics. The body can be an instru ment and a ‘vehicle of expression’ (Grosz, 2005: 50). The flapper’s body image was boyish, playful, rebel lious. Curves were straightened, waists disguised, clothes were fash ioned for dancing girls. Deleuze’s theory that the body is a map can be applied here; that it is not to be analysed but, rather, observed in terms of what it can do (2005: 61). The body, in the 1920s, becomes part of the perform ance of the flapper, her goal is to attain class aspiration as much as personal freedom (Sharot, 2010: 75). As an icon, Betty embod ies the flappers who flouted conser vat ism, like Zelda Fitzgerald and Clara Bow, in their pursuit of ‘pleasure’. These women were outspoken heroines, embracing their sexual ity and taking lovers or remov ing items of cloth ing when and wherever it suited them. Sex for Betty remains her raison d’être (Maltin, 1987: 101). In the cartoon Betty Boop’s Big Boss (Fleischer, 1933a), she is asked what she can do and she replies in a song, ‘you’d be surprised’. Moore and Casper claim that ‘anatomy is destiny’ (2015: 8) and that from the 1920s onwards, mass production produced a fever ish consumption that enabled products to ‘foster the body as a marker of identity’ (2015: 11). Betty Boop’s anim ated body became a visual and verbal sign to represent the 1920s and its physical, liberated figure. The sexual freedom of the flapper (her body and behaviour) was seen by conser vat ives to under mine moral ity itself (Sharot, 2010: 74). The body becomes a site of punish ment, as much as behaviour does. Baumeister argues that self begins with the physical body and that this exists where the physical body and society meet (2011: 48–50). Society and cinema in the 1920s are a colour ful pastiche of consumer ism, romance and celebration of the body and we can see this in Bow’s as well as Boop’s films. Identity and selfhood are acquired through consciousness of one’s self and one’s place in society. Within Bow’s cinema, the self and identity centre on class and the acquisition of power through sexual ity, whilst in Boop’s cinema self is acquired through the anim ated body and the audience. The body, accord ing to Foucault, remains a contested entity within society (Fox, 2012: 136). It governs itself and may be managed and controlled. Within identity polit ics, the body shifts in meaning, it is in flux within society, shaped by change and interaction. Within the Betty Boop filmography we can clearly see the meaning produced by her body; it is an instrument with which to invite the male gaze and it is also a site of play, through its neotenous aesthet ics and behaviour. Betty expresses both her sexual ity and her love of play through her body; it is her own vehicle of expres sion. In the short Popeye the Sailor Man (1933) she is a topless hula dancer, wearing a flower garland, and is joined by Popeye, who adorns a grass skirt to dance with her. Betty expresses play through her body (in Chapter 5 we will see how Popeye does the same, through transvest it ism).

Culture, body and Betty Boop 15

Hedonism and anti-Semitism These films epitom ize the Jazz Age; they feature Cab Calloway and Louis Armstrong and evoke the cartoon noir. In Snow White (1933c) the Fleischers offer up a jazz-infused, unique rendition of the fairy tale, with Ko Ko the Clown perform ing a Cab Calloway song in an underground cavern (see Figure 1.2). References to cocaine may be heard in the song itself (Cohen, 1997: 14). Fleischer’s Snow White follows a surreal journey and Maltin (1987: 102) suggests it contains the same level of strangeness as Dalí and Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou, a surreal ist live action film from 1929. Fleischer’s inter pret ation of the fairy tale is also a mirror to the German Expressionism movement that had gripped Hollywood, with its subter ranean sets and ghoul ish appar itions. The dream scapes and surreal tones of Betty’s cartoons certainly set them apart; the chase takes us on unlikely jour neys as sets constantly shift and give way, present ing strange, unset tling images. Betty’s dream world is often presented as the surreal. The linking of ‘perceivable, definable bound ar ies and laws are simply of no import ance to the scenario’, argues Harper, who suggests that the ‘dream logic’ of these cartoons sets them apart; we are not sure of what is conscious and what is not, and therefore sexual certainty, itself, is displaced (Harper, 2006: 81–82). Jazz becomes the symbol for freedom throughout the 1920s; it pervades the Betty Boop series and epitom izes modern America, with Capone’s Chicago represent ing its core. The sound of jazz permeates the Fleischer cartoons with its mourn ful voice, speak ing to us of alienation and diaspora. These cartoons are

FIGURE 1.2

Snow White

Source: Fleischer (1933c)

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Culture, body and Betty Boop

strangely compel ling; at times a character will be drink ing what appears to be moonshine reveal ing how prohibition is typically chal lenged within 1920s cinema. In Snow White, Ko Ko drinks from a bottle; scenes such as this lend the Fleischer shorts a nervous energy and a dark, off-centred identity. The short Ha! Ha! Ha! (Fleischer, 1934) is perhaps best represent at ive of this hedon istic era and was banned for its drug use. Betty plays a dental nurse who tries to assist Ko Ko in extract ing one of his teeth, giving him laugh ing gas and taking some herself, render ing the situation both helpless and hilarious. The two characters become unable to function, and gradually the gas affects the inan im ate objects around the office, imbuing them with animism. Prior to censorship, Betty exists in a hedon istic world, taking part in ‘immoral’ activ it ies, through play. Her neoteny remains present in these films, represent ing the idea of the permanent child and its penchant for mischief. Crafton argues that the anim ated cartoon, prior to the code, was ‘haphazard and serpent ine’, with confusing plots and prot agon ists and it had, he suggests, a ‘propensity for dream like action’ (1993: 347). We can clearly see this in Ha! Ha! Ha!, wherein we are removed from reality and caught up in the strange fluid ity of the absurd, and also in the short Bimbo’s Initiation (Fleischer, 1931) in which Bimbo is pursued by Ku Klux Klan figures in hoods. When the ghostly figures reveal them selves, they are all Betty Boop, beseech ing Bimbo to join her gang. The Fleischers’ animations reflected import ant issues of Jewish culture. Jewish humour was represented within this cinema, as an ‘ethnic presence’ (Cohen, 1997: 71–73). By contrast, Disney’s more blatant anti-Semitic represent ations were high lighted as offensive because of the rumours of Walt’s personal views on ethnicity (1997: 71–73). Bimbo’s Initiation high lights the 1920s and its political unrest, as much as Ha! Ha! Ha! reflects its hedon ism. What is key is how national culture is a mirror to animated cinema. The Fleischers’ brand of film mak ing focuses on ethnicity, its identity lying within the studio’s own culture. The 1920s heralded Henry Ford and his car empire, although his views of traditional ism seemed out of sync with the era. Ford was not thought to be a fan of the 1920s and its prom inent ideals of ‘self ’. He believed in rural America and wanted to preserve both the natural land scape and its farmers. Simultaneously, Ford’s views on the Jewish (he claimed that they had ‘low morals’) were documented within his polit ical articles (Baldwin, 2010). When lawsuits were threatened, Ford’s articles vanished but they represent the ethical unrest that lay beneath the 1920s new multicultural ism vibe. Prejudice against minor it ies was furthered by the Ku Klux Klan, with stories told of female exploitation by gangs, and this prejudice naturally fed into popular culture. The cartoon Bimbo’s Initiation sends its audience a clear message about the emancipation of women, using the unlikely vessel of the Klan to do so. Betty is the empowered damsel, living for the Jazz Age, reject ing conser vat ism and literally reproducing herself to flaunt the empowered flapper in the face of masculin ity. She is unmoved by Bimbo’s distress, she is untouchable, all-power ful. This film perhaps hints at what was known as the ‘Hollywood disease’ (Moore, 2008: 98),

Culture, body and Betty Boop 17

wherein the famous forgot their friends and suffered from delusions of power and self-importance. Simultaneously, Bimbo’s Initiation reflects Bimbo’s obses sion with Betty, in that he sees her every where. The creation of a female icon leads to her being objecti fied and viewed through a male gaze and this supports the point about disinterested love, made earlier.

Scandal The 1920s flapper inev it ably became inter twined with the immoral; starlets found them selves objecti fied and judged just as, in the 1930s, freedom from censor ship was chal lenged and Betty became the ‘anim ated champion’ of trouble (Cohen, 1997: 16). Keyhole journal ism in the 1920s focused equally on the private lives of male and female celebrit ies. Hollywood became symbolic of the immoral, but before the rise of the studios, the town remained something of a wild frontier; Chaplin recalled hearing coyotes calling to each other across the canyon and the writer Elinor Glyn was shocked to hear ‘isolated shots and cries ringing out in the balmy night air’ (Moore, 2008: 97). Film histor ian Cari Beauchamp explains that the Fatty Arbuckle scandal was the first Hollywood story ‘with box office implications’, when a young starlet, Virginia Rappe, was found in Arbuckle’s hotel suite and he was charged with her rape and subsequent death (Sheerin, 2011). The media frenzy that followed heralded the end of the ‘immoral’ 1920s, as the public began to vilify the stars they had once worshipped. Where there had been sexual abandon ment, so must there be punish ment. Scandal was not confined to Hollywood. It is thought that the anim ation industry consisted of people whose private lives were ‘sometimes outrageous’ (Cohen, 1997: 9). In 1928, for example, a pornographic cartoon named Eveready Harton in Buried Treasure was created, reputedly for Winsor McCay’s birthday party, with Max Fleischer and Paul Terry’s names linked to the film. The claims are discred ited; no film was thought to have been viewed at McCay’s party, but the theory remains interest ing. At the Fleischer Studio, it is claimed that the anim ators drank bootleg whisky from late evening Friday to Monday morning (1997: 17).

Self and difference Contradiction best describes Betty Boop’s cinema. She is in control in some cartoons, whilst in others she is fleeing her pursuers. At times she is tied up and pawed, as in Chess Nuts (Fleischer, 1932c), or abducted by an anim al istic villain. Mulvey (1975) argues that Hollywood has always been restricted by its formal mise en scène, which reflects the domin ant concept of cinema. Looking for the pleasure of looking gives the viewer a glimpse into a private world that becomes essentially voyeur istic. Cinema has created ego ideals, particu larly with regard to the star system.

18

Culture, body and Betty Boop

Clara Bow, Mary Pickford and Betty Boop personify these ideals, as largerthan-life superegos created for our consumption and, more signi ficantly, for the male gaze. The world is full of sexual imbalances, Mulvey argues, and therefore ‘woman displayed as sexual object is the leit-motif of erotic spectacle: from pin-ups to striptease, from Ziegfeld to Busby Berkeley, she holds the look, plays to and signi fies male desire’ (1975: 6–18). Mulvey views the woman as represent ing the erotic object for both char acters and spectator. She argues that within a patriarchal society the pleasure of looking is split between active male and passive female. Many theor ists reject this idea because it does not consider the female spectator, but rather treats spectator ship as male and masculin ity as heterosexual. Kaplan suggests that the gaze is not always that of the male (1983: 29), and Bovenschan agrees: ‘film may address the spectator as female’ (De Lauretis, 1987: 135). Betty Boop represents a device for chase and capture. She is an object of desire for her pursuers and, by this, I mean those who want to violate her and those who want to save her. Does she matter, therefore? Mulvey’s theory would suggest that she does not. An erotic object can arguably encompass screen ego and faceless figur ine. Anyone can sell sex. The answer to Betty, however, lies within the themes of ‘body’, ‘self ’ and ‘difference’. Objectification can be chal lenged through the woman’s awareness of ‘self ’, and of her appeal. Mae West once quipped, ‘it’s better to be looked over than overlooked’ (Chilton, 2016). Clara Bow’s film Mantrap (Fleming, 1926) epitom izes her flapper girl femin in ity and appeal as girl next door with sex appeal. In the film she is married to one man but is attracted to another; she embraces life whilst captur ing her male onlookers. Boop mirrors Bow in her awareness of men and the effect she has on them. She recog nizes their gaze and plays to it, although at times control of the body becomes an over rid ing theme. The body is continually besieged by temptation, Woodward suggests, as we try to regu late desire (1997: 173). Betty’s pursuers are often overly large and animal istic. Kubiak argues that animism itself (the concept of becom ing – animal) means a ‘bring ing of awareness of becom ings’ and a perform ance to the process of animism itself (2012: 57). Chaudhuri writes that ‘the animal of becom ing-animal arrives from the outside’, which points to a de-human izing of Betty’s pursuers (2012: 54) (see Figure 1.3). In Boop-Oop-a-Doop the ring master’s gaze is sinister as he curls his moustache with a finger while Betty performs, her eyelids lowered seduct ively to camera. The ring master represents ‘other ness’, a threat, signi fied visually by his anim ated and animal body. When he enters her tent and caresses her leg she allows him to, but when he whispers his intentions in her ear, Betty slaps him. The cartoon symbol izes male potency through cannons firing and animal attraction as the ring master crawls after Betty on his hands and knees, his physical presence overbear ing (see Figure 1.4). The body here is seen as uncontrol lable and grotesque – it is, as Bakhtin states, ‘a body in the act of becom ing . . . the body swal lows the world’ (2005: 92). The body becomes animal. Consumption, of Betty, is the villain’s intent. He is other,

Culture, body and Betty Boop 19

FIGURE 1.3

Betty empowered, Boop-Oop-a-Doop

Source: Fleischer (1932b)

FIGURE 1.4

Betty victimized, Boop-Oop-a-Doop

Source: Fleischer (1932b)

threaten ing her virgin ity, her intact sense of self, while the dark dream scapes of these cartoons and their characters establish a level of surreal ism that serves to remove us from the famil iar. Difference is very present here. Villains embrace animism that renders them ‘other’ from Betty (although her neoteny presents her as other than the norm, she is child like and vulnerable); a tension is created between her and them and subsequently between them and us, which in itself forms a bond between the audience and Betty. Bowman writes: ‘other ness and difference constituted both poles of identity, thus differentiat ing . . . now explicit

20

Culture, body and Betty Boop

as the truth of identity’ (in Maker, 2007: 23). Self relies on other in order to create constructs of the famil iar and to be able to ostracize the unfa mil iar. This forms the land scape of identity polit ics. The stranger, Kearney suggests, ‘operates as a limit-exper ience for humans trying to identify them selves over and against others’ (2003: 3). He writes of the uncontainable traits, the excess, of the monster that pushes at borders between self and other. Again, we are reminded of the body itself, strain ing to ‘get in’. Foucault writes of ‘monsters on the prowl’ with form-changing proper ties (2003: 4), and Kearney insinuates that self is not fixed here. If we apply difference to disabil ity, we see that it is viewed as ‘bodies and lives gone wrong’ (Michalko, 2002: 22). This will become more prevalent as we move through this study, particu larly within Chapters 5 and 6. What we need to assert, at this point, is that difference finds its place in the Betty Boop filmography and helps to cement her sense of self, through the villains’ sense of other.

Masculinity Masculinity is chal lenged and chal lenging within this cinema. The ring master in Boop-Oop-a-Doop reverts to animism in his behaviour, bound ing after Betty like a large bear, grunt ing and slobber ing in his efforts to ensnare her. The cannon he uses is erect, signi fy ing his sexual dominance, yet subsequently becomes limp (Cohen, 1997: 10). The ship carry ing Betty across the sea in Is My Palm Read suffers an accident and its funnels become flaccid penises as they attempt to rectify the situation. The Betty Boop cartoons contain predom inantly de-masculin ized men. Whether they are villains who cannot achieve sexual satis faction or rescuers who are inept at the mascu line role carved out for them (Ko Ko cannot beat the ring master in a fight), the male figure sees his role constantly chal lenged. In the cartoon Betty Boop for President (Fleischer, 1932a) the male character becomes increasingly de-masculin ized until he finds himself apply ing makeup; his gender role reversed as he embraces his femin in ity (Cohen, 1997: 17). Gender is often comprom ised and subver ted in anim ation. Masculinity, in particu lar, becomes a tool for our pleasure; we enjoy its constant decon struction in animation, which, through its malleabil ity and suggest ive play, renders gender a construct, rather than fixing it with defin ite binary codes (this will be explored further in Chapter 5).

Censorship Mae West may or may not be responsible for establish ing the Hays Code, but she was certainly a signi ficant factor. Her risqué one-liners provoked a public reaction in the early 1930s as America began reconsider ing its sense of self, follow ing the emergence of the Great Depression. The 1920s to the 1930s are seen as a tipping point, a transition from decadence to gloom. DiNardo, in his article ‘Whose America? Contesting the Meaning of America in the 1930s’, argues that

Culture, body and Betty Boop 21

this period witnessed great struggles ‘over the defin ition and extent of democratic practices and the rights of being an American’ (2005: 27). The nation began to redefine itself and question the valid ity of the American Dream within a landscape that had been utterly transformed from the Roaring Twenties. The Depression was necessary, after the boom, argue theor ists such as Rothbard, who posits that the ‘boom . . . requires a “bust” ’ (2000: 12). The 1930s was a turbu lent era, with Roosevelt being charged with fixing the nation. He addressed the people with the words: ‘the only thing we have to fear is fear itself ’ (DiNunzio, 2014: 82). The effects of the Great Depression were farreach ing and, by the early 1930s, 34 million people had no income. Recovery was to come pain fully slowly, with many countries not achiev ing it until World War II (Rothbard, 2000: xiv). Censorship of media reflected a feeling of regret about the 1920s crash, and a conser vat ive wave of reproach began to seep into society. Mae West once commented on a story she wrote, about ‘a girl who lost her reputation but never missed it’ (Cohen, 1997: 16). West’s own bold attitude to life and career led William Randolph Hearst, the newspaper tycoon, to quip, ‘Isn’t it time Congress did something about Mae West?’, and the actress agreed that she played a role, retort ing, ‘I believe in censor ship, I made a fortune out of it’ (Chilton, 2016). The Hays Code, first published in 1930, attempted to introduce censor ship with a set of guidelines, based on the concept that ‘if motion pictures present stories that will affect lives for the better, they can become the most power ful force for the improvement of mankind’ (BFI, 2003–14). The principles included prevent ing the lower ing of moral stand ards of film spectators and avoid ing ridicule of the law. At first, the Code asked Hollywood studios to propose a list of 36 ‘don’ts and be carefuls’, which were self-imposed. These were not enforced until later, when moral ists became increasingly outraged by the promiscu ity flaunted in 1933 by Mae West in I’m No Angel (Ruggles) and Barbara Stanwyck in Baby Face (Green) (Mondello, 2008). Film had become increasingly bold towards the end of the 1920s, fuelled by the lost generation of its youth and their anti- conser vat ism beliefs. Cinema is reactionary; it can only survive if it engages and feeds off its audience. Stokes and Maltby argue that Hollywood defended its generic production because of its belief that the audience was unpredict able and therefore needed stabil izing (2008). The Code’s list addressed suggest ive nudity, drugs, sexual perver sion and white slavery, react ing to an era of scandal and liberation. Censorship in the 1930s evolved through pressure groups within the United States who wanted to ‘impose their values’ on society (Cohen, 1997: 5) and, with more risqué cartoons being produced around this time, the Hays Code decided to include animation in its regu lations. Some studios, such as Warner Bros. and MGM, coped with the censor ship laws, through animators embracing their revolutionary impulse to sneak naughtiness under the bar of regu lation. Bob Clampett readily admit ted: ‘If I wanted to be sure that certain things were left in, I’d put in a few extra goodies, just

22

Culture, body and Betty Boop

for the censors’ (1997: 37) and Tex Avery echoed his opinion. There were ways around the Code. Betty Boop best represented the more risqué identity of animation during this era. From 1928 until the Hays Code was established, animation reflected the bootleg industry as well as sexual freedom of emancipated women, themes that can be found within the Betty Boop filmography. Some studios were more heavily targeted than others, and even Disney found itself having to conform as the 1920s ended and a reactionary, increasingly moralistic 1930s took hold. Mickey Mouse is depicted as a sadistic character in the eponymous Steamboat Willie (Iwerks and Disney, 1928), tortur ing animals as he tries to make music, and The Barn Dance (Disney, 1929) was censored because it revealed a cow’s udder. It was the Fleischer studio, however, that took the brunt of censorship. Fundamentally, the difference between these two compan ies can be seen to reflect the way that the censors operated. As Maltin explains, the cartoons of Disney ‘deal with a child’s natural fears while Fleischers depict adult traumas and emotions’ (1987: 102). The gritty, surreal filmography of the Fleischer Studio set it apart and proved a natural attraction for censors. The code punished Betty for her short hemlines and garter, for her sex appeal and representation of liberation and fun. Her censor ing was a gradual process. Her hemlines were lengthened, her garter removed; she adopted the fashion of pencil skirts and collars and became nanny to a child, assistant to an uncle, her role anaemic and unappeal ing. In Baby Be Good (Fleischer, 1935), Betty struggles to control an infant who has no intention of going to bed. The child resembles Betty’s neoteny, and his naughty antics are at the heart of the cartoon. ‘How would you like it if it was done to you?’ Betty asks, when he is cruel to a puppy, to which the child replies, ‘ha, ha, ha’ (echoing Betty’s earlier film of the same name and perhaps serving as a reminder about morals). The cartoon is reflective of the regu lations in force by this time, it is devoid of flapper identity and Betty has evolved from a liberated character, who uses her body as an instru ment of play and sexual ity, to a responsible, mater nal ‘mother’. It is not difficult to see why Betty’s popular ity faded. With the body repressed and re-addressed, Betty’s identity became comprom ised. The strange, surreal animals that accompan ied her were no longer by her side, the dream scapes she inhabited were erad icated and in their place a sterile environ ment was superimposed. This became her prison. If the Roaring Twenties were synonymous with Betty’s success (in her ability to reflect an entire era), their crash certainly mirrored her demise. The young people of that time became disenchanted and lost. Scott Fitzgerald summar ized the 1920s poignantly: ‘we will never feel quite so intensely about our surround ings any more’ (Moore, 2008: 355). It could be said that Betty felt the same way, as her world was oppressed under the censor ship code and her identity faltered. Betty Boop was a marker of freedom, a spirit of a bygone era. Mae West perhaps best voiced the essence of, and celebration of, the body as a site of sexual ity and liberation, when she announced: ‘When I’m good I’m very good, and when I’m bad, I’m better’ (Chilton, 2016).

Culture, body and Betty Boop 23

In Chapter 2 we will explore the conform ity of characters further, as we journey into Disney’s feature anim ation, in which individual ity appears to be subjug ated to a more collect ive identity and anim ation in the post-censor ship era becomes a fascinat ing site of morals and belong ing. Where does the ‘self ’ fit in and how does it speak? We will see that the story of identity continues on from where we leave Betty here.

Notes 1 These included the Pat Sullivan Studios, the creator of Felix the Cat. 2 Bow’s upbring ing was controver sial, as was Charlie Chaplin’s and Mary Pickford’s. Her father was an alcoholic and her mother, mentally ill, had once held a knife to Clara’s throat. Whilst this memory plagued her with night mares for the rest of her life, it also gave her a rawness and hunger that drove her to succeed. 3 Valentino, an Italian immig rant, known as the ‘Latin Lover’ for his seduct ive film roles, once chal lenged the editor ial of the Chicago Herald-Examiner to a boxing match after the film star’s masculin ity was called into question (King, 2012).

References Bakhtin, M. (2005) ‘The Grotesque Image of the Body and its Sources’, in M. Fraser and M. Greco (eds), The Body: A Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 92–95 Baldwin, N. (2010) Henry Ford and the Jews: The Mass Production of Hate. New York: PublicAffairs Baldwin, M., Biernat, M. and Landau, M. (2015) ‘Remembering the Real Me: Nostalgia Offers a Window to the Intrinsic Self ’, Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 108, 1, pp. 128–147 Ball, C. (March/April 2001) ‘The Silencing of Clara Bow’, Gadfly Online. Available at www.gadflyon line.com/archive/marchapril01/archive-clarabow.html [Accessed 7 January 2014] Baumeister, R. F. (2011) ‘Self and Identity: A Brief Overview of What They Are, What They Do, and How They Work’, Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1234, 1, pp. 48–55 Berger, A. A. (2013) ‘Media Tribes: Making Sense of Popular Culture, the Mass Media, and Everyday Life in America’, ETC: A Review of General Semantics, 70, 3, pp. 339–347 BFI (2003–14) ‘BFI Hays Code: The Moral Code That Governed Mid-20th Century American Film-making’. Available at www.screenon line.org.uk [Accessed 15 February 2014] Bogin, B. (1999) Patterns of Human Growth, 2nd edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Buchan, S. (2014) ‘Animation, in Theory’, in K. Beckman (ed.), Animating Film Theory. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, pp. 111–128 Chilton, M. (2016) ‘Mae West: Remembering Hollywood’s Wittiest Sex Goddess’. Available at www.telegraph.co.uk/comedy/comedians/mae-west-best- quotes/ [Accessed 15 May 2016] Cholodenko, A. (2014) ‘ “First Principles” of Animation’, in K. Blackman (ed.), Animating Film Theory. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, pp. 98–111 Cohen, K. (1997) Forbidden Animation: Censored Cartoons and Blacklisted Animators in America, Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Company

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Crafton, D. (1993) Before Mickey: The Animated Film, 1898–1928. Chicago: University of Chicago Press De Lauretis, T. (1987) Technologies of Gender: Essays on Theory, Film, and Fiction. Bloomington: Indiana University Press DiNardo, P. J. P. (2005) ‘Whose America? Contesting the Meaning of America in the 1930s’, OAH Magazine of History, 4, p. 27 DiNunzio, M. (2014) The Great Depression and New Deal: Documents Decoded. Santa Barbara: A BC-CLIO DuBois, E. (1978) Feminism and Suffrage, the Emergence of an Independent Women’s Movement in America 1848–1869. Ithaca, N Y and London: Cornell University Press Fleischer, R. (2005) Out of the Inkwell: Max Fleischer and the Animation Revolution. Lexington: University Press of Kentucky Fox, N. J. (2012) The Body. Cambridge: Polity Press Grosz, E. (2005) ‘Refiguring Bodies’, in M. Fraser and M. Greco (eds), The Body: A Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 47–51 Harper, G. (2006) The Unsilvered Screen: Surrealism on Film. New York: Columbia University Press James, C. (1995) ‘Betty Boop, Coyly Sexy 60 Years Later’. New York Times, 12 May. Available at www.nytimes.com/movie/review?res=9E07EEDD1E3AF931A2575 6C0A963958260 [Accessed 15 February 2014] Jensen, K. (2008) Mobilizing Minerva: American Women in the First World War. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press Kaplan, E. A. (1983) Women and Film: Both Sides of the Camera. Hove: Psychology Press Kearney, R. (2003) Strangers, Gods and Monsters: Interpreting Otherness. London: Routledge King, G. (2012) ‘The “Latin Lover” and His Enemies’, Smithsonian Magazine, 13 June. Available at www.smith sonian mag.com/history/the-latin-lover-and-his- enemies119968944/?no-ist [Accessed 23 October 2015] Kubiak, A. (2012) ‘Animism: Becoming-perform ance, or Does This Text Speak to You?’ Performance Research, 17, 4, pp. 52–60 Leary, M. and Tangney, J. (2014) ‘The Self as an Organizing Construct in the Behavioral and Social Sciences’, in M. Leary and J. Tangney (eds), Handbook of Self and Identity, 2nd edition. New York: Guilford Press, pp. 3–14 Maker, W. (2007) ‘Identity, Difference, and the Logic of Otherness’, in P. Grier (ed.), Identity and Difference: Studies in Hegel’s Logic, Philosophy of Spirit and Politics. Albany: State University of New York Press, pp. 15–30 Maltin, L. (1987) Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons. New York, Penguin Books Michalko, R. (2002) The Difference That Disability Makes. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press Mondello, B. (2008) ‘Remembering Hollywood’s Hays Code, 40 Years on’. Available at www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=93301189 [Accessed 20 October 2015] Moore, L. (2008) Anything Goes: A Biography of the Roaring Twenties. London: Atlantic Books Moore, L. and Casper, M. (2015) The Body: Social and Cultural Dissections. London: Routledge Mulvey, L. (1975) ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema’, Screen, 16, 3, Autumn, pp. 6–18 Naremore, J. (1988) Acting in the Cinema. Berkeley: University of California Press Oliver, M. (1990) ‘Cartoonist Myron Natwick; Created Betty Boop’, Los Angeles Times. Available at http://articles.latimes.com/1990-10-09/news/mn-2087_1_betty- boop [Accessed 16 February 2014]

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Pinkerton, N. (2013) ‘A Look Back at Clara Bow, the Vivacious Hollywood Starlet Who Defined the 1920s’. Available at www.laweekly.com/film/a-look-back-at-clarabow-the-vivacious-hollywood-starlet-who-defined-the-1920s-2612535 [Accessed 16 February 2014] Rosenstone, R. (2006) History on Film/Film on History. Harlow: Pearson Education Ltd Rothbard, M. N. (2000) America’s Great Depression, 5th edition. Auburn, A L: Ludwig von Mises Institute Sharot, S. (2010) ‘The “New Woman”, Star Personas, and Cross-Class Romance Films in 1920s America’, Journal of Gender Studies, 19, 1, pp. 73–86 Sheerin, J. (2011) ‘Fatty Arbuckle and Hollywood’s First Scandal’, BBC News. Available at www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-14640719 [Accessed 15 November 2015] Skeggs, B. (2005) ‘Ambivalent Femininities’, in M. Fraser and M. Greco (eds), The Body: A Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 129–134 Stokes, M. and Maltby, R. (2008) Identifying Hollywood’s Audiences: Cultural Identity and the Movies. London: British Film Institute White, T. (1998) ‘From Disney to Warner Bros.: The Critical Shift’, in K. Sandler (ed.), Reading the Rabbit: Explorations in Warner Bros. Animation. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, pp. 38–48 Woodward, K. (1997) Identity and Difference. London: SAGE/Open University

Filmography Disney, W. (dir.) (1929) The Barn Dance [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1930) Dizzy Dishes [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1931) Bimbo’s Initiation [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1932a) Betty Boop for President [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1932b) Boop-Oop-a-Doop [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1932c) Chess Nuts [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1933a) Betty Boop’s Big Boss [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1933b) Is My Palm Read [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1933c) Snow White [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1934) Ha! Ha! Ha!, Fleischer Studios Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1935) Baby Be Good [DV D] Fleischer Studios Fleming, V. (dir.) (1926) Mantrap [DV D] Paramount Pictures Green, A. (dir.) (1933) Baby Face [DV D] Warner Bros. Iwerks, U. and Disney, W. (dir.) (1928) Steamboat Willie [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Ruggles, W. (dir.) (1933) I’m No Angel [DV D] Paramount Pictures Taylor, S. (dir.) (1929) Coquette [DV D] Pickford Corporation

2 DISNEY Self, patriarchy and punishment

In the previous chapter, we discussed the liberated self hood of Betty Boop and her ‘awareness’ of her own perform ance. Betty is a neotenous presence, an exaggerated caricature to appeal to the masses; she is inked and anim ated for the viewer to enjoy, and her body is seen as an instru ment of sexual ity and play. Disney’s approach to the Toon is wholly different. ‘Self ’ is addressed through acting classes in order for anim ators to achieve a deeper sense of realism and believabil ity within the char acter (as discussed by Barrier, 1999; Crafton, 2012; Maltin, 1987). However, notions of self hood within an increasingly conser vat ive Nation result in a compel ling struggle between the individual and society. The cultural power of Disney spans the length and breadth of anim ation and has arguably shaped our under stand ing of it more than any other studio. Innovative, bold and driven by the desire to absorb the American audience in values rooted within both modern ism and traditional ism, Disney remains something of a paradox. As Steven Watts suggests in ‘Walt Disney: Art and Politics in the American Century’, ‘coming to terms with Disney is no easy matter’ (1995: 84). Barriers to address include the popular ity and sheer volume of films produced that, Watts argues, denies deep analysis, as well as the polar ization of opin ions that have led to sharp contradictions about this work. Disney’s stamp on American identity is over power ing; it is polit ical and moral, subversive and violent. Children connect with Disney features and find their own child hoods shaped by the characters and events within these narrat ives, often exper iencing ‘death’ at the cinema for the first time. This feature animation transcends genres, and takes us on a rite of passage that is equally charm ing and horrify ing. Horror and death (or threat of both) are important themes and impact deeply on a character’s identity. There are accounts of maltreated children across the canon that high light Disney’s curious obsession with ‘the dance of death’ (Laderman, 2000: 34). This can be viewed as an enabler for char acters to escape

Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment 27

broken home lives, but also as punish ment of a ‘self ’ that does not conform to a group. Identity polit ics shape Disney features, particu larly through child hood selves, belong ing and the absent mother, which we will explore further. Undergoing a transformation can enable an individual to learn a new role within a group they want to become a part of or are ‘forced to be a member of ’ (Cinoglu and Arikan, 2012: 1115). Self reflects society, Stryker tells us (Burke and Stets, 2009: 37); therefore the social groups that are introduced within Disney features are important in discover ing how ‘self ’ fits into this pattern. Punishment within Disney occurs when self chooses its own path, away from the social structure. When apply ing issues of self to anim ation, we must first understand the relationship between the animator and the object. Brad Bird claims that anim ated characters and therefore ‘the emotions originate with the animators’ (Crafton, 2012: 16). Crafton believes that Toons have personhood; that they are able to achieve ‘presence’ without possessing physically corporeal bodies and instead become real through what is implied. At this point it becomes valuable to emphasize Leary and Tangney’s views of the Self, and how self can be both subject (‘I’) and object (‘it’). Animated characters may embody either, depend ing on how we view the Toon; Leary and Tangney’s idea of self as not meaning person hood is particu larly intriguing, in that they argue that one ‘has’ a self, rather than ‘is’ a self (2012: 5–6). We can see how beliefs about selves complement beliefs about animation through the notion of ‘construction’ of the self (mirror ing construction of the animated Toon). This view about self as a ‘having’ also aligns with the idea that identit ies can be ‘adopted or discarded like a change of costume’ (Bauman, 1996: 23–26). Self, we will find, as we journey through this study, is ever- shifting. Disney heroes are not quite physically corporeal and yet appear at times more than cartoon bodies. They waver between complex ity of self and of situ ation, striv ing to alleviate the subjug ation of their own identit ies; they are part individuals, part assim ilated beings. Heroes of Disney are formed from circum stance, rather than design (Murphy, 1995: 134). They reflect society and its chal lenges before and beyond the war years, they represent Ford’s industriousness, they are part of the machine, buoyed along by the wheels of progress. In mirror ing Disney’s own industry ethos, are their identit ies and those of their anim ators ‘swal lowed up’ for the greater good, as Barrier claims? (1999: 137–138). Disney’s journey is signi ficant. From the figur at ive, short cartoon, there emerges a form that embraces the terms ‘hyper real ist’, ‘classic’ and ‘full’. The anim ated feature, with Snow White, becomes globally celebrated and the medium itself finds its status altered, as Disney injects meaning and emotion into this cinema. However, along side this journey exists an underbelly of sublim ation and patriarchy that comprom ises identity. Disney’s feature animation contains assimilation, alienation and overdetermin ism, claims Wells (1998: 27), and it emerges, somewhat scathed, onto the crit ical land scape. Perhaps Crafton best sums up the Disney paradox. He suggests that, in refut ing caricature and embracing a sort of neorealism, ‘something was sacrificed’ (2012: 149–150). Did Disney, in pushing bound ar ies and creating new genres in animation

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erase its characters’ identities? From the ‘legion of identikit orphans’ (Pallant, 2011: 37) to the function-serving fairy-tale characters (Zipes, 1995: 40), the apparent absence of ‘self ’ is interesting and demands deeper exploration.

Anti-realism, bodies and ‘Chaplin-Man’ Before we explore Disney’s early feature films, we need to define anim ation prior to the emergence of this form. Anti-realism distinguished animation for many years, and Klein tells us that cartoons were ‘a narrat ive built around the expressive possibil it ies of the anarchic’ (1993: 1). They represented extremes of movement, personal ity and story; they were intended to transport us into other worldly domains, featur ing colour ful characters whose ‘bodies are stripped down for motion and easy read abil ity’ (1993: 6). Certainly this theory applies to char acters such as Felix, Oswald and Betty, and to the early Mickey Mouse cartoons. The body becomes key to the physical rest lessness of these early characters. It constantly moves, even when anchored to the spot. Deleuze’s theory of the body as something to be mapped accord ing to what it can do is relevant here (2005: 61). The body ‘becomes’; it enables the character to achieve goals and physical gain remains the focus of these cartoons. For example, Felix strives merely to survive in his cinema; sating his appetite becomes his all-consum ing purpose. He reflects a society caught between extremes: prohibition, crime and post-war malaise, as well as the decadence of the 1920s. Felix is quite literally a cat on a hot tin roof, constantly search ing for that one ‘thing’ (usually food) to make his existence bearable. His movements reveal his inner psyche within the silent land scape of cinema. Felix is a rest less oppor tun ist. The body remains a body and is always unfin ished: ‘bodies can, will and do change and transform’ (in Blackman, 2008: 16). Within anti-realist anim ation, the body emerges as a malleable form, forever on the prowl. It never rests and is never sated, demon strated through its constant, relentless animation. Body in this sense becomes almost other and it points back to Betty’s ring master in Chapter 1 and his uncontainable excess. Chaplin commented on this early anim ation style, saying that he envied the timing of 2D characters ‘because they never had to take time to breathe. Their dead ness made them seem so much more alive’ (Leslie, 2002: 16). Whereas Chaplin was limited as actor, caught within the constraints of the actual, physical world, Felix springs from one roof to the next, infused with anarchic energy, through his ever-moving body. Disney’s Oswald character evokes a similar rest lessness, with the comedy being driven by the protagon ist’s internal psychology. These cartoons were not particu larly funny, claims Barrier (1999: 47), but they do evoke Chaplin. Felix, Oswald and Mickey represent the struggles of the every man. From food to shelter to safety from intruders, the char acter strives to survive, just as Chaplin does. The protagon ist is an isolated figure, an outsider. We can clearly see Chaplin’s influence here, and how difference speaks within anim ation.

Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment 29

FIGURE 2.1

Chaplin, The Gold Rush

Source: Chaplin (1925)

The over rid ing theme within the cartoons of the 1920s and early 1930s becomes the struggle of the prolet ariat. Barthes writes of the ‘Chaplin-Man’ who must triumph, but is bound to poverty (2009: 37), and who becomes revolutionary, driven by his hunger. Barthes applies myth and meaning to Chaplin and the role he represents within cinema based on society’s class struggles. The idea of his being on the ‘outside’ of society is crucial to his identity; his needs are feral, for example, when he cooks and eats his own boots in The Gold Rush (Chaplin, 1925). His motivation here is to attempt to ‘belong’ within the valley’s society. Cinoglu and Arikan’s theory of the individual wanting to become a member of a group applies here. They argue that self ‘cannot be separ ated from society’ (2012: 1115), that it is only mean ing ful if it relates to other selves and entit ies, and this is enforced by Baumeister, who stresses the import ance of the social system on self (2011). Chaplin’s character in The Gold Rush desires belong ing as much as he desires survival. He is bound to poverty but he is able to acquire what he needs, through his actions, just as Felix is. Both the animated and the ‘real’ character yearn for and achieve the same ambitions; the goal remains clear (see Figure 2.1).

Mickey Mouse Leslie argues that, with Mickey Mouse, ‘philo sophy and anim ation unearth each other’ and she goes on to quote Field, who posits: ‘what is Mickey anyway but an abstract idea in the process of becom ing?’ (2002: 30). The anim ated body is

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alluded to here, with its status as ‘unfin ished entity’, discussed above, and the idea of animism as a process of becom ing (see Chapter 1). Mickey represents the begin ning of cultural analysis of anim ation. Walter Benjamin was impressed with the Mouse’s aver sion to respect abil ity in early Disney films, and wrote amply on the topic, proclaim ing Mickey to be a ‘spir ited and insubordinate animal in a world of lively things’ (2002: 81). Bermudez, Marcel and Eilan argue that, in body polit ics, ‘the anim al ist claim is that persons are just animals’ (2001: 6), a theory that gives credit to Mickey’s import ance in cultural and polit ical terms. Mickey is a body of design; his physical being becomes an instru ment of expression. He continues to evolve and provoke society and polit ics through his emerging ‘self ’ – the every man at the heart of democracy. The Dictatorship, published in 1931, recog nized Mickey as a threat, and encouraged its readers: ‘kick out the vermin, down with Mickey Mouse!’ (Leslie, 2002: 80). The identity polit ics of Mickey ignites the era in which he exists: anim ation denounces any notion that it might be a limited medium. In the UK, E. M. Forster announced that the British Film Society worshipped Mickey ‘as a god’ (Klein, 1993: 10). His films were seen as depression remed ies and he himself as reflect ive of society, through his attempts to escape events in which he is caught up. In the early films, Mickey’s behaviour is erratic; prior to 1932 the cartoon was about the chase and how it could be thwarted. Mickey is the oppor tun ist, intent on achiev ing his goal. Audiences embraced the anarchy of these cartoons and their salut ing of the 1920s in its celebration of self, be it entrepreneur, flapper or boot legger.

Plasmation Film director and montage pioneer Sergei Eisenstein was an unlikely fan of Disney. He admired drawing as a ‘form of magic’, however, and embraced the ‘primal plasmation’ within the Mickey Mouse cartoons (Leslie, 2002: 222). Eisenstein, like Benjamin, recog nized ‘something essential and true’ in the Disney worlds. They represented an escape from realism, from ‘suffer ing and separation’ (2002: 229). He claimed that the elasticity of animation and its shapeshift ing possibil it ies held a signi ficant appeal. This aligns with Chaplin’s comment about figurat ive anim ation and how it achieves ‘life’ through its relent less movement. Animation’s plasmatic proper ties allow it to flit over the restraints of life and death. For Eisenstein and Chaplin, this was its greatest trick; it tran scends as an art form, as a genre, beyond the bound ar ies of cinema. It transforms and becomes a vision of weight lessness and is not easily defined. Through meta morphosis, anim ation defies critics to apply defin itions to it. Is it an illusion of life? Lamarre argues that animation is genuine life because the anim ated object is both alive and dead (2013: 119). Cholodenko suggests that all film is anim ated and therefore anim ation applies to all film: ‘film anim ation, as anim atic in-betweener, occupies that in-between space, that “meeting

Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment 31

ground” – that haunted house, that crypt – between life and death, between motion and nonmotion’ (2014: 104). Importantly, film theory is now applied to animation, although anim ation itself remains evasive and elusive. Rather like identity polit ics, it is averse to ‘fixing’ or anchor ing, and remains fluid and ever-changing.

Traditionalism and national culture The world of flat, figurat ive anim ation was defined as flex ible and represent ing a sort of anti-fixed ness. It could surprise, repulse and enter tain audiences with its anarchic possibil it ies. However, in the early 1930s, Disney wrote a handbook of character ization and, within it, described Mickey Mouse as having the attributes of ‘the young boy’ (Klein, 1993: 45). In addition, the Production Code became instru mental in the censor ship of cartoons and certainly of the Disney shorts. The New York Times repor ted that ‘although Mickey Mouse probably did not have a moral ity clause in his contract, the mouse had become clean-living and was now a non-drinker and a non-smoker’ (Cohen, 1997: 24).1 By 1933, he was certainly not anarchic. Disney was striv ing for stronger narrat ives within his cartoons and distancing himself from the animated short. He was also visibly turning away from the arbit rar iness of character-driven anarchy.2 It is clear that Disney began to represent something import ant in American society; it was ‘the spirit of how Americans could rise out of the Depression’ (Klein, 1993: 57). Disney’s message implied that the average man could escape the grime of life and achieve happiness and satisfaction by under tak ing a journey of moral ity. Eisenstein commented that the artistic power of Disney had ‘an almost frighten ing capacity for boring into secret recesses of the human psyche’ (Watts, 1995: 90). Disney became culturally signi ficant, a core to American identity and notions of nation hood. A Victorian revival surfaced after 1934, and began to pervade society in the United States. Kammen explains that the ‘never ending dialectic between tradition and progress’ led to a sort of comprom ise between past and present in the 1930s through colonial imagery (1993: 700). He suggests that the collect ive memory of the United States is always linked to tradition, that ‘the past is vital rather than dead’ (1993: 5). Whilst we have seen America of the early 1930s yearn ing for its hedon istic twenties, after 1934 and the Hays Code, it turns deeper into its past. In the wake of the Hays Code’s ‘don’ts and be carefuls’ (see Chapter 1), the nation shook off its somewhat nihil istic self hood of the jazzy 1920s and turned towards traditional ism as a form of culture preser vation. National identity, within and after the Great Depression, began to desire a moral self. Anarchy became muted and society focused more on morals and family (Klein, 1993: 47). The anti-realist cartoon found that it no longer reflected the 1930s; that society instead was in search of a respectable, collective identity. It was time for a new direction in anim ation. Disney began ventur ing into the realms of realism, into what became

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known as ‘full’ anim ation, which embraced ‘hyper real ism’. This term is defined as the striv ing for realism within an obviously arti ficial form, by writers such as Wells (Pallant, 2010: 345). 3 Wells himself calls it the yard stick by which other anim ation can be measured (1998: 25) and Pallant discusses Formalism and hyper real ism in depth (2011). Disney would push this art form to new frontiers, creat ing utopian worlds for his audience which were based on traditional folk stories of Europe, whilst merging them with American ideal ism. Paternalism and collect iv ism would be Disney’s yard sticks with which to measure this idealism. Culture, for Disney, was ‘un-American’. He believed in the land, in industry and the idea that the unsavoury aspects of American life, such as poverty, crime and alienation, could be ‘cleansed away’ (Watts, 1995: 101–108). Laderman supports this, suggest ing that Disney championed ‘a sanit ary form of happiness’ (2000: 39), and we can see how these themes were a mirror to Disney traditional ism and culture preser vation. During the 1930s, Hollywood became an increasingly cultural destination for many European intel lectuals fleeing Nazi Germany. Burbank itself was home to meet ings between cultural philosophers and American popular modern ists (Leslie, 2002: 163) and the American Identity began to be shaped and transformed by external sources. Adorno and Horkheimer, of the Frankfurt School of thought, opposed the stand ard ization of American culture and wrote fervently on the idea of the mass being produced and reproduced (I address this in my article ‘Rethinking the Rabbit’, [2016], which explores the relationship between culture and anim ation). Horkheimer went as far as to say: ‘the substance of the individual remains locked up in himself ’ (Leslie, 2002: 169). The American masses were viewed as a collect ive, and unable to think for them selves – simply put, an identity in crisis. There is an ambigu ity in Disney’s own attitude towards culture, from his retort that it was un-American, to his later desire for ‘raising the cultural level of the masses’ (Leslie, 2002: 160) with Fantasia (Ferguson and Algar, 1940) and these conflict ing views of culture confuse the issue of identity polit ics within the Disney features. Eisenstein turned away from Disney during the creation of Bambi (Leslie, 2002: 248), because Disney had lost the essence of freedom of lines and form that Eisenstein once loved. Schickel goes further, comment ing that Disney ‘diminished what he touched’ (Zipes, 1995: 39). Our story focuses on identity in anim ation; therefore the questions we need to ask centre on themes of self and difference, the body and, ultimately, within Disney’s cinema, the law of the Father. Is identity comprom ised within Disney’s cinema and, if so, how?

Character and fallibility Walt Disney’s journey establishes him as a true pioneer of anim ation; in the late 1920s he recog nized the potential of sound for enga ging the audience fully with

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the events onscreen and he mastered the visual and musical elements of the medium (Barrier, 1999: 57). Disney copy righted Technicolor in a three-year deal that dimin ished the outputs of his compet itors and paved the way for his own studio’s domin ation of 1930s animation. His Silly Symphonies cartoons were crit ically acclaimed, notably Flowers and Trees (Gillett, 1932) and The Flying Mouse (Hand, 1934). Nature became an increasingly signi ficant theme within the collection and the studio was able to realize depth and beauty of scenes through the development of its multi-plane camera. What was clear was that Disney ‘used story differently than other studios’ (Klein, 1993: 40). Story could be seen as being functional prior to the classic period; as discussed, cartoons predom inantly involved the gag, the quick engagement of the audience through a mishap, a chase. With the move towards traditional ism in the American cultural land scape, Disney saw an opening. He began to mirror this traditional ism and offer a flipside to the more anti-realist, anarchic cartoons. Artists and anim ators who came to Disney from other studios were in awe of the story depart ment, as has been docu mented (see Klein, 1993; Maltin, 1987). The studio was an enigma, and within its walls ‘magic’ was created. Disney under stood film mak ing; in fact, Rudy Ising claimed that ‘he really would have liked to have been in live pictures but cartoons sort of over whelmed him’ (Barrier, 1999: 42). This offers clarity to the seriousness of themes tackled by Disney and the depth of story. Disney claimed that ‘the driving force behind the action is the mood, the personal ity, the attitude of the character’ (Maltin, 1987: 43). Character personal it ies began to over shadow the gag, reveal ing how Disney was at pains to move beyond slapstick and to attempt to strike a balance between story and character that would transform the anim ation medium. His intention was to achieve ‘life’ through animation. The anim ators were exposed to the writ ings of Stanislavsky to grasp believabil ity and empathy of character acting. Within Don Graham’s acting classes they learned how to under stand the character before attempt ing to draw it. Graham believed that ‘the viewer’s immediate acceptance of the scene was essential to embod i ment’ (Crafton, 2012: 42). Stanislavsky claimed that an inner life had to be invested in the character for it to be believable, that ‘if the inner line is broken an actor no longer under stands what is being said or done, and he ceases to have any desires or emotions’ (Wells, 1998: 107). The internal life defines a char acter and imbues it with life. Psychological awareness of its inner work ings is essential to its believabil ity; without this, there is no truth to a character’s motivation. Human fallibil ity became a motif to high light a protagon ist’s journey of ‘self ’ within Disney’s cinema, in order for them to under stand their flaws and overcome them. Taking the lessons learned from the Great Depression, Disney set about creat ing a sort of moral wonder plot for his flawed char acters to journey through in order to better under stand them selves and their ‘place’ in society. Punishment and retribution are recur ring markers within Disney’s cinema to cement ideas of self and the social system and how the latter subjug ates the former.

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Here we can apply Baumeister’s theory that ‘know thyself ’ in identity polit ics inferred ‘know your place and act appropriately’ (2011: 48). This can be applied to Snow White, Pinocchio, Cinderella, Bambi and count less other protagon ists. With such an over power ing sense of pater nal ism, can ‘self ’ survive? Identity appears comprom ised within the need to conform to Disney’s message. Klein explains that the Disney corporate mission stated that ‘all talents must be sublimated towards the greater good’ (1993: 95), whilst Wells, discussing auteur ism, relates how Disney allegedly once snapped at a colleague, ‘I’m the only star here’ (Wells, 2002: 82); this aligns with the notion of Chaplin as ultimate auteur, and his sense of self-belief, which will be explored in Chapter 8. Sublimation of char acter beneath the law of the father becomes a key factor to identity within the Disney features.

Nature and the body in Snow White Klein once stated that ‘No char acter seems more unreal than Snow White’ (1993: 142). Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs offers up a host of contradictions. Some critics argue that these very contradictions give the film a complex ity (Aloff, 2013: 241), whilst others point to the child- adult Hollywood heroine as the main culprit in the identity confusion that arises (Allan, 1999: 59). Indeed, as Zipes comments, Snow White is ‘pecu liarly American’ (1995: 36), yet her roots are in Germanic folk lore (see Figure 2.2).

FIGURE 2.2

Snow White

Source: Hand and Cottrell (1937)

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Certainly the film’s themes of nature and restor ation/resur rection indicate these European roots. Nature is a dominant force, represent ing both night mare and nurture. When Snow White flees, nature becomes a psychological threat, a mirror to her own mental state. It is here where Barbara Deming finds the Disney world monstrous, comment ing that it is ‘a night mare of these times’ (Watts, 1995: 86). Nature, however, reveals that it has its own identity. It restores order at every turn; it is the missing mother (more of her in due course) with its mater nal and defensive instincts. It shows us that, without human inter vention, the forest and its creatures adhere to a sense of order. Disney applies to nature a sense of self; it becomes an object, a ‘conscious essence’ (Cinoglu and Arikan, 2012: 1115). Because nature is intrinsically linked to American nation hood (King [1996: 60] claims that Disney has an ‘almost Jeffersonian bonding to the land’), it becomes enmeshed with self hood, possessing empathetic and destruct ive traits. Grumpy also reflects the order and disorder of nature. He is initially suspicious of Snow White. ‘She’s an angel’, the dwarfs remark in unison. ‘She’s a female’, Grumpy retorts. He views Snow White as an intruder, recog nizing the threat to the dwarfs’ secur ity. When Snow White is in danger, however, it is Grumpy who perceives that danger and moves to act. He always moves with purpose, respond ing to nature’s law and demonstrat ing that he is part of the natural order (see Figure 2.3). When we consider Snow White herself, however, there is a duality and an unfinished quality to her identity. A key scene is where Snow White flees civilization. At

FIGURE 2.3

Grumpy, Snow White

Source: Hand and Cottrell (1937)

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FIGURE 2.4

Snow White

Source: Hand and Cottrell (1937)

times she doesn’t seem connected with the ground; there is a sense of her being ethereal and unreal. There remains a ghostly quality to her character, implying that she is little more than a shadow in her own story. This lies in the identity confusion that many critics have commented on, among them Leslie (2002), Aloff (2013), Barrier (1999) and Zipes (1995). Natwick and Luske, working on Snow White’s character, visualized her in different ways (Barrier, 1999: 199) and this led to the pushing and pulling between child and woman that we see onscreen. Curiously, this also aligns her with Betty Boop to an extent (Natwick’s involvement in both animations would support this similar ity). Neoteny becomes a marker for Betty, as we have seen, and Snow White regularly flits between child and woman, never quite settling on either (see Figure 2.4). Disney’s focus on Snow White appears to extend no further than on her willing ness to fall in love. The simplicity of her character conflicts with the idea of Disney striv ing for the psychological inner work ings of self, as Snow White has little defin ition. Barrier suggests that her appeal lies in the way that others react to her (1999: 199) and Zipes reinforces this idea, that the fairy-tale characters simply ‘serve functions’; they are ‘stereotypes’ because no char acter development takes place (1995: 40). The heroes of Disney films are heroes of circum stance. Snow White’s actions are certainly governed by others. The huntsman tells her to run away, the queen tells her to eat the apple, the prince kisses her to wake her. Snow White slumbers through her story, unable to make decisions for herself. She is a 1930s heroine, domest icated and subser vient to the patriarchal codes of

Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment 37

her world, reveal ing cinema as a reflection of its society. As Quart and Auster argue, ‘films reveal something of the dreams, desires, displacements and, in some cases, the social and polit ical issues that confront American society’ (2011: 2). Snow White cooks and cleans for the dwarfs, she is romanced by the prince; she is muted. Her black hair and whitest of skin seem to reflect her spectral, shadowy presence. After fleeing the castle, she confides in the wood land creatures, laugh ing that she is ashamed of her own fear. Snow White conforms to patri archy, acknowledges her weak nesses and plays the role of impassive heroine. Clearly contrast ing Betty Boop’s identity polit ics of the pre-censor ship era, Snow White represents femin in ity in the 1930s: domesticated and mater nal. DuBois’s plea (see Chapter 1) that woman must ‘work out her own salvation’ (1978: 14) seemed so apt in the 1920s but loses its reson ance in the decade that followed, as women’s roles reflect the fallout within American society during the Great Depression.

Bodies Masculinity exper ienced a crisis during the 1930s. The idea that the American selfmade man was linked to social status has been considered as central to manhood in America (Kimmel, 1996). The Depression heralded an era of emasculation of men who had lost status through unemployment, and the term ‘breadwinner’ was redundant. Success and patriarchy, therefore, moved away from financial gain and into the arena of the body, ‘redefining masculinity as the gendered expression of a certain inner sense of oneself ’ (Armengol, 2014: 61). The hard body of the workingclass male was heralded as the answer to re-masculinization of the 1930s and this reaf firmed patriarchy within society. Whilst women may have gained status within the workplace during the 1920s and 1930s and masculin ity was displaced, patriarchy finds a foothold through the body. Whereas in the 1920s sexual ity is the focus of stars such as Betty Boop and Clara Bow, 1930s cinema offers a more muted response to the female body. With the polit ical turmoil of the decade came escapism in cinema through swashbuckling heroes and established horror stories. Simultaneously, Hollywood in the 1930s and 1940s represented social and polit ical realism, which deepened in the New Deal era. The prot agon ist- driven vehicle of Hollywood cinema was debated over in the 1930s, to incor porate more of a ‘people’ ideal (Giovacchini, 2001: 50). Identity polit ics shift during this time; ‘I’ becomes less import ant than ‘We’, argues Dorothy Parker (2001: 49). Snow White’s body, within this struggle between realist and escapist cinema, also becomes a site for debate. The child/mother prot agon ist is less objecti fied than pondered over: what does her body represent? Leslie argues that a correl ation exists between Riefenstahl’s pro-Nazi film Olympia and Snow White, through beauty of the body and its death (2002: 140–141). The 1930s promotes a beauty ideal that contrasts with the sex ideology of the 1920s and instead embraces moral ity, collect iv ism (or ‘I’ versus ‘We’) and death. This can be seen in films

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such as Gone with the Wind (Fleming, 1939), Frankenstein (Whale, 1931) and Angels with Dirty Faces (Curtiz, 1938). Snow White’s body is a contradiction: it represents child and mother, life and death, anim ation and still ness. It shows a body in transition, through adolescence (Snow White liter ally matures overnight) and through its poison ing, which represents punish ment of the infal lible princess. The body as a site of punishment and ‘death’ in Disney illustrates a very different approach to body politics from the era of Betty Boop, but clearly reflects the trans ition from hedon ism (1920s) to realism (1930s).

Patriarchy Disney’s industrial ethos can be seen in the order of things in Snow White and how the characters move through the story; the dwarfs march ing industriously, Snow White float ing along the pathway already chosen for her. Animation generally allows freedom from constraints of patri archal norms (Wells, 1998: 199), but Disney’s production practice and ethos are clearly visible within his features. The studio was said to resemble Fordism in its approach to work, with the staff being swal lowed up by studio life. Walt himself likened the plant to a Ford factory in 1935; his practice of being quick to criticize and slow to praise only served to further instil this compar ison (Barrier, 1999: 138). At Disney’s Hyperion studio, Graham’s acting classes complemented advances in cel anim ation, sound and the multi-plane camera. Behind the scenes, however, was a feeling of unrest. Staff under stood that ‘the work of any person could easily be swal lowed up in a group effort’ (1999: 137); no one was infal lible. The notorious sweatbox view ings4 were seen as stressful by anim ators, who strove to produce work that was deemed good enough to make the final edit. When Disney relocated to Burbank after the success of Snow White, the animators were surrounded by high-tech equipment but, interest ingly, the move signalled a heightened sense of isolation among staff (1999: 281). The fascin at ing internal tensions of Disney features, noted by Crafton (2012) and Barrier (1999), are revealed to have coincided with the move to hyper real ist anim ation, and are reflected between the studio and the animation cel itself. The idea of the ‘workers’ being separate to the author ity figures is mirrored in Snow White; indeed, Zipes compares the dwarfs to the workers and Walt Disney as the prince, claim ing that ‘he takes all the credit as champion of the disen franchised’ (Zipes, 1995: 38). This heavily implies a patriarchal social system, in which the father has author ity over family, and their subordination is key to this theory. Disney’s move to Burbank, at a cost of $3 million and a staff of 1,200, heralded the begin ning of a new era of classic animation, but it simultaneously represented ‘a pater nal ism . . . stronger than anything seen before at the Disney Studio’ (Barrier, 1999: 263). This pater nal ism is transferred onto the screen within Disney’s cinema of traditional ism. Wells uses the word ‘assim ilation’ to describe Disney’s control of his artists and their work (2002: 21), whilst Barrier

Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment 39

remarks that the studio became an exten sion of the man himself (1999: 281). The paternal foot print of Disney pervades his features and, in doing so, subjugates identity within them in a fascinat ing way.

Missing mothers, punished children Sarah Boxer asks the question ‘why are all the cartoon mothers dead?’, pointing to the curious pattern of ‘children lost or adrift’ within animated features and quoting Carolyn Delver in her quest to find the answer – Delver suggests that ‘char acter development begins “in the space of the missing mother” ’ (Boxer, 2014: 98). The Disney features are full of silent, missing mothers (as discussed by Barrier [1999], Hubka, Hovedestad and Tonmyr [2009], Giroux [1995], Bell et al. [1995]). We can see how their absence rein forces the patriarchal code; Bambi’s father steps in to restore order after the mother’s death, Mowgli’s educa tion in The Jungle Book (Reitherman, 1967) is from male char acters. In The Rescuers (Lounsbery and Reitherman, 1977) Penny is adrift, an unloved orphan whose abductor assumes the role of cruel, sadistic stepmother. Haas comments that, within Disney movies, the mothers’ identit ies ‘are simultaneously erased, natural ized and devalued’ (1995: 196). This is signi ficant and supports the idea of the child undergoing a perilous journey from innocence to under stand ing (and conform ity within society). A transform ation must take place; a self must have mean ing ful relationships with other selves. In doing so, the power and meaning of individuals are subjug ated for the greater good of the group (Cinoglu and Arikan, 2012: 1125). Disney’s message is that the child needs to suffer in order to find their way to the ‘natural order’, or, as Eisenstein effect ively proposed, ‘the self must be taken out, taken in, led astray and led back’ (Leslie, 2002: 237). The emphasis remains on the individual allow ing external events/group members to steer him/her along their path. Self in Disney continues the journey where Betty ended it, post- censor ship, and very much controlled. Childhood is depicted as a rite of passage; often the juven ile protagonist will make the transition into adolescence after accepting moral responsibility and achieve a sense of belonging within a hierarchical society. Delver’s theory – that development occurs in the space that the missing mother has left behind – rever berates here. Disney’s rite of passage is a transition in fast-forward, with protagonists encumbered with responsibilities to equip them for future challenges. Claudia Card (1995) discusses a child’s ‘badness’ in relation to Pinocchio; he is naughty but essentially grows as a character, whereas in Disney’s retell ing (Ferguson, 1940) he is merely disobedient (1995: 66). Card argues that Collodi’s Pinocchio ‘has a moral depth that the Walt Disney conception lacks’ and she poses the question as to why he even bothers to lie. Pinocchio is a reactive character; it is only when he under stands that he must respect and be honest to his elders, observing the pater nal ism and patriarchy of Disney’s law, that he is rewarded with a ‘real’ body. The body here, as discussed earlier, is a site for punish ment: Pinocchio longs to evade the arti ficial ity of his wooden puppet

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body. Flesh and blood become all- encompassing drivers; they are motivations for ‘good ness’. Pinocchio’s rite of passage centres on the phys ical body (albeit the physical ‘anim ated’ body – this becomes the meta motif for life in the film). In Bambi, identity theory emphasizes societal codes and the importance of belong ing. Stryker tells us that identity theory views self ‘as the product of society’ (Ickes and Knowles, 1982: 199). In Bambi, society is key to identity; all creatures conform to the codes and this is something that Bambi must learn. For example, when he imitates the group of young bucks spar ring, he real izes that he must fit into this social group. Social identity theory applies, wherein individuals learn the structure of the group and adapt to fit it (Cinoglu and Arikan, 2012: 1124) (see Figure 2.5). Bambi’s focus on death and separation, through its shock ing depiction of the loss of mother, remains poignant. Laderman acknowledges this in his comment about child hood fear of permanent separation. The reliance Bambi has on his mother is emphasized in the first part of the film to such an extent that the audience feels the horror of that separation so much more (2000: 41). The arti ficial ity of the anim ated form is rendered obsolete for the audience, as we feel the unbearable emotion of separation that Bambi, himself, feels. Death is the relentless motor here, driving the film onwards, its presence transform ing child’s anim ation to horror to rite of passage, but we are forever frozen in that snowy moment, as Bambi real izes one simple, awful fact: he will never see his mother again. Penny’s suffer ing in The Rescuers is also signi ficant within a debate about self and society, punish ment and rites of passage. Despite the film being released

FIGURE 2.5

Bambi

Source: Algar and Armstrong (1942)

Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment 41

eleven years after Walt’s death, it contains famil iar themes of loss and isolation that are remin iscent of the early features, and particu larly through the seriousness of abduction and punish ment within Pinocchio. Penny, a young, bereft orphan, is vulnerable at the onset of the film when we learn that she has been abducted. In the space of the missing mother, Penny is cast adrift into the cruel hands of Madame Medusa, who fills this void as an unlov ing stepmother and views the child as an acquisition. Penny’s wilful nature is referred to throughout the film as she refuses to help Medusa unless threatened with maltreatment. Penny’s strong individual ity is a marker in the film but her transition from self to a collect ive identity is represented as something that will ulti mately save her (conforming to the ‘group’ of diamond thieves and subsequently obeying the parental figures of Miss Bianca and Bernard); this allows her a rite of passage from punished orphan to child hero. The space of missing mother is fulfilled, finally, through Penny’s adoption. The maltreated child must undergo their ‘punish ment’, relinquish ing the selfish self, in order to fulfil his/her destiny. ‘Child Maltreatment in Disney Animated Feature Films: 1937–2006’ (Hubka et al., 2009) compiles surprising statistics of child abuse that are present in both classic and contemporary Disney features. The authors explain that child maltreat ment is visibly evident in these films and that ‘the dramatic device of children in peril’ (2009: 437) is widely used. Within Pinocchio they find one instance of physical, and 421 emotional threat, the largest number of any of the Disney features (2009: 431); within Peter Pan (Geronimi and Jackson, 1953) there are 37 instances and in The Rescuers there is one physical threat and five emotional threats towards the child. The authors cite 561 episodes of maltreatment in the stable of Disney films, each being associated with a specific character. Danger and threat are addressed through close confinement to actual abduction, which is a theme commonly used. The authors claim that ‘child maltreatment is a key part of many Disney films’ (2009: 436). Punishment has always been an integ ral part of the formula for the Disney feature. It is a motivator for protagon ists, leading them from any notions of hedon istic self hood towards social identity. One’s role in society defines one’s identity and vice versa; selves can only exist ‘in definite relationships with other selves’ (Mead, cited in Woodward, 2000: 40). As Burke and Stets also attest, identit ies are linked through the individual and society: ‘Identity theory seeks to explain the specific mean ings that individuals have for the multiple identit ies they claim; how these identit ies relate to one another for any one person; how their identit ies influence their behaviour, thoughts, and feel ings or emotions; and how their identit ies tie them in to society at large’ (2009: 3). Identities are complex and multi faceted and are revealed through the psychological shaping of an individual to his/her role in society. Hollywood during the 1930s instilled a ‘people’-driven ideal, reflecting the turbu lence of the New Deal and the shift ing of masculin ity to empower the working man, ensur ing that patriarchy remains dominant. ‘I’ becomes ‘we’; individual identit ies are subsumed for the greater good and this echoes Disney’s ethos. Paternalism shapes the studio’s canon of work; the punished child proves to be a

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highly successful formula through themes of abduction, death and separation. The dark ness of Disney creates a fascinat ing paradox in which we witness a series of juxtapositions, such as life and death and comedy and horror. Within this tapestry of extremes, self hood is examined and society is embraced to create multi faceted representations of identity. Eisenstein’s theory of self proves the most illu minat ing here: it is taken out, taken in, led astray and back again. Self, in Disney, becomes an exercise in behaviour, conform ity and moral ity. Punishment is its marker.

Lilo and Stitch Identity polit ics, focusing on self, body, difference and diaspora, are particu larly signi ficant in Disney’s Lilo and Stitch (DeBlois and Sanders, 2002), which was viewed as hopeful vanguard of traditional animation when it was released and is signi ficant within the Disney collection. Corliss, writing in Time, addresses the film’s central premise that Lilo suffers from ‘anger issues’, but that, inter est ingly, her only goal is to continue living with her sister Nani (2002: 67). Utz McNight discusses Lilo and Stitch through three constructions: first as represent at ive of a form of national ism ‘without a nation of individuals’; second as the individual being held account able by society for deviation in behaviour from the social norm; and third as racial difference in a physical sense, focusing on the body (2008: 64–65). McNight stresses the import ance of culture in the film, through the way Lilo makes sense of the environ ment around her: ‘We observe Lilo and confirm the borders of our own social cogency as White and different from her, or as similar to Lilo and therefore deviant, dangerous and deprived’ (2008: 66). Whilst difference is present in the film, ‘other’ is restrained and is more repre sent at ive of a lost way of life (2008: 66). Diaspora resonates throughout notions of nation hood. A dominant nation may marginal ize its minor it ies as it establishes and points to its own idea of nation hood. Hawaiians feel encumbered by a sense of ‘deracination’, that is, the displacement of a people from their own territory (Kauanui, 2007: 139). Displacement creates invisibil ity of Hawaiians in North America, whilst non-Hawaiians are seen to appropriate a Hawaiian identity. The problem lies in the indigenous people and their culture remain ing unrecog nized, with a US census labelling Hawaiians as ‘diverse’ (2007: 139). Place is an import ant marker for identity polit ics. As Featherstone argues, ‘to know who you are means to know where you are’ (2003: 342). Whilst identity is seen as something fluid rather than fixed, it is connected to a place and the feeling that one belongs there (Woodward, 2000: 116). In Disney’s Lilo and Stitch, place represents true belong ing but remains unat tainable: the parental home may be lost, whilst national identity is constantly under threat. The key phrase, repeated in the film, is ‘Ohana means family’. A sense of diaspora threatens family and culture; Lilo and Nani’s incomplete family represents the problem at national level – that Hawaii has become fractured. Place, then, becomes uprooted, something to carry with oneself, while identit ies become labels to attach, accord ingly.

Disney: self, patriarchy and punishment 43

FIGURE 2.6

Lilo and Stitch

Source: DeBlois and Sanders (2002)

The sisters, orphaned, live in a world without pater nal ism. They are, however, frequently visited by a male social worker and must assure him that they are a stable family, through Nani’s employ ment and role as ‘mother’ to her younger sister. In Delver’s space of the missing mother (see above), Nani assumes the role, as Elsa later does in Frozen (to be explored in Chapter 5). Lilo’s anger issues create the wilful, independent child, remin iscent of Penny and Mowgli and represent ing the famil iar ground that Disney treads, although she is seen as progress ive in her actions and ability to ‘control’ her own world. A Hawaiian in Hawaii, Lilo feels displaced by the tour ists and non-Hawaiians who occupy the island and alienation and other ness are key themes of the film (see Figure 2.6). Stitch embod ies the anarchy that Lilo longs for and also takes up the space of the lost child. Stitch is constantly punished for his wilful ness by Nani and by the aliens for his rebel lious non-con form ity. He represents anarchy, the revolutionary impulse, unwill ing to surrender his personal identity for the greater good. Stitch’s presence is important, as it demonstrates new ground in the Disney canon: that of the merging of self and other ness. Together, Lilo and Stitch embrace difference, and despite the presence of the punish ment theme the notion of subjug at ing self for society is rather more blurred in this film than previous Disney features. There is an anarchy in Lilo and Stitch that feels refresh ing, a sense of belong ing, yet not. Ultimately, self and the frag mented family is celebrated, as Stitch tells the Grand Councilwoman: ‘This is my family, I found it, all on my own. Is little, and broken, but still good’ (DeBlois and Sanders, 2002). Disney’s culture of pater nal ism defines identity very distinctly within its features. From the shift ing of Mickey Mouse’s person hood in the early 1930s to Snow White’s child/mother represent ation, identity polit ics shaped the Disney canon

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into a mould that reflected the studio practice. Disney’s own patriarchal presence behind the scenes certainly pervaded the cel itself. He reflec ted the mood of the 1930s and the way in which society viewed the past. After a boom comes a bust, argued Rothbard (2000: 12) in Chapter 1. The bust was the dawn of a new era for American polit ics and culture and one that embraced a more conser vat ive approach. ‘I’ was subsumed for ‘we’, the body was muted, a collectiv ism took hold during the Depression, which mirrors Disney’s social identity polit ics in his cinema. Punishment becomes a signi ficant theme; and this leads to an individual journey with a conform ist ideal. The dark ness of Disney’s cinema creates a fascinat ing and compel ling paradox that continues beyond the classic era. The child must suffer; its identity is skewed and selfish, its world does not extend beyond itself. It must learn the polit ics of the group into which it is assim ilated, to avoid being maltreated. Personal identity, a sense of self, build ing up over time with the goals of the individual being different to those of community, is contested here. We will see, in the chapters to come, how culture plays a pivotal role in the forming of identit ies. Disney attempted ‘to shape collect ive memory’ (Giroux, 1995: vi) as well as collect ive identity, his vision inspired by tech nical innovation and 1930s philosophy. Erasure of identit ies remains a lively discussion, but Disney’s feature anim ation continues to reflect, dissect and assim ilate concepts of American culture, the body, self and difference in important ways. We will now turn to Warner Bros. anim ation to see Disney’s influence through the psychological approach of character identity, and how Looney Tunes, conversely, turned away from the Disney formula to create their own start ling visions of identity, through place, absence and the body. Self is created, dissec ted, pushed to extremes and reima gined to steer anim ation in a new, revolutionary direction, where the collect ive and the moral are chal lenged.

Notes 1 Mickey Mouse cartoons had surprisingly fallen foul of the censors on a few occa sions, one being for the depiction of an army of cats wearing German milit ary helmets, another for Clarabelle Cow reading the erotic novel Three Weeks (Bulik, 2014). 2 The anim ated shorts between 1928 and 1934 have been called ‘anti- story’ because of their narrat ive, vaudeville roots and ‘antic char acters’ (Klein, 1993: 106). 3 Eco and Baudrillard applied the term ‘hyper real’ to Disneyland, claim ing that there ‘is no real left to “fake” ’ (in Pallant, 2010: 345). 4 Groups of anim ators would huddle in a cramped projec tion room, whilst Disney criticized their pencil draw ings and the room became known as the sweatbox (Barrier, 1999: 73).

References Allan, R. (1999) Walt Disney and Europe: European Influences on the Animated Feature Films of Walt Disney. Bloomington: Indiana University Press

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Aloff, M. (2013) ‘Disney’s Snow White at 75’, Virginia Quarterly Review, pp. 238–244 Armengol, J. M. (2014) ‘Gendering the Great Depression: Rethinking the Male Body in 1930s American Culture and Literature’, Journal of Gender Studies, 23, 1, pp. 59–68 Barrier, M. (1999) Hollywood Cartoons – American Animation in its Golden Age. Oxford: Oxford University Press Barthes, R. (2009) Mythologies. London Vintage Classics Batkin, J. (2016) ‘Rethinking the Rabbit: Revolution, Identity and Connection in Looney Tunes’, Animation Studies Online Journal, 11 Bauman, Z. (1996) ‘From Pilgrim to Tourist – or a Short History of Identity’, in S. Hall and P. du Gay (eds), Questions of Cultural Identity. London: SAGE, pp. 18–36 Baumeister, R. F. (2011) ‘Self and Identity: A Brief Overview of What They Are, What They Do, and How They Work’, Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1234, 1, pp. 48–55 Bell, E., Haas, L. and Sells, L. (eds) (1995) From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender, and Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press Bermudez, L., Marcel, A. and Eilan, N. (2001) The Body and the Self. Cambridge, M A: MIT Press Blackman, L. (2008) The Body: The Key Concepts. Oxford: Berg Publishers Boxer, S. (2014) ‘Why Are All the Cartoon Mothers Dead?’ Atlantic, 313, 6, pp. 96–106 Bulik, M. (2014) ‘1930: Mickey Mouse, Censored’, New York Times. Available at www. nytimes.com/times- insider/2014/09/26/1930-mickey- mouse-censored/?_r= 0 [Accessed 14 November 2015] Burke, P. and Stets, J. (2009) Identity Theory. New York: Oxford University Press Card, C. (1995) ‘Pinocchio’, in E. Bell, L. Haas and L. Sells (eds), From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender, and Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 62–71 Cholodenko, A. (2014) ‘ “First Principles” of Animation’, in K. Blackman (ed.), Animating Film Theory. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, pp. 98–111 Cinoglu, H. and Arikan, Y. (2012) ‘Self, Identity and Identity Formation: From the Perspectives of Three Major Theories’, International Journal of Human Sciences, 2, pp. 1114–1131 Cohen, K. (1997) Forbidden Animation: Censored Cartoons and Blacklisted Animators in America. Jefferson, NC: McFarland and Company Corliss, R. (2002) ‘Stitch in Time?’ Time, 159, 25, p. 67 Crafton, D. (2012) Shadow of a Mouse – Performance, Belief and World-Making in Animation. Berkeley: University of California Press Deleuze, G. (2005) ‘Ethology: Spinoza and Us’, in M. Fraser and M. Greco (eds), The Body: A Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 58–61 DuBois, E. (1978) Feminism and Suffrage, the Emergence of an Independent Women’s Movement in America 1848–1869. Ithaca, N Y and London: Cornell University Press Featherstone, M. (2003) ‘Localism, Globalism and Cultural Identity’, in L. M. Alcoff and E. Mendieta (eds), Identities: Race, Class, Gender and Nationality. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, pp. 342–359 Giovacchini, S. (2001) Hollywood Modernism, Film and Politics in the Age of the New Deal. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press Giroux, H. (1995) ‘Animating Youth: The Disneyfication of Children’s Culture’, Socialist Review, 23, 3, pp. 23–55

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Haas, L. (1995) ‘Eighty-Six the Mother: Murder, Matricide, and Good Mothers’, in E. Bell, L. Haas and L. Sells (eds), From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender and Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 193–211 Hubka, D., Hovdestad, W. and Tonmyr, L. (2009) ‘Child Maltreatment in Disney Animated Feature Films: 1937–2006’, Social Science Journal, 46, pp. 427–441 Ickes, W. and Knowles, E. S. (eds) (1982) Personality, Roles, and Social Behaviour. New York: Springer-Verlag Kammen, M. G. (1993) Mystic Chords of Memory: The Transformation of Tradition in American Culture. New York: Vintage Books Kauanui, J. K. (2007) ‘Diasporic Deracination and “Off-Island” Hawaiians’, Contemporary Pacific, 19, 1, pp. 138–160 Kimmel, M. S. (1996) Manhood in America: A Cultural History. New York: Oxford University Press King, M. J. (1996) ‘The Audience in the Wilderness’, Journal of Popular Film & Television, 24, 2, pp. 60–68 Klein, N. M. (1993) Seven Minutes: The Life and Death of The American Animated Cartoon. New York: Verso Laderman, G. (2000) ‘The Disney Way of Death’, Journal of the American Academy of Religion, 68, 1, pp. 27–46 Lamarre, T. (2013) ‘Coming to Life: Cartoon Animals and Natural Philosophy’, in S. Buchan (ed.), Pervasive Animation. New York: Routledge, pp. 117–142 Leary, M. and Tangney, J. (2012) ‘The Self as an Organizing Construct in the Behavioral and Social Sciences’, in M. Leary and J. Tangney (eds), Handbook of Self and Identity, 2nd edition. New York: Guilford Press, pp. 3–14 Leslie, E. (2002) Hollywood Flatlands: Animation, Critical Theory and the Avant-Garde. London and New York: Verso McKnight, U. (2008) ‘The African in America: Race and the Politics of Diaspora’, African Identities, 6, 1, pp. 63–81 Maltin, L. (1987) Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons. New York: Penguin Books Murphy, P. D. (1995) ‘The Whole Wide World was Scrubbed Clean – The Androcentric Animation of Denatured Disney’, in E. Bell, L. Haas and L. Sells (eds), From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender and Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 125–136 Pallant, C. (2010) ‘Disney-Formalism: Rethinking “Classic Disney” ’, Animation: An Interdisciplinary Journal, 5, 3, pp. 341–352 Pallant, C. (2011) Demystifying Disney: A History of Disney Feature Animation. New York: Continuum Quart, L. and Auster, A. (2011) American Film and Society Since 1945. Santa Barbara, CA: A BC-CLIO Rothbard, M. N. (2000) America’s Great Depression, 5th edition. Auburn, A L: Ludwig von Mises Institute Watts, S. (1995) ‘Walt Disney: Art and Politics in the American Century’, Journal of American History, 82, 1, pp. 84–110 Wells, P. (1998) Understanding Animation. London: Routledge Wells, P. (2002) Animation: Genre and Authorship. London: Wallflower Press Woodward, K. (2000) Questioning Identity: Gender, Class and Nation. London: Routledge/ Open University Zipes, J. (1995) ‘Breaking the Disney Spell’, in E. Bell, L. Haas and L. Sells (eds), From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender, and Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 21–42

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Filmography Algar, J. and Armstrong, S. (1942) Bambi [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Chaplin, C. (dir.) (1925) The Gold Rush [DV D] Charles Chaplin Productions Curtiz, M. (dir.) (1938) Angels with Dirty Faces [DV D] Warner Bros. DeBlois, D. and Sanders, C. (2002) Lilo and Stitch [DV D] Walt Disney Pictures Ferguson, N. (dir.) (1940) Pinocchio [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Ferguson, N. and Algar, J. (dir.) (1940) Fantasia [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Fleming, V. (dir.) (1939) Gone with the Wind [DV D], Selznick International Pictures, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Geronimi, C. and Jackson, W. (dir.) (1953) Peter Pan [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Gillett, B. (dir.) (1932) Flowers and Trees [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Hand, D. (dir.) (1934) The Flying Mouse [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Hand, D. and Cottrell, W. (dir.) (1937) Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Lounsbery, J. and Reitherman, W. (dir.) (1977) The Rescuers [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Reitherman, W. (dir.) (1967) The Jungle Book [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Whale, J. (dir.) (1931) Frankenstein [DV D] Universal Pictures

3 CONFLICT AND CONNECTION, BODY AND PERFORMANCE How Looney Tunes broke out of the asylum

The cultural and industrial importance of Disney resonated through animation’s golden era and its impact was far-reach ing. It was certainly felt by Warner Bros. Chuck Jones describes Walt Disney as ‘the most import ant man in anim ation’ (Barrier and Spicer, 2005: 27). He cites shorts such as The Three Little Pigs as being hugely influential in their ability to char acter ize the 2D Toon and argues that Walt Disney created a climate for animation to exist within, remark ing that it is simply ‘poor history’ to ignore his importance (cited in Barrier and Spicer, 2005: 28). Before moving forward to explore identity polit ics within Looney Tunes, it is necessary for us to acknowledge this relationship that existed between studios. Warner Bros. embarked on a very deliberate journey of contrasts to Disney, with satire proving omnipresent within their films; however, a respect of workmanship and innovation, as well as a healthy element of ‘spar ring’ between the studios, was a signpost of the golden era. No studio produced work in a vacuum; because of the transitional nature of anim ators and artists as they moved between employers, influences became key to progres sion and identity of the studio system. Identity ignites and becomes a driver for Looney Tunes and characters exist both within and beyond the frame. Identity is polit ical and biting, juxtaposed with Disney’s more gentle, moral narrat ives, and Disney’s collectiv ism is contested in Looney Tunes, where characters go on the prowl and attack each other. This studio invites the ‘real’ and suspends arti fice because of this. Nationhood is divided; identity is questioned and parod ied, industry quar rels are projected and ‘self ’ makes defin ite choices that have repercussions. Warner Bros., through its anim ation filmography, introduces a new satir ical represent ation of real-life issues that is revolutionary, whilst retain ing a psychological approach to characters, introduced by Disney.

How Looney Tunes broke out of the asylum 49

Toons deconstructed gender stereotypes, flaunted sexual ity as ‘perform ance’ and flouted laws of violence. The revolutionary impulse has a distinct ive presence within Looney Tunes’ filmography, and its impact on anim ation is palpable. As Maltin argues, ‘in the field of short subjects, the young Warner’s crew toppled Walt from his throne’ (1987: 223). This chapter will explore the rise of the Warner Bros. animation wing, the artists and animators who transformed it and the 2D stars who became a mirror to society and industry. Themes of ‘perform ance’ and ‘body’ will be applied to Looney Tunes, to reveal soph ist icated and scath ing represent ations of self, as well as its dissection. A self makes choices and initi ates action; it is a knowledge structure ‘based on the exper ience of reflex ive consciousness’ (Baumeister, 2011: 49). In order for us to deconstruct self in Looney Tunes, it is necessary to venture into the classic era of work and include seminal films such as Duck Amuck ( Jones, 1953b) and What’s Opera Doc? ( Jones, 1957) (the former literally dissects genre, medium and self, while the latter performs them), as well as others that plat form identity or deconstruct it. We will also explore place, absence, conflict and connection, before ventur ing into the realm of revolution, in order to discover how identity polit ics shape Looney Tunes. The production process of the studio has been widely discussed (notably, Barrier, 1999; Klein, 1993; Maltin, 1987; Sandler, 1998), and we will touch just briefly on beginnings and visions in order to high light how identit ies were formed within the Warner Bros. anim ation filmography. Identity is a shape-shifter within anim ation and particu larly when applied to the likes of Bugs and Daffy. Limitlessness and anarchy define these characters. More so than other studios, Looney Tunes presents brave new identit ies, just as they attack old establish ments.

Beginnings Warner Bros. established itself in the 1930s as a producer of gritty films noirs and swashbuck ling adventures. Cagney and Bogart were signposts for the anti-hero, flout ing conform ity in films such as Angels with Dirty Faces (Curtiz, 1938) and The Big Sleep (Hawks, 1946). In 1927 the studio featured the first talking picture, The Jazz Singer (Crosland), which clearly embraced tech nical innovation and highlighted Warner Bros. as future-think ing. The studio heads, four street wise Polish brothers, were parod ied by the Marx Brothers and later by Looney Tunes. They built the studio to represent the ‘real’, and the films they created were earthy and unlike anything being produced in Hollywood at the time. The studio began life on Poverty Row in Los Angeles and injected a European sensibil ity into its cinema, taking something of the shadowy essence of German Expressionism from the silent era and letting this loose on unknow ing American audiences. The studio also positioned itself through its films noirs as a mirror to society during the Great Depression, allow ing the dark ness of the late 1920s and early 1930s to pervade the screen. As Belton states, Warner Bros. reached a more ‘urban

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audience’ with its gritty outputs (1994: 74) and this, significantly, represented its identity as it embarked on a new anim ation enter prise. Cartoons prior to 1935 were viewed as oppor tun it ies to bludgeon the audience with gag after gag and Bosko, who can be likened to Oswald, Felix and Mickey, was Warner Bros.’ first animated star. The simple chase and attain ment of a goal, as discussed in Chapter 2, continues to define anim ation at this time. Bosko the Doughboy (Harmon, 1931), for example, takes place in the trenches and largely resembles the Fleischers’ work, with its emphasis on inan im ate objects and somewhat strange characters (see Figure 3.1). There is little development of identity in the studio’s early anim ation to set it apart from its compet itors. All this changed when Leon Schlesinger, a producer keen to capit al ize on the new tech nology of cinema and anim ation, hired Tex Avery. He was soon joined by ex-Disney employees, who had been enticed by the promise of creat ive freedom and excit ing new projects. The Warner brothers placed the anim ators in a dilapid ated bunga low on the lot, affectionately known as ‘Termite Terrace’ (Putterman, 1998: 31).

Migration Migration defines US animation during the 1930s, and is a signpost for identity. Just as, previously, animators were lured from the Fleischer Studios to Disney, and from the Eastern to Western Seaboard, they now left Disney for Warner Bros., intrigued by the freedom offered there. This theme, and how it applies to identity, is signi ficant and recur ring, and in Chapter 6 I will apply it to the Clayography work of Adam Elliot and visions of Australia. Bauman argues that identit ies are formed ‘on the move’, that hybridization created through migrations between places, creates a new global era (1995: 133). This theory of identity

FIGURE 3.1

Bosko the Doughboy

Source: Harmon (1931)

How Looney Tunes broke out of the asylum 51

as a fluid entity effectively pins down studio influences in the United States as anim ators, directors and artists searched for the best ‘fit’ for their talents. As studios evolved and grew, this altered. Within Warner Bros.’ anim ation wing, we can see the hybrid ization forming through the work of artists who were ‘pilgrims’ from other studios. Influences occurred through this movement and impacted the anim ation industry signi ficantly. Gene Walz discusses this in relation to what he calls the ‘temporary Disneyfication’ of Looney Tunes, which occurred in 1938, through the migration of Charlie Thorson from MGM (and previously Disney) to the studio, and explores the soften ing of characters and stories at Looney Tunes as a result (1998: 49). Jones himself was a migrant of Disney and has spoken about his time there, which ended when he told Walt that the only job worth having at the studio was his (Walt’s), and the boss replied: ‘That job’s taken’ (Furniss, 2005: ix). UPA, established as a polit ical studio in the 1940s producing World War II films, also became influential in its style of limited anim ation tech niques, rather than follow ing the Disney formula of realism (Maltin, 1987: 323–342). UPA and Warner Bros. deliberately chose an alternat ive route to this formu laic path. Indeed, the two studios tended to influence each other, and their styles would become occa sionally inter mingled due to the migration of artists between them. Identities of studios and anim ators are seen as adapt ive, culminat ing in a hybrid ization of styles and outputs at this time. Transition is important to the acquir ing of knowledge, as is ‘change’ to culture form ation. As Rapport and Dawson state, ‘modern culture is practised through, and the work of, wander ing’ (1998: 24).

Visions of Termite Terrace Tex Avery was given a team of animators who were considered to be ‘in open rebel lion against the current studio project’ (Putterman, 1998: 31), among them Chuck Jones and Bob Clampett. They were left unsuper vised, with Avery as director, to create a style of cartoon that distanced itself from the watery, non descript Bosko series that had preceded it. Avery became the ‘resident innovat ive genius’ of Looney Tunes (Ford, 2009) and the artist’s style is said to have had the most profound effect on the language of the American cartoon, by introducing a much-needed ‘range and complex ity’ to it (2009). Avery was a director with ‘inter planet ary visions’ (Thompson, 1976: 130); he parod ied management, the Hollywood elite as well as culture, whilst deliver ing complex, deconstructed anim ated shorts, such as Daffy Duck in Hollywood (1938), in which the duck sabotages the film stock to ridicule American societal events. In Thugs with Dirty Faces (1939), a parody of an E. G. Robinson film, one of the characters disrupts the cartoon to perform a stand-up routine to camera, before threaten ing an audience member. These cartoons reject formu laic narrat ives to perform repeated culture jams, forcing the audience to question their often surreal content, whilst simultaneously invit ing them to enjoy it.

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How Looney Tunes broke out of the asylum

Avery’s vision pushed Warner Bros. in a new direction. The ‘attack’ is always palpable in his work and is clearly identi fiable, this being the greed of producers or conser vat ism of cinema. Indeed, Crafton explores The Exposure Sheet newslet ter, detail ing staff frustrations at low pay, high outputs and lack of crit ical acclaim (1998: 101–120); the studio conditions are clearly mirrored within their films. Also signi ficant, however, is Avery’s trademark inter ruption of the flow of narrat ive; his voice is command ing, his author ship evident in his culture jamming tech niques, elevat ing the anim ated short to satir ical new heights. Warner Bros. had often been criticized for its excessive violence and also the poor quality of its ‘express speed’ device, so synonymous with Avery and Tashlin. Ford defends this by labelling these films as genre anim ation; there are subtle variations in the use of rapid cutting that make each work distinct and therefore signi ficant, he argues (2009). Technical progres sion of Looney Tunes’ tech niques can be clearly seen here. Wells claims that anim ation has become the ‘most import ant creat ive form of the twenty first century’ (2002: 1). Animation represents modern ity, he posits: ‘Each new form of anim ation suggested another ‘modern ity’, aesthet ically and socio-culturally progressive’ (2002: 30). Termite Terrace, essentially left to its own devices, can certainly be seen as progressive, modern and ulti mately postmodern in its self-awareness.

Bugs Bunny: performance and self In 1938, Bugs Bunny appeared in the film Porky’s Hare Hunt (Hardaway and Dalton), as an aggressive, somewhat wacky character. In Porky’s Duck Hunt (Avery, 1937), he appears again, calling out to his hunter, ‘here I am, fat boy!’ Bugs’ nature initially aligned itself with other ness, conform ing to Avery’s penchant for surreal ism in the animated cartoon. Whilst the anim ators acknowledged that his lack of human emotion rendered him too annoying for a cinema audience and therefore began soften ing him (Maltin, 1987: 245), the sense of Bugs harbour ing narcissistic tendencies remained. He distanced himself from others, includ ing the audience, whilst offer ing the smartest humour (at others’ expense). Although we admire and long to emulate Bugs, we acknowledge his superior ity in the field of the Looney Tunes; his sense of self, and reflex ive consciousness, is quite remarkable. In A Wild Hare (Avery, 1940), Avery created a more ‘like able’ Bugs, and introduced the idea of his and Elmer’s contradictory, complex relationship. Avery explained ‘we decided he was going to be a smart- aleck rabbit, but casual about it’, and when Bugs asks the question ‘what’s up doc?’ to both Elmer and his rifle, the audience connected with him (Maltin, 1987: 247) (see Figure 3.2). Bugs is a voice of wisdom to Porky and Daffy, leading them out of danger, yet often exacerbat ing the situation. He remains an enigma, an iconic figure who occa sionally slips back into wacky rabbit mode. Jones labelled him the ‘rabbit of tomor row’ in a 1942 cartoon, resonat ing with the wartime audience of the time,

How Looney Tunes broke out of the asylum 53

FIGURE 3.2

Early Bugs and Elmer, Elmer’s Candid Camera

Source: Jones (1940)

but also perhaps suggest ing Bugs’ import ance for the future of Looney Tunes. It is Jones who focused on the depth and psychology of the characters (Putterman, 1998: 34–35), pushing Looney Tunes’ progressive anim ation through boundar ies, as Avery had begun to do in the 1930s. Bugs, more so than any other anim ated character, alludes to the ‘real’, through his self-aware perform ativ ity. Petlevski writes that ‘not everything is meant to be a perform ance but everything . . . can be studied as performance’ (2014: 188). We will apply this further in Chapter 5, when we discuss gender and how animation is able to ‘perform’ representations, but for now we will focus on Bugs’ ability to make us forget he is an arti ficial construct, through his developed sense of identity. Crafton claims that anim ated actors are funda ment ally the same as live action ones, through their performance (2012: 2). The import ance of the anim ator’s role in the performance should not be under mined, as Brad Bird states, ‘the perform ance you’re seeing is the one the animator is giving to you’ (Crafton, 2012: 15). Earlier, I stressed the significance of the anim ator’s hand with the character and the life and death created from this connection. Self becomes something that one ‘has’ rather than one ‘is’ (see Chapter 2), align ing identity polit ics with anim ation through the idea of the construction of the Toon. Bugs can be seen to have but also to be a self. Essentially he performs, and this perform ance is informed by Avery’s, Jones’, Freleng’s or McKimson’s connection to him. Contrary to the anti-realist cartoons of the pre-1935 era, the indelible line between the creator and the object is blurred, somehow, and Bugs emerges as ‘real’ into our world. How important, therefore, is performance in Bugs’ identity polit ics? Everything can be studied as perform ance, Petlevski suggests, but not everything is. Whilst Bugs appears to be aware of his performance, that it is a requirement

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for status, are there times when he becomes less arti ficial, through the shedding of his perform ance skin? We have seen, with Betty Boop, how self- awareness of performativ ity endows her with a sort of second sight; that she is not quite the victim she appears; and instead she is playful and knowing. Crafton admits that she is one of his favour ite ‘actresses’ (2012: 16). Performance is applied in a similar way to Bugs; it is playful and all-knowing. Bugs may even be seen as omnipotent, in that he sees and knows everything in the Toon world. Self, then, is certainly a knowledge structure, when we apply it to Bugs. Mead stresses that the mind is the ‘tool’ used by the ‘self ’ to under stand and analyse its environ ment (Cinoglu and Arikan, 2012: 1116). Self applies to Bugs, because of his consciousness and ability to reflect, to make choices and drive action in the specific ways that he wants to. Jones believed in Bugs; that he knew where he was going, that he could go anywhere, and Maltin talks about the ‘persuasive illusion that Bugs Bunny does exist’ (1987: 249). I often describe Bugs as a mentalist to my students. I see him as a magician perform ing extraordinary feats of mental powers within his cinema. How else would he consistently avoid death or capture? Because he is smarter than Elmer, they reply. The key point, however, is that Bugs is smarter than all of us. Because of this elevation of status, we as an audience search for the ‘real’, which, in Bugs’ case means weakness. The bunny must come unstuck at some point. What’s Opera Doc? has been widely discussed, debated and dissected among anim ation and cinema theor ists, herald ing its import ance in history. This groundbreak ing anim ation swings into Wagnerian opera, present ing role reversals and cathartic conclusions. It is at once both high and low culture; depict ing anim ation as a medium that is transitional and genre defying, whilst simultaneously enjoy ing a swipe at Disney for their classical work Fantasia (Ferguson and Algar, 1940). Telotte suggests that Looney Tunes are toying with us in this film, that: the choice of high opera as a frame for that toying, along with the highly exaggerated visual design, embod ied in the outsized horse, jagged mountain backdrops, forced perspect ives, and elaborate classical misè-en-scène, only emphasizes the extent to which the characters are playing out out a set of conventional ized representations and we are being primed to respond in equally conventional ized ways. (2012: 144) What’s Opera Doc? also demonstrates how Looney Tunes tran scends the ‘limit ations’ of live action film, and by this I mean the avoid ance of any anchor ing of genre or gender. The film signi ficantly elevates Elmer’s status whilst reducing Bugs’, thus reversing the fates of antagon ist and prot agon ist and introducing catharsis to the Looney Tunes canon. ‘Self ’ shifts, identity is ever fluid. The film uses 104 backgrounds, rather than the usual 64, and the animators studied Russian ballet for the dance sequences, in which Bugs transforms himself

How Looney Tunes broke out of the asylum 55

into a beautiful female bunny in a blonde wig (Maltin, 1987: 268). This is an unexpectedly graceful, moving opera, in which the two players court each other against a colour ful backdrop of mountains (see Figure 3.3). If Looney Tunes are toying with us, they do it with immense composure. When the couple embrace and kiss, Bugs’ blonde wig slips from his head and Elmer, forever duped, is confronted with the deceit. However, importantly the device of opera allows his anger to escalate, until he is more than man, he is Chernabog, the god of evil, and Elmer, elevated thus, can finally win. The shift in genre allows a similar shift in identities. We know that identity is not concrete, it is not set in stone. However, self requires a continu ity of character and behaviour; Hewitt states that personal identity means ‘a sense of self built up over time’ (in Cinoglu and Arikan, 2012: 1126). Bug’s identity throughout the Looney Tunes filmography possesses these traits; his reflex ive behaviour reflects a strong sense of self that continues. In What’s Opera Doc?, however, Bugs loses the battle and is killed. This allows a cathartic connection with the audience, a moment of shock; one that is ‘real’. Performance feels discarded in this moment of Bugs’ death and the ‘real’ invites empathy and identity with the character. Self here conforms best to Oyserman’s defin ition, as ‘includ ing both a stable set of evaluat ive stand ards and a fluid, everchanging description in the moment’ (in Oyserman, Elmore and Smith, 2012: 79). Character identity stands still yet reima gines itself and conforms to the rules of self; Bugs remains Bugs despite the roles of winner and loser shift ing, giving way and re-forming. This adherence to identity polit ics demonstrates the studio’s confidence in their char acters and an understand ing in how to best connect with the audience (see Figure 3.4).

FIGURE 3.3

Gender play, What’s Opera Doc?

Source: Jones (1957)

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FIGURE 3.4

Catharsis, What’s Opera Doc?

Source: Jones (1957)

The body The question of the figure and what it represents is particu larly signi ficant in the work of Looney Tunes. The body is a site of punish ment and torture (albeit in a satir ical, ‘Toon violence’ sense), as well as a malleable form that is ever-evolving. The body identit ies the self (Baumeister, 2011: 48) and becomes an import ant signi fier within anim ation. As Whitehead explained in 1938, ‘no one ever says, here am I, and I have brought my body with me’ (Fraser and Greco, 2005: 1). If we conceptual ize the body as being intrinsically linked with ‘self ’, this embraces postmodern theor ies of the inter relation between the two (see Moore and Casper, 2015). We have discussed the body in a number of contexts: as a site of play for Betty Boop in Chapter 1 and as represent ing flex ibil ity within the anti-realist cartoons of the pre-1935 era, in Chapter 2. The body is contestable; it has many mean ings. An absence of a body seems incongruous, argue Fraser and Greco, but its presence is also a problem, because it becomes a ‘vehicle for thought and action’ (2005: 1). Fox suggests that without a body, ‘we seem to be nothing’ (2012: 2). Bodies in anim ation suggest flex ibil ity yet arti ficial ity; we know that they do not live and breathe as we do, yet when Daffy protests ‘I’m different from other people. Pain hurts me’ (Kawin, 2013: 22), for some reason I genuinely believe him. The body within the Looney Tunes canon offers up many fascinat ing represent ations. It can be seen as ‘labour ing’, as signi fy ing ‘morphology’, and as ‘the looking-glass self ’. It establishes a continu ing self through its own continu ity (Meltzoff and Moore, 1995: 48). It connects identity with the physical body.

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Animated bodies are visible in animation, Crafton suggests. Although ‘they are absent because they are actually pictures made by the anim ators a while ago’, we give them ‘prox imal liveness’ (2012: 52). They are almost real. The embod ied body is one that person i fies it, consol id at ing, assim ilat ing and contain ing tangible elements of it. We know from our discussions earlier in this book that animation embraces different representations of the body through its own arti ficial ity and morphology of the form, making the body a site of contention, a train of thought that will continue in later chapters. As well as the physical form, bodies are also ‘representational and notional’ (Moore and Casper, 2015: 25). The body matters, in forming identity polit ics within Warner Bros.’ anim ation. Malleability defines the Looney Tune body. It possesses an extraordinary ability to squash, stretch and defy gravity. At times it is airborne; its speed and purpose usually informed by violence or the threat of it. The animated Looney Tune body is rarely in repose. It is rest less, tortured mentally by its compan ions or seeking justice for a wrongdoing within or on the periphery of its Tooniverse. The term ‘labour ing bodies’ (2015: 2) can be applied to the characters themselves. Through their continued ‘work’, they offer up visions of endless performance. From Avery’s early gag- driven sketches featur ing a scatty duck or aggressive bunny, to the refined psychological films of Jones, bodies continue to labour in an endless cycle of movement to and from the chase, the hunt, the trick. Life (and the body) is ‘at the mercy of its own perform ance’ (Fraser and Greco, 2005: 44). We are exhausted and intrigued by the dynam ism of these bodies and their ‘suffer ing’. From Bugs’ airborne ejection from the bull ring in Bully for Bugs ( Jones, 1953a), to the coyote’s constant tumbling from the cliff, Looney Tunes bodies play and repeat their labour, comedy and suffer ing; perform ance ensures that the routine is cemented and the audience forever implicated in the gag. These bodies address morphology effect ively in their ability to contort and twist into different shapes, yet they always crucially retain their identity. Moore and Casper suggest that we continually test ‘the limits of our corporeal ity through transform ation’ (2015: 25). The physical body longs for morphology, whereas the anim ated body naturally embraces it. Shilling’s argument about the body being an unfin ished entity resonates here; bodies always change and transform (in Blackman, 2008: 16); like identity, they are not fixed, but fluid. Charles Horton Cooley established ‘the looking-glass self ’ theory in relation to how psychological identity is formed through social inter action. He proposed three aspects of this: 1) How our self appears to others 2) What others think of our appearance 3) How a sense of ‘self ’ is developed, based on others’ judgements. (Moore and Casper, 2015: 198) The key to this is the concept of self and society and their inter relation. Identity and the body are drivers here; through our discus sions we have acknowledged

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Baumeister’s theory that self begins with the phys ical body, that without it we seem to be bereft of identity. Indeed, the body can be seen as a malleable entity that does not reply, or a container for exper iences (Blackman, 2008: 6, 16). Society lies at the heart of identity polit ics in the way that it forms the rules of ‘self ’ and reveals how the body behaves. Cooley’s theory centres on society, on the perceptions of others. This applies to Looney Tunes in an effect ive way; Daffy ponders how he appears to others (although Bugs, being narcissistic in nature, is not quite so concerned). Peer pres sure within these cartoons informs them on a deeper level and impacts on ideas of self, through the body and behaviour.

Place and absence As discussed in previous chapters, the idea of place is a marker of identity polit ics. For Betty it is place and time (specifically America in the 1920s), for Snow White it is 1930s conser vat ism, for Lilo and Stitch it is loss of national identity and the displacement that ensues. When Daffy cries ‘where am I?’ in Duck Amuck ( Jones, 1953b), he is attempt ing to locate ‘place’ in order to reaf firm ‘self ’. The removal/destruction of the background and Daffy’s reac tion to this attests to the signi ficance of place and its role forming or remov ing identit ies. Daffy is baffled, concerned, outraged then ultimately resigned to loss of place and what this means to him. His sense of self feels threatened by the collapsing cel, his attempt to hold it up points to the palpable threat of loss of his world. Despite Jones explain ing that Daffy ‘can live and struggle on an empty screen’ (Maltin, 1987: 263), the empathy we feel for Daffy ensures that we imagine how loss of place might physically hurt him (see Figure 3.6). However, perhaps Daffy’s fear is psychological; place is a marker, represent ing the Tooniverse and all that is familiar. Without it, Daffy is far less self-assured. His own identity is linked to setting and society, his character is cemented through the actions of others (such as Bugs or Porky). Bugs, meanwhile, is the obliterator of place, playing with its absence and toying with the anim ated frame itself. When Jones states that Bugs knows where he’s going, that he can go anyplace, he means that Bugs is absolutely uncontainable. The frame cannot restrain him; the scenery is incidental. Bugs is like a pilgrim or migrant wander ing in the real world. If he is to remain limit less, he cannot be identi fied through just one frame, one cartoon, or through one director. He uses place as a defence and as a weapon, to survive within and outside of and to enact his counter revolutionary ideas. If identit ies are formed on the move, as Bauman has stipu lated (see page 50), then place, too, becomes transform at ive. Within the Looney Tunes filmography, locations blur behind the jettison ing characters and objects, spaces are filled and then emptied as the action occurs in a rush and then is gone. Space and place are often white- outs of nothing; the frame achieves still ness and silence in the after math, it breathes for just a moment, restor ing order, and then the still ness vanishes.

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FIGURE 3.5

You Ought to be in Pictures

Source: Freleng (1940)

Connection, conflict and identity Within the filmography of Looney Tunes, the char acters live, die and are resurrected through their perform ance. Connection with the audience is essential and becomes exper i mental, with the fourth wall being broken in the studio’s dynamic assembly of the parody and assault. Connection in these cartoons is established through character empathy, such as in Porky Pig’s Feat (Tashlin, 1943), in which the simple inabil ity to pay a hotel bill enables a chain of events that escalates, reveal ing Porky and Daffy’s child like vulnerabil ity. The hotel manager represents difference (and arguably Schlesinger, who was often parod ied in these cartoons); he is an echo of Fleischers’ nonhuman villains through his animism, remin iscent of Betty Boop’s pursuers. Daffy and Porky’s identit ies are cemented as famil iar, through the other ness of the hotel manager; difference is the negat ive of self but it remains just as crucial, Maker argues, as each becomes an opposite pole of identity (2007: 23); without both, self remains incomplete. Ducks, it seems, provided ample conflict within the American anim ated cartoon from the 1930s onwards. Donald made his debut in 1934, as antagon ist to the wholesome Mickey. Disney anim ator Fred Spencer maintained that the audience liked him ‘provided he plays true to his own char acter’ (Maltin, 1987: 49). Donald is an uncomprom ising Toon, represent ing anarchy and blustery anger within the Disney shorts. He is a culture jam to the narrat ive- driven adventures of post-1934, a quirky outcast to the Disney stable of char acters. In 1937, Tex Avery created Daffy, who, in his first appearance, utters the line ‘I’m

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just a darn fool duck’ before running offscreen (1987: 240). Daffy was created as ‘the antithesis of Bugs’; where the rabbit possesses charm and intel ligence, the duck is ‘a social misfit’ (Sandler, 1998: 171). The self-awareness and reflex ive consciousness of the characters is evident by the 1940s and well established by the 1950s. Repeatedly, they break the fourth wall to address us, enforcing connection and pushing limit lessness within the anim ated cartoon. Auter and Davis conducted research that points to a heightened sense of audience enjoy ment when the fourth wall is broken. Individuals scored highly in terms of enter tain ment (the fourth wall lends itself well to comedy), but also through soph ist ication of content. By break ing the fourth wall, viewers feel an increased interest involvement, which ‘redefines the normally passive relationship with a given show’ (1991: 170). This device is often applied to Looney Tunes cartoons, with a character drawing the audience in and often whisper ing asides to them so that they are aware of the joke before the other protagon ist and Bugs does this repeatedly, at Daffy’s or Elmer’s expense. It is an essential element of his reper toire; without this connection, Bugs’ identity would be comprom ised. Duck Amuck ( Jones, 1953b) perhaps best represents connection with the audience. This work reflects Jones’ claim that Daffy can exist ‘without setting and without sound, just as well as with a lot of arbit rary props. He remains Daffy Duck’ (Maltin, 1987: 263) (see Figure 3.6). Jones has commented in inter views that the Looney Tunes cartoons were made in an arena, that exper i ment ation was part of the process and that it took place constantly (Barrier and Spicer, 2005: 47). Duck Amuck presents the character’s awareness of the confines of his ‘cell’ (both anim ation cel and the Looney Tunes as asylum). The physical ity of Daffy’s enraged connection with the audience is expressed through his actions; his body becomes both a site for anger and an expres sion of the same as he struggles, and fails, to maintain the stabil ity of the frame he exists within. Daffy’s knowledge of the studio, of the artists, bosses and audience, is in evidence in this seminal work and has been widely discussed by many critics, includ ing Maltin and Schneider. Deconstruction of the animated frame, and psychoana lysis of a 2D char acter within a collapsing environ ment, establishes this film as one of, if not the, most signi ficant cartoon shorts to be created. Jones was influenced by the live action comedians of the era, the Chaplins and the Keatons. He once commented, of Chaplin, ‘when he started think ing of himself as an artist, he stopped being a good comedian’ (Adamson, 2005: 70). Jones claimed that the artists of Looney Tunes never acknowledged them selves as such. Comedy was key; art remained part of the studio’s peripheral vision only, because to connect to the audience was everything. If they lost sight of that, as Chaplin did, comedy would simply fall away. Jones, it is clear, enjoyed explor ing his characters on a more emotional plateau. He claims ‘conflict . . . is the source of the comedy’ (Sandler, 1998: 9). Belton sees American comedy as being that which is suppressed by society, and that disorder

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FIGURE 3.6

Duck Amuck

Source: Jones (1953b)

is necessary for its success (1994: 135). Comedy is not intended to be conser vat ive in its approach. Gillota stresses the American affin ity for the outsider, that its culture is a battle between self and society. He quotes Marc, who calls this type of comedy ‘a surviv ing bastion of individual expression’ (2015: 102). Belton maintains that American comedy means ‘unleash ing the leopard’ (1994: 141); the attack should be physically felt, just as it is in stand-up comedy. Daffy creates and embraces conflict and becomes stand-up comedian of sorts, enter tain ing the audience through ‘routine’, just as Bugs does (but Daffy does it without the refinery). Daffy’s actions are famil iar, as is his mental ity; identity fixes him as frustrated antagon ist to Bugs, repetition of his perform ance reaf firms the routine. In defin ing American comedy, we also need to establish inter pret ations of American identity to discover where ‘self ’ is and how it relates to society. In locat ing national identity, Gillota reaf firms the belief that it means a hardworking ethic as well as ‘the capacity for the individual to overcome hardships’ (2015: 103). Parrish asserts that American identity is ‘a kind of practice’, formed from an ongoing collect ive creation (2015: 104). This reflects the Disney ethos in Chapter 2, that self conforms to society in order to achieve belong ing. Huntington describes America as a ‘univer sal nation’; its interests are derived from its national

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identity. His point is that ‘we have to know who we are before we can know what our interest(s) are’ (2004: 9, 10). Comedy, within this context, struggles for asser tion between self and community; this high lights the need to unleash the leopard, for self to disrupt society. Conflict becomes a sign that points clearly to American comedy. We can relate this directly to Looney Tunes in the period between the 1930s to late 1950s. To some extent, the artists and writers had to create ‘clever, wittier films’, due to Warner Bros.’ reputation for gritty film noir (Bianculli, 2004). The urban sensibil ity of the studio’s roots remains a strong marker of its identity. Conflict and confront ation are etched into the Warner Bros. filmography. This is why Schneider calls the stars of Looney Tunes ‘hard and brassy and confront ational’ (Bianculli, 2004): they reflect their origins, they have something to say and they under stand best how to say it.

Revolution The world of Looney Tunes has been likened to an asylum (Crafton, 1998: 118), in which parod ies were made and assaults took place. Indeed, if Disney depicts the white picket fence of American culture with its wholesome veneer, Warner Bros. is its dark, violent shadow, represent ing a gritty realism, from which some of the most memorable cartoons and characters emerge. Revolution is evidenced in attacks against Disney, against producers and working conditions, and against Hollywood itself. The lack of awareness of the Warner Bros. bosses for their staff frustrated the artists. Jones recalls that Jack Warner never knew his name and referred to Freleng and himself as ‘Mutt and Jeff ’, because he was tall and Fritz was short (Maltin, 1987: 256). The award for Best Animated Short at the Oscars in 1957 went to Mr Magoo rather than What’s Opera Doc? There is much contention about why the Academy Awards tended to favour other studios over Warner Bros. and criticism has been levelled at the use of violence in the Looney Tunes shorts. In any case, the animators at the studio began to parody the situation as early as 1944, with films such as What’s Cookin’ Doc? (Clampett and Freleng, 1944), in which Bugs competes for an academy award, not as an anim ated character but as a human (Crafton, 1998: 116). We have seen, in more recent times, Bugs’ presence at the Oscars, fuelled by his utter self-belief. Star presence of the animated Toon imit ates and intimates the ‘real’. Looney Tunes’ shift away from the Disney formula was dramatic and deliberate. Faber noted the appeal of the ‘cold blooded humour’ of Warner Bros. cartoons and found fault with what he called Disney’s ‘straight, insipid realism’ (in White, 1998: 40), whilst Thompson argued that Looney Tunes cartoons lacked condescension to children and that like the best surreal and subversive art, ‘they were recog nized as dangerous’ (1976: 129). Whilst Warner Bros. celebrated the cartoon short, Disney (as discussed in Chapter 2) encouraged the audience to believe that they were immersed in a more real istic form of cinema (Bianculli,

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2004). Jones, conversely, admit ted that he never made a cartoon that didn’t contain ‘some flick- of-the-wrist at the establish ment of the day’ (Ford and Thompson, 2005: 112), demonstrat ing how parody and attack identi fied the Looney Tunes filmography. The Warner anim ated characters in the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s were unique in their psychological motivation and representation of ‘damaged’ selves. Anger, insan ity and a will to survive are determ iners towards goals, buoyed along by a knowledge of the asylum’s existence and how best to escape it (with Bugs, this is achieved by literally stepping beyond the anim ated frame). Jones has stated categor ically that Bugs is counter revolutionary (Barrier and Spicer, 2005: 37); he only reacts to threats from others, and never initiates revolution. In Bully for Bugs ( Jones, 1953a), for example, the threat of violence becomes real and Bugs declares war on the bull only when he has been pierced by the beast’s horns and ejected from the ring. Demand for fast, cheap cartoons, as well as lack of recog nition from their bosses and critics alike, led to a revolutionary direction. The anim ators and directors of Looney Tunes quickly recognized that parody was an effective weapon. After all, ‘fun’ is never meant to be neutral turf (Crafton, 1998: 101). Staff often worked 42 hours a week and would be expected to come to the studio on Saturdays if a dead line was looming. Schlesinger and, after him, Eddie Selzer demanded animators produce a 6- to 8-minute picture each week. Crafton explains how this led to the use of caricature through ‘open anger felt by the antibourgeois towards the bourgeoisie’; it certainly reflected the mood of Termite Terrace (1998: 118). Realism and attack was reflected in notable cartoons such as You Ought to Be in Pictures (Freleng, 1940). This film is viewed as technically innovat ive because it depicts anim ated characters interact ing with live action figures, one of whom is Schlesinger. The anim ators are seen constantly clockwatch ing; meanwhile Daffy tells the ever-gull ible Porky that he could secure a job in features and persuades him to enter the ‘real’ world. Porky allows Schlesinger to tear up his contract, and when he emerges Daffy asks manically, ‘Did you quit? Did you quit?’ At the heart of the cartoon is job secur ity; these gags are aimed with deadly accur acy at management. In The Big Snooze (Clampett, 1946), Elmer tears his contract up with the retort ‘from now on it’s nothing but fishing for me, with no more wabbits’ but Bugs begs him not to leave, facing camera to say ‘think of my career’. At one point Bugs asks, ‘what’s cooking doc?’, referencing the 1944 cartoon in which he competes for that elusive Oscar. Finally, Elmer wakes up and pieces together his contract, with an aside to camera, ‘I’m back, Mr Warner’. Parody and satire are clear identi fiers of Warner Bros.’ anim ation. Jones claimed that Harry Warner had no idea where the anim ation studio was on the lot and once allegedly said, ‘the only thing I know is that we make Mickey Mouse’ (Sandler, 1998: 28). Management issues ally Warner Bros. with Disney. Before union inter vention, staff in both studios remained dissat isfied and frustrated with working conditions and low pay. The difference, however, is the

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openly rebel lious nature of the inhabit ants of Termite Terrace. Without Disney’s Fordism environ ment, discussed in Chapter 2, Looney Tunes was free to express itself in liberat ing ways. At the heart of Warner Bros.’ cartoons lay a revolutionary impulse. The ‘stars’ became defined as cultural icons, each possessing uniquely identi fiable character ist ics. Avery lent them anarchy, Tashlin made them move at speed, whilst Jones softened them with empathy and imbued them with psychological self-awareness, the result being an uneven but fascinat ing canon of cinema that speaks directly to its audience. Looney Tunes remain the champion of the edgy, hilarious toon. Maltin concludes, ‘these characters should never die’ (1987: 280). Identity was key to their success. We have seen its polit ics at work here, through the body, place and absence, self and perform ance, conflict and revolution, and it is the sense that these characters waged psychological wars, evoked empathy and lived both within and outside the confines of the frame that stays with us. In Chapter 4 we will continue our journey of identity polit ics through themes of the body, comedy (and horror) and the object as ‘real’ as we turn our attention to stop motion and the filmography of Nick Park. We will find that Looney Tunes retains an indelible presence in Park’s cinema and that self very much continues to display its shape-shift ing proper ties.

A useful footnote – lessons from Looney Tunes 2D anim ation continues to demonstrate its malleabil ity and identity in the industry today and I spoke to Peter Dodd, Animation Director of Lupus Films, about the continuing existence of the 2D character and the impact that Looney Tunes had on the medium. Dodd previously worked on Corpse Bride (Burton and Johnson, 2005) and Frankenweenie (Burton, 2012), among other projects, and is anim ation director of Ethel and Ernest (Mainwood, 2016). I asked Dodd how he saw the relationship between the animator’s hand and the drawing, in bring ing life to the 2D form: The reason I prefer 2D to 3D anim ation is precisely because of the graphic quirks that the artist’s hand gives to the characters. Linework can be thick, thin, serpent ine, lively or sketchy. You are not necessar ily bound by the limits of the model or the rig. As slow as the process of anim ation is, the immediacy of the gesture of the hand is the fastest transmission of the anim ator’s intent. (Dodd, 2015) Dodd points to the malleabil ity of 2D as a form that essentially is limit less and allows a far greater freedom than 3D. He was clear about the import ance of the Looney Tunes filmography on the animation medium and discussed how the gag did not define the character here, but that the approach was more soph ist icated:

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The Looney Tunes characters went beyond gags in their use of char acterization. We know exactly the identity of each character and how they will behave in each new circumstance. . . . Name Bugs or Daffy . . . and you know the humour will be based around the prot agon ist’s identity. (Dodd, 2015) Dodd stressed the absolute need for a character’s inner psychology and explained how it was external ized in animation: We need to know not only what a char acter is emoting, but why. If the audience is to have affection for them (Ethel and Ernest), then they must be as real as we can make them. In these cases, I would rather look at real relationships than past-anim ated perform ances. Ernest has a very energetic personal ity, which we show in his physical perform ance; always adding an extra bounce to his walk . . . Walter Matthau used to begin creat ing a character by start ing with the walk, so this method was similar (Dodd, 2015) Empathy for the character points to a clearer connection with the audience and Dodd stresses the ‘real’ as opposed to repeated perform ances. I asked him how he creates believabil ity in character: Don’t complicate the character’s emotions. Keep it clear and immediate and show one emotion at a time. But showing a transition from one emotion to another will make the character seem to make decisions and to think. Don’t overuse the hands. It’s a sign that the animator doesn’t know what the character is think ing. Deliberately unfocusing the eye can show thought processes. Try to look at real situations, memor ies and people, rather than relying too much on anim ation shorthand. (Dodd, 2015) I also spoke to Hilary Audus, director of The Snowman and the Snowdog, Horrid Henry and The Bear, amongst other projects. I asked how she and her team create identity in a 2D character and she discussed the process, includ ing an important emphasis on watch ing live action comedy to under stand movement and weight. Before we start anim at ing, we analyse their personal ity, their background, history, etc., and give a written brief to the animators. For instance – the Snowman, although an adult, and responsible for looking after a child, still maintains a child like wonder with everything. Loves anything mechan ical. Although a large solid person, he is light on his feet. We discuss this with the animators prior to the start of production. For this I give a clip of Oliver

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Hardy dancing, to the anim ators. He moved exactly as I imagined the Snowman would. We also decide if the characters have any particu lar facial habits – wrink ling a nose, pulling an ear when nervous, etc. This is all very important in helping the audience to identify with the char acters within the film. (Audus, 2015) The past informs the present; 2D anim ators today learn about the psychology of characters and how they should act from live action cinema, whether it be a walk, a dance or simple inter action between two people. Just as Jones would absorb Chaplin’s and Keaton’s physical and psychological traits to inform his characters’ identit ies, so do artists today.

References Adamson, J. (2005) ‘Witty Birds and Well-Drawn Cats: An Interview with Chuck Jones’, in M. Furniss (ed.), Chuck Jones: Conversations. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, pp. 49–88 Auter, P. and Davis, M. (1991) ‘When Characters Speak Directly to Viewers: Breaking the Fourth Wall in Television’, Journalism Quarterly, 68, 1–2, pp. 165–171 Barrier, M. (1999) Hollywood Cartoons – American Animation in its Golden Age. Oxford: Oxford University Press Barrier, M. and Spicer, B. (2005) ‘An Interview with Chuck Jones’, in M. Furniss (ed.), Chuck Jones: Conversations. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, pp. 20–48 Bauman, Z. (1995) Life in Fragments: Essays in Postmodern Morality. Oxford and Cambridge, M A: Blackwell Baumeister, R. F. (2011) ‘Self and Identity: A Brief Overview of What They Are, What They Do, and How They Work’, Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1234, 1, pp. 48–55 Belton, J. (1994) American Cinema: American Culture. New York and London: McGrawHill Bianculli, D. (2004) Steve Schneider on Looney Tunes, NPR public radio network, US, 5 November. Available at www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4152305 [Accessed 15 November 2015] Blackman, L. (2008) The Body: The Key Concepts. Oxford: Berg Publishers Cinoglu, H. and Arikan, Y. (2012) ‘Self, Identity and Identity Formation: From the Perspectives of Three Major Theories’, International Journal of Human Sciences, 9, 2, pp. 1114–1131 Crafton, D. (1998) ‘The View from Termite Terrace: Caricature and Parody in Warner Bros. Animation’, in K. Sandler (ed.), Reading the Rabbit: Explorations in Warner Bros. Animation. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, pp. 101–120 Crafton, D. (2012) Shadow of a Mouse – Performance, Belief and World-Making in Animation. Berkeley: University of California Press Ford, G. (2009) ‘Tex Avery: Arch-Radicalizer of the Hollywood Cartoon’, Bright Lights Film Journal, 30 April. Available at http://bright lightsfilm.com/tex- averyarch-radicalizer-of-the-hollywood- cartoon/#.V-PClXjHLZY [Accessed 15 June 2015]

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Ford, G. and Thompson, R. (2005) ‘Chuck Jones’, in M. Furniss (ed.), Chuck Jones: Conversations. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, pp. 89–129 Fox, N. J. (2012) The Body. Cambridge: Polity Fraser, M. and Greco, M. (2005) The Body: A Reader. London: Routledge Furniss, M. (2005) Chuck Jones: Conversations. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi Gillota, D. (2015) ‘Stand-Up Nation: Humor and American Identity’, Journal of American Culture, 38, 2, pp. 102–112 Huntington, S. (2004) Who Are We? The Challenges to America’s National Identity. New York: Simon & Schuster Jones, C. (1999) Chuck Amuck: The Life and Times of an Animated Cartoonist, 3rd edition. New York: Farrar, Straus & Giroux Inc Kawin, B. (2013) Selected Film Essays and Interviews. London: Anthem Press King, S. (2013) Egyptian Theatre gets Looney with “Chuck Jones 101”, 16 September. Available at http://articles.latimes.com/2013/sep/16/enter tain ment/la- et-st- chuckjones- classic-hollywood-20130916 [Accessed 15 June 2015] Klein, N. M. (1993) Seven Minutes: The Life and Death of The American Animated Cartoon. New York: Verso Maker, W. (2007) ‘Identity, Difference and the Logic of Otherness’, in Grier, P. (ed.), Identity and Difference: Studies in Hegel’s Logic, Philosophy of Spirit and Politics. New York: State University of New York Press, pp. 15–30 Maltin, L. (1987) Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons. New York: Penguin Books Meltzoff, A. and Moore, M. K. (1995) ‘Infants’ Understanding of People and Things: From Body Imitation to Folk Psychology’, in J. L. Bermudez, A. Marcel and N. Eilan (eds), The Body and the Self. Cambridge, M A: MIT Press, pp. 43–69 Moore, L. and Casper, M. (2015) The Body: Social and Cultural Dissections. London: Routledge Oyserman, D., Elmore, K. and Smith, G. (2012) ‘Self, Self-Concept and Identity’, in M. Leary and J. Tangney (eds), Handbook of Self and Identity. New York: Guilford Press, pp. 69–104 Petlevskii, S. (2014) ‘Beyond Identity: The Dynamic Self at The Intersection of Performance Philosophy and The Philosophy Of Science’, Interdisciplinary Description of Complex Systems, 12, 3, pp. 187–209 Putterman, B. (1998) ‘A Short Critical History of Warner Bros. Cartoons’, in K. Sandler (ed.), Reading the Rabbit: Explorations in Warner Bros. Animation. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, pp. 29–37 Rapport, N. and Dawson, A. (1998) Migrants of Identity: Perceptions of Home in a World of Movement. Oxford: Berg Sandler, K. (ed.) (1998) Reading the Rabbit: Explorations in Warner Bros. Animation. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press Telotte, J. P. (2012), ‘The Kiss of the Rabbit Woman’, Screen, 53, 2, pp. 136–147 Thompson, R. (1976) ‘Meep Meep’, in B. Nicholls (ed.), Movies and Methods: An Anthology, Volume 1, Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 126–134 Walz, G. (1998) ‘Charlie Thorson and the Temporary Disneyfication of Warner Bros. Cartoons’, in K. Sandler (ed.), Reading the Rabbit: Explorations in Warner Bros. Animation. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, pp. 49–66 Wells, P. (2002) Animation Genre and Authorship. London: Wallflower Press White, T. (1998) ‘From Disney to Warner Bros.: The Critical Shift’, in K. Sandler (ed.), Reading the Rabbit: Explorations in Warner Bros. Animation. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, pp. 38–48

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Interviews Audus, Hilary (2015) author inter view, October Dodd, Peter (2015) author inter view, October

Filmography Avery, T. (dir.) (1937) Porky’s Duck Hunt [DV D] Leon Schlesinger Studios Avery, T. (dir.) (1940) A Wild Hare [DV D] Leon Schlesinger Studios Avery, T. (dir.) (1943) Red Hot Riding Hood [DV D] Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Burton, T. (dir.) (2012) Frankenweenie [DV D] Walt Disney Pictures, Tim Burton Productions Burton, T. and Johnson, M. (dir.) (2005) Corpse Bride [DV D] Warner Bros. Tim Burton Animation, Laika Clampett, R. (dir.) (1944) The Old Grey Hare [DV D] Warner Bros. Clampett, R. and Freleng, F. (dir.) (1944) What’s Cookin’ Doc? [DV D] Warner Bros. Clampett, R. (dir.) (1946) The Big Snooze [DV D] Warner Bros. Crosland, A. (dir.) (1927) The Jazz Singer [DV D] Warner Bros. Curtiz, M. (dir.) (1938) Angels with Dirty Faces [DV D] Warner Bros. Ferguson, N. and Algar, J. (dir.) (1940) Fantasia [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Freleng, F. (dir.) (1940) You Ought to Be in Pictures [DV D] Leon Schlesinger Studios Freleng, F. (dir.) (1955) Hare Brush [DV D] Warner Bros. Hardaway, B. and Dalton, C. (dir.) (1938) Porky’s Hare Hunt [DV D] Leon Schlesinger Studios Harmon, H. (dir.) (1931) Bosko the Doughboy [DV D] Leon Schlesinger Studios, Vitophone Corporation Hawks, H. (dir.) (1946) The Big Sleep [DV D] Warner Bros. Jones, C. (dir.) (1940) Elmer’s Candid Camera [DV D] Leon Schlesinger Studios Jones, C. (dir.) (1953a) Bully for Bugs [DV D] Warner Bros. Jones, C. (dir.) (1953b) Duck Amuck [DV D] Warner Bros. Jones, C. (dir.) (1957) What’s Opera Doc? [DV D] Warner Bros. Mainwood, R. (dir.) (2016) Ethel and Ernest, Cloth Cat Animation, Ethel and Ernest Productions, Lupus Films Tashlin, F. (dir.) (1943) Porky Pig’s Feat [DV D] Leon Schlesinger Studios Tezuka, O. (dir.) (1985) Broken Down Film [DV D] Tezuka Productions

4 THE CASE FOR WALLACE AND GROMIT Britishness, horror, slapstick and the real

We have seen how the body, its sexu al ity and national identity defined Betty Boop, how culture and control shaped Disney’s protagon ists and how the Looney Tunes used the body, space and conflict to break the confines of the frame. Identity becomes reima gined to embrace the malleabil ity of anim ation, and provides a fascinat ing pathway through the medium. Artificiality is suspended yet alluded to within 3D; the form becomes more ‘real’ but emphas izes its uncanny still ness. This chapter will explore the physical set and tactil ity of stop motion characters, focusing on the world of Wallace and Gromit to reveal national identity, nostalgia, self and difference. Life and death of the figure defines anim ation. It is a physical process, leading to the manifestation of a ‘body’, a ‘self ’, an illusionary ‘soul’ and we necessar ily suspend disbelief to engage with this process. We have seen this occur within the previous chapter, in which Bugs performed his role yet stepped beyond that perform ance to interact with the audience, and this was mirrored by Daffy (in a less refined way). Stop motion is often debated in terms of the ‘real’, because of its 3D form and the presence of a physical set. The ‘real’ remains forever in contest. Kant believes that we as humans see the real as being whatever is ‘concrete, fixed, transparent, or non-problematic . . . something that can be looked for in a fixed place, and if it moves it can be looked for elsewhere’ (Ronen, 2002: 11). Ronen suggests a psychoana lytical approach to the ‘truth’ of an object, however, stressing that it is something that affects ‘and is constituted by the human psyche’ (2002: 11). We apply truth and meaning to an object to achieve the ‘real’. In this context, the animated object, just as art, moves freely in and out of the debate. Ackerman applies a version of the real to CG, which will be explored in Chapter 8, by positing that it is more ‘thing-like’ than other forms (2011: 118). Truth in the animated object, therefore, is located next to presence, or ‘thing-ness’, and this leads to ‘self ’.

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Stop motion renders the ‘real’ more so through its thing- like presence and tactile proper ties. Liveliness through plasmation acts as a trigger between life, death and difference. As we have seen in previous chapters, without other we have no self, since self is ‘the other of the other’ (Maker, 2007: 23). Difference, then, as the polar opposite of self (that is, the famil iar) is also a marker for identity. Park taps into this in his stop motion worlds and plays with preconceived ideas of other as villain; horror and difference are signposts of identity, particu larly in terms of nation hood, and this will be explored in this chapter. Webster’s dictionary (1913) defines plasmation as ‘the act of forming or mould ing’. The hand is explicitly implied, the creator with the created. Clay lends an immediacy to the screen and to the viewer, through its threedimensional quality; Ray Harryhausen speaks of bring ing objects to life (Harryhausen and Dalton, 2005: 5–8) and, simil arly, Park sees his characters being born out of clay (Gibson, 2008). Plasmation here represents the truest idea of life in animation. In Conrad T. Hall: Artistry and the ‘Happy Accident’, Pizzello discusses Conrad Hall, the cinematographer, and his views that imper fection can create beauty (2003: 2). There is a desire, within the arts, to trace the creator’s chords, their brushstrokes, their finger prints left behind on the canvas or sculpture. With Hall, it was what he called ‘happy accidents’ that led to this imper fection and subsequently a different way of visual izing a scene. In one example, he cites the film In Cold Blood (Brooks, 1967), and the scene in which the convicted killer, about to be hanged, talks to the Chaplain as rain trickles down the windowpane outside. A pattern of ‘tears’ is projected from the pane onto the face of the condemned man. Imperfection, the happy accident, creates truth and meaning. Fingerprints are visible on Park’s models; imper fection here defines character identity through quirk iness and a lived-in sense of the ‘real’. Park’s char acters are moulded and left to set into bodies replete with his finger prints, ‘self ’ is carved into clay and identity reveals itself within the little traces of the famil iar, of nation hood and nostalgia that the camera lens spies and captures.

Stop motion, statues and bodies In order to under stand Park’s influences, we need to briefly explore the origins of clay animation and trace the indelible patterns we find there. The movement was, to a great extent, inspired by comic strips of the time. Winsor McCay’s Dream of a Rarebit Fiend (begun in 1904) was adapted by Edwin S. Porter in 1906 (McCutcheon and Porter) and follows the story of the fiend as he dines at a restaurant and then exper iences hallucinations which feature imps. However, J. Stuart Blackton and Albert E. Smith are often cred ited with creat ing the first stop motion film, The Humpty Dumpty Circus, as early as 1898, featur ing toys that come to life (Eveleth, 2013). This history of animation was full of strange, surreal dreams, night mares and ‘happen ings’; it was a trick of cinema, an illusion that often revealed nuances

The case for Wallace and Gromit 71

about the human psyche, pulling at our darkest fears. Stop motion anim ation lent itself to this disturbing, uncanny world. The pioneers used 2D, 3D and live action to valid ate the illusion of animation, transposed with reality, as they struggled to be recog nized in what was a visual culture club of early cinema. Wladyslaw Starewicz, a Polish photographer, was influential in the journey of stop motion in the early 1900s, with films such as The Revenge of a Kinematograph (The Cameraman’s Revenge, 1912). Starewicz focused on very human dilem mas, such as infidel ity, and showed his under stand ing of cinema conventions through different genres and viewing the action through a keyhole. He created his films using dead insects, and produced work that had an unset tling edge, alluded to by his peephole tech nique as much as by his expired prot agon ists. Starewicz’s cinema became increasingly dark and night mar ish, with stop motion classics such as The Mascot (1933) leaving their unforget table finger print on the audience. Themes included sexual assault and alcohol ism, made all the more disturbing through the jerky liveliness of his jagged characters. His films were parod ies of the movies of that era, and Goder, writing in Russian Life, argues that stop motion and trick cinematography owe much to Starewicz (2003: 24–31). For Starewicz, and later Park, stop motion demanded a realism that traditional anim ation did not. It is that connection to live action cinema through the physical set and 3D body that introduces immediacy and helps to cement a dark, inhibit ing identity. Let us pause for a moment here, and note stop motion’s ability to evoke the uncanny and the idea of the ‘other’ through its unnat ural physical ity. Lacan’s theory becomes relevant and his preoccupation with the Real, the Imaginary and the Ego. For Lacan, the mirror offers up a gaze that is at first perceived to be ours (as infants we identify the image as us) and then recog nized as ‘the gaze of the Other’ (in Eyers, 2012: 17). Whilst this admit tedly over simpli fies Lacan’s theory, it serves a purpose here as we glance into the other ness created by stop motion. Lacan speaks about the ‘real’ as ‘always in the back ground’ (2012: 4), as something that is excluded. He aligns himself with the imaginary, the symbolic, as a way of seeing the real and this works with our consideration of stop motion and how it connotes a sense of other ness, through the body (from dead beetles to figures with lifeless eyes or roughly hewn features) to the frame. Otherness begins with Starewicz, and is clearly present in Park’s work. Willis O’Brien’s King Kong (Cooper and Schoedsack, 1933) brought stop motion anim ation to the commercial foreground of the medium, through the personal ity achieved in Kong himself, and Harryhausen, a protégé of O’Brien, later launched his own stable of creature features. Harryhausen used Latex models covered in mater ial such as cotton for the skeletons in Jason and the Argonauts (Chaffey, 1963) or goat skin and dove feathers for Pegasus. Textures accentuate the real, creat ing tactil ity and allow the object to evoke truth and the audience to apply meaning to it. Statues informed and influenced early stop motion animation. Harryhausen was intrigued by the stone figures of Michelangelo’s unfinished series in Florence’s

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Galleria dell’Accademia and the ‘prisoners or slaves seem ingly emerging from the rock’ (Harryhausen and Dalton, 2005: 6). Stone figures are signi ficant to stop motion’s idea of transference from death to life. When the statue moves, ‘it violates physical laws’ and can become uncanny (Wells, 1998: 58). The monu ments of Easter Island offer a mystical insight into the object and its relationship with physical laws. These huge moai statues, carved from volcanic bedrock, were transpor ted across the island to their sites, presum ably by a workforce. However, oral traditions of the islanders prefer to attribute mystical powers to the statues, believ ing that they moved at night ‘endowed with power to walk about in the dark ness’ (Lipo, Hunt and Haoa, 2013: 2859). The statue has always suggested movement; its 3D form inhabits physical space. Getsy writes of the sculptural encounter that takes place between active audience and passive statue, one that is ‘an image not actu ally present’ yet present as a very physical object ‘displacing space with its volume’ (2014: 2). As we saw in Chapter 2, connections have been made between the statue and the suspended animated form (in that instance, Snow White with the Olympian statues of Leni Riefenstahl). Clay anim ation physically rean im ates the dead object and brings it to life, for uncanny, mystical or ‘real’ effect. If stop motion performs a closer version of the ‘real’ through its physical presence and the cinema set, then the body becomes truly mater ial. Whilst we have seen that the Looney Tunes characters possess corporeal bodies that are airborne and can transform in a wonder ful, shock ing moment, clay allows ‘flesh’, ‘skin’ and a mater ial ity that other forms do not. Skin implies the physical body beneath; it is a layer that obscures biological work ings, blood, veins, organs and muscles. It also acts as an identi fier of self. Goffman suggests ‘the cultural polit ics of human skin under score how the body is at once a biological and social organ ism’ (Moore and Casper, 2015: 222). The physical body enables a rawer, prim it ive sense of personal identity to take shape. Clay bodies point to imper fection and often suggest the grotesque. Here they achieve the ‘real’ in its closest meaning. The mater ial of clay points to the mater ial body, but it is a body that remains partially cloaked in uncanny still ness.

Park and Aardman Park maintains that he arrived at stop motion as an output ‘by trial and error’ (Hennigan, 2005). He had always made amateur films, driven by his love of cinema and art, and admits that his first film was created using fuzzy felt, in the absence of other mater ial (Coates, 2013). It’s not too difficult to imagine Park meticu lously placing tiny felt figures beneath the camera, and arran ging them shot by shot to simu late movement. His father was a photographer and taught him how to frame his shots, whilst his mother’s clothes-making allowed offcuts of mater ial to find their way into his films. Park would mimic Terry Gilliam’s work, attempt ing cut-out animation because he always loved its surreal ism, just as Gilliam favoured the crudeness of

The case for Wallace and Gromit 73

it; its ineleg ant quality (Gasek, 2012). Park admits that he preferred tech niques that took place in front of the camera, as they lent the films an immediacy (Belfield, 2013). At Sheffield City Polytechnic, he studied Communications Arts, explain ing that during these college years he introduced little references into his films, which were personal jokes. They became more prevalent and continue to this day, such as replacing the brand Smeg with ‘Smug’. Indeed, Park maintains that the popular ity of his films on DVD may lie in the audience’s ability to freeze the frame and examine these little nuances (Benfield, 2013). Park attended the National Film and Television School and began creat ing A Grand Day Out (1989), influenced by Rin Tin Tin (1954–59) and H. G. Wells’ First Men in the Moon ( Juran, 1964) (Coates, 2013) (see Figure 4.1). The school focused on live action, and this is where Park honed his passion for cinema and blended it with animation. Hertzfeldt comments, ‘in theory, animation is the purest way to make a movie. You can physically craft every frame of the picture by hand and that is a really power ful thing’ (Wells and Hardstaff, 2008: 61). Park was attrac ted to stop motion in particu lar because it so closely resembled live action cinema, with a physical set to manipu late. He explains how the malleabil ity of clay allows a squash and stretch approach, such as that found in a Warner Bros. cartoon, leading to moments of pure slapstick comedy (Belfield, 2013). Aardman had been established in the early 1970s by Sproxton and Lord, when they were, them selves, students. The BBC commissioned their work for Vision

FIGURE 4.1

A Grand Day Out

Source: Park (1989b)

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On (Doig, Pilkington and Dowling, 1965–76) a children’s art programme, and in 1976 they created Morph, the eponymous plasticine character who regu larly appeared on Take Hart (1977). Morph was a popular character and gained a fiveminute slot on weekdays. Aardman, like Park, were adept at stripping away the complex it ies of story until they created a strong character that could exist in any space. Morph, like Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny, did not need a ‘set’; he would create mischief in the world of his creator. Place becomes malleable and movable for anim ated characters, who find that they can choose where they wander and often choose to engage in our space. Channel Four emerged in 1982 and Aardman (and Park, who had joined them) real ized an outlet for their shorts Conversation Pieces and Lip Sync. These focused on docu ment ary-style anim ations, with char acters lip-syncing to interviews recorded with the general public, and Park’s Creature Comforts (1989) stood out in popular and crit ical terms, leading to an Oscar (see Figure 4.2). The series focused on zoo animals discussing everyday concerns such as the weather, introducing the real into their reper toire. Park places emphasis on origin al ity; he always looks for a concept that is different, and that takes the audience somewhere unex pected (Belfield, 2013). Again, we see simil ar it ies with Bugs and Daffy, with the creation of a sense of immediacy between character and audience, within conver sations that appear ‘real’ and with the char acters’ apparent awareness of the camera. Park stresses that clay allows one to ‘bring out human obser vations and traits’ (Belfield, 2013) and that the animator becomes actor, infusing their feel ings into the character. Emotion and personal ity emerge through the clay. Like Disney

FIGURE 4.2

Creature Comforts

Source: Park (1989a)

The case for Wallace and Gromit 75

before him, he talks of the ‘instincts’ of animators1 and, whilst he does not dismiss other forms, he argues that his characters would appear ‘robotic’ as computergenerated models (Belfield, 2013). Tactility is a central focus for Park, as it is for other stop motion directors. Purves claims that 3D characters ‘have such physical ity’, a flesh and blood presence (2007: 15). Clay, in reveal ing its finger print imper fections, marks the work of the animator in every frame. It becomes a celebration of touch, point ing to the corporeal ity of the body.

Slapstick and the body Perhaps Franz Kaf ka best summed it up when he said: ‘all knowledge, the total ity of all questions and all answers, is contained in the dog’ (Williams, 2007: 93). In Gromit, Park managed to create a nostalgic character who finds other ways of communicat ing with both Wallace and the audience, due to his lack of a mouth. He evokes Buster Keaton with his stony expres sions and emotional eyes and Hutchinson discusses Keaton’s high-boned immobile face, which contrasts with the elasticity of his body to create a cred ible cool ness to his slapstick. While his face remains grave, his body ‘twists like a leaf in the wind’ (2014: 6) and Gromit achieves a similar cred ibil ity to his slapstick, using the same device as Keaton. In ‘The Limits of Silent Comedy’, Cott argues that there is a dislocation present in Keaton’s films that is evoked through silence and through the portrayal of life and realism (1975: 100). There is no ‘out there’ for Keaton, he suggests (meaning this is revealed as a non-entity of scenery or possibil it ies), and so his work remains frag ment ary. Keaton never smiles, because he never perceives relationships between ‘things’, and his eyes radiate ‘the predica ment of a man whose exper ience is simply “cut off ” ’ (1975: 101). Cott ultimately sees Keaton as an object amongst men. Whilst we would argue against Keaton’s frag mented deadness (we could easily cite his break ing of the fourth wall in Sherlock Jr [1924], wherein he forges that connection), the idea of Keaton as object is compel ling when we apply it to Gromit. The cool ness of Keaton’s slapstick relates directly. If Keaton’s ‘thing ness’ is attributed to his lack of gesture, the same approach can be taken with Gromit. Both characters use their eyes as visual commu nicators, yet this remains understated. Keaton produces the stone-faced deadpan expression, his eyes burning into the camera lens, whilst Gromit affects frustration, mistrust or fear through the subtle movement of his eyebrows. There is a ‘thing ness’ to each – they are both objects and performers, with meaning being created through barely discernible gestures. When their still ness lurches into frenetic action, there is a moment of dead ness brought to life, of deadpan to slapstick, that takes us by surprise. Because of the immobil ity that precedes this moment, both Keaton and Gromit communicate a grav itas of their situ ations and a connection with their audience. This grav itas surely points to identity, but in terms of the body itself slapstick offers an illusion of violence and action that removes the body from any notions

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of the real. Paulus and King argue: ‘the slapstick body becomes the focus of a mater ial ist fascination whose very intensity renders its object both immater ial and unreal – an imagin ing of the body that suspends the self or, more accur ately, that does not properly constitute a self at all’ (2010: 15). The real becomes contest able once more. Gesture anchors self and creates a connection with the viewer, a sort of secret relationship cemented by jests and a funda mental under stand ing of comedy. Gromit and Keaton are models of this method, creat ing the real, however, between still ness and stir ring, transformation becomes a marker for the ‘unreal’ through the overexaggerated actions of the body (see Figure 4.3). An image that illustrates Gromit’s more physical slapstick is his dangling, upside down, from a bungee rope as he washes windows and observes the inter actions of Wendolene and Wallace in A Close Shave (Park, 1995). This is a joyous celebration of comedy, as Preston pulls off Gromit’s hat, sending him flail ing. Yet, because Gromit evokes Keaton, slapstick is anchored here by the weight of facial gestures in the moments before Preston’s act and this lends it an authenticity, so that action and still ness become closer to the ‘real’. Merlin Crossingham, Creative Director of Wallace and Gromit, explained in an inter view with the author that Park real ized Gromit had a power of expression that was accentuated by his muteness. Crossingham sees the compar isons to silent film as an honour for Aardman, that there is a vital ity to the audience knowing what Gromit is think ing and this is achieved through an understated performance,

FIGURE 4.3

Slapstick, A Close Shave

Source: Park (1995)

The case for Wallace and Gromit 77

where ‘less is more’ (2015). Gromit’s repeated break ing of the fourth wall is reminiscent of Keaton, Looney Tunes and Laurel and Hardy; it allows his connec tion with the audience, and for ‘a private moment’ to take place (2015).

Family and ‘self’ Park’s interest in the idea of the duo origin ated from physical comedy, with Laurel and Hardy and Tom and Jerry (Coates, 2013). The Daffy and Bugs cartoons particu larly inspired him and led to him wonder ing why no one had attempted that brand of slapstick humour with clay anim ation before. Slapstick is prevalent in the Wallace and Gromit films, working as effect ively as it does, not only through the presence of the duo, or family, but also because of the idea of conflict being only moments away. There needs to be a threat to ‘family’ in order for us to feel empathy for the characters. Family is the famil iar; it resonates through the British class system, as a power ful word and weapon against ‘other’. Wallace and Gromit are a ‘true family’ (Alter, 2005: 76–78), defined through their idiosyncrasies and in the absence of any sacchar ine sweet ness in their films. This absence removes them from Disney’s cinema and aligns them more with the family of Looney Tunes. However, where the Looney Tunes verbal ize their aggression, Gromit affects sarcasm and frustration through non-verbal gestures. Empathy for the family exists through a sense of the real. Leslie, in ‘Wallace and Gromit: An Animating Love’, claims that the duo is signi ficant within British culture, but it is not always an equal partner ship. Gromit ‘oscil lates between two worlds; from kennel to bed, from dog bowl to dining table’ (1997: 151), enjoy ing a human life, but only when he is favoured by his owner. Crossingham suggests that at times the duo is man and dog; at others, it is ‘master and mind’ (2015). Wallace is egocentric throughout these anim ated shorts; he regu larly misleads others or is misled himself through his own desires, which do not tend to extend beyond the walls of his terraced house. Self for Wallace is intrinsically linked to the famil iar; his knowledge structure is simpli fied and his consciousness revolves around his home and its objects. Wallace dislikes change and when it occurs he generally remains unaware of it. His sense of self is often entrenched in anxiet ies about threats to home and the famil iar, but this typically occurs much later than Gromit’s own awareness of such threats. Wallace would prefer to live in a microworld, where nothing lies beyond the end of West Wallaby Street. There is safety in this ideal, and Cott’s argument about Keaton not having an ‘out there’ can be applied to Wallace more readily. His fear of the new, however, rein forces a nervous sense of self. The world of Wallace and Gromit is a microcosm of the famil iar. Place, that of a Northern working-class street and community, cements their identit ies. Whilst they may fly a rocket ship to the moon, it is to enjoy a cheese picnic rather than explore new territor ies. The new and unchartered always represents danger. Wallace and Gromit are ‘family’ to each other and allies to their community. It is

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little wonder, then, that they become part of the nation’s ‘psyche’ (Briggs, 2005), embody ing a nostalgic sense of national identity.

Britishness Crossingham explains, ‘we choose our battles’. This was in answer to a question I asked about Aardman’s relationship with American studios, and whether the global audience becomes a factor to identity. Crossingham stresses that the challenges involved tend to focus on little nuances or phrases, however, he remarks ‘it is precisely these subtle things that make our films ours’ (2015). Park attributes the hand made style of The Curse of the Were-Rabbit to ‘a Britishness that wasn’t apologetic’ (Briggs, 2005). To this end, the thumbprints are visible on the models, with Park instruct ing anim ators to retain this hand made charm. Identity is created through imper fection, and imper fection (in terms of the deliberate finish to the models) creates Britishness. The Ealing comed ies influenced Park’s work, with their suburban, English feel. He also pays homage to his hometown of Preston and its retention of 1950s aesthet ics and sensibil it ies (Gibson, 2008). Park reimagines the nostalgic past, particu larly the post-World War II era, in which communit ies rallied together. There is a touch of the empir ical within his films, a call to arms to defeat the enemy (an example being Gromit flying his aeroplane across a moonlit sky, goggles fastened to his face, as he prepares to thwart the evil cyber dog in 1995’s A Close Shave). If Wallace represents ‘home’, Gromit is its firm defender. Together they epitom ize what Crossingham calls ‘the good old British underdog’ (2015). There is a sense of ‘owner ship’ from their fans; the Wallace and Gromit brand has promoted British tourism and they are regu larly ‘name-checked’ in the House of Commons. They are British and homemade, transfer ring from Claymation into culture (see Vinton, 1978). National identity pervades British cinema. The question of who we are and what we represent has always been at its heart. Ian Christie asks ‘Where is National Cinema Today (and Do We Still Need It)?’, arguing that the answer is rather more complex than simply focusing on the assumption that British cinema is preoccupied with the war. He admits there is a ‘continued attach ment to traditional institutions of nation hood’ (2013: 27), but suggests that, whilst some films promote British values, others satir ize them. Our relationship with our own sense of nation hood is complicated; it is arguably caught up in a history of proud conflict and borne along on a glor ious wave of satire. Krishan Kumar suggests that Englishness became a passion ate engagement after World War I ‘as a kind of solace from the trauma of that war’ (2010: 473). He claims, too, that the presence of outsiders enables us all to see ‘the pecu liar it ies of the English’ (2010: 472). Hastings writes about the identity of character that exists between a nation and its people, that it is a ‘horizont ally bonded society’, merging polit ics with the cultural community. However, he contests that this ‘is

The case for Wallace and Gromit 79

a dream as much as a reality’ (1997: 3). After all, most nations contain people who do not ‘belong’ to the core culture. Nationhood and national ism become contestable forces that under pin, and yet destabil ize, identity, and it is this fissure that cinema taps into in fascin at ing ways. British New Wave cinema of the 1950s gave a voice to the working classes, which had previously been viewed on screen as ‘ “salt of the earth” cannon fodder’ (Wickham, n.d.). The kitchen sink drama portrayed everyday lives and emotional jour neys of characters for the first time, through films such as Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (Reisz, 1960), Room at the Top (Clayton, 1959) and Look Back in Anger (Richardson, 1959) (Wickham, n.d.). Britishness in cinema evolved into portrayals of the every man and the disaf fected youth, who saw them selves exist ing on the ‘outside’ of society. The question of what it meant to be British under went a transform ation during this period and became problem atic as the angry young men of cinema emerged and began to take ownership of national identity. Grube, in Political Quarterly, asks a slightly different question: ‘How Can “Britishness” be Re-made?’ (2011). He suggests, quoting Colley, that Britain, as an idea, needs to ‘have an “other” against which to define itself ’ (2011: 629). Grube argues: ‘national identity is defined by its bound ar ies – by who is included and who is excluded’. He goes on to say that ‘for someone to be “in” there must be people that can be “out” ’ (2011: 633). If Britishness is at the heart of Park’s cinema, then under stand ing how it is defined is signi ficant. If Wallace is ‘home’ and Gromit is ‘defender’, there must be an ‘other’ to threaten family. Park understands the role that conflict plays within cinema. If we consider the Ealing comedy influences on his work, The Ladykillers (Mackendrick, 1955) perfectly illustrates the tension between the thieves and the dark humour of their situation, as villainous tenants in an old lady’s house. Conflict and humour are drivers of these films, as are the ‘pecu liar it ies’ of Englishness. What is most prevalent in this discussion is the idea that Britishness cannot exist without difference. There lies the threat of something within Park’s films; it can be spied within the context of national identity and reveals its shadowy self within ‘other’.

Horror We have traced a line between silent comedy and Park’s stop motion easily enough, and we have explored the ability of stop motion as a medium to evoke the uncanny, but can physical comedy exist effect ively along side horror? The key to the identity of Park’s canon of work lies in this answer. Bilton suggests that slapstick comedy is a form of a ‘collect ive anxiety dream’ (2013: 29). It is identi fiable by the regressive behaviour of its prot agon ists, who create unfathomable, chaotic worlds without barriers and in the mass crowd hysteria that can develop. Trav S. D., in Chain of Fools, laments that silent comedy

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is often treated as something alienated: ‘as ossi fied, dead and strange’ (2013). There is a correl ation between silent, slapstick comedy and the uncanny. Cott (1975) has pointed to the cut- off gaze of Keaton and the idea of man as object, discussed earlier in the chapter. Slapstick embraces a quirk iness and jerkiness onscreen that the audience finds both appeal ing and unex pected. The strange world of slapstick lends itself to the alienated, and here we find the key to Park’s own cinema. Clay has an uncanny power, which lies in the liveliness of objects. ‘The illusion of life never entirely suppresses the awareness that we are watch ing objects moving by them selves’, claims Greydanus (2014). Park under stands the power of the uncanny and harnesses it, just as he harnesses the quaint Britishness that underlines his films. ‘Otherness’ enters Park’s work at the point where family is established. The stranger passes through West Wallaby Street, through shadows and lamplight: a penguin with a purposeful stride, a dog behind the wheel of a truck, a rabbit on a rampage. They each represent a version of other, classi fied through a difference from the norm, as classic villain, mechan ical robot, or Jekyll and Hyde. Park embraces horror, framing his shots in the same way as a Hammer film or, in the case of The Wrong Trousers, as a Hitchcock thriller (indeed, Park labelled The Curse of the Were-Rabbit ‘a Universal horror movie set in the north of England’ [Gibson, 2008]). Purves explains that ‘Hammer Horror films used elements of stop motion, time lapse and frame-by-frame adjust ments to disinteg rate or resur rect various vampires, mummies and other beast ies’ (2007: 12). He suggests that the world of stop motion is ‘a private world, where those with a slightly distor ted or eccent ric imagination can function so well’ (2007: 21). Directors lean towards the macabre within this medium (notably Svankmajer and the Brothers Quay), rean im at ing what is dead to create quirky, disturbing visions. Pirie claims that ‘Hammer represented “British Horror tout court” ’ (Walker, 2012: 437). Horror’s past, of which Hammer was its mainstay, remains the accepted true identity for Britain. 2 Hammer’s British identity becomes synonymous with nostalgia for the 1950s and 1960s, as does Park’s. Hammer shows a longing, a nostalgia, for a social order that is being chal lenged (Hutchings, 1993: 65). Family disorder, coming from a weak ness in paternal author ity, was a prevalent theme, with male figures losing their author ity.3 Park under stands horror as he understands comedy. The central premise to Wallace and Gromit is the establish ment of family, of the famil iar, and the threat that emerges from other ness.

Difference In The Wrong Trousers (Park, 1993), the lodger represents classic British cinema, a nod to Hitchcock’s own film The Lodger (1927) and the Gothic tradition. The penguin’s shadowy presence is accentuated by his still ness. He is ‘other’ in a

The case for Wallace and Gromit 81

FIGURE 4.4

Wallace as ‘other’, The Wrong Trousers

Source: Park (1993)

gothic sense, the lodger who may be a killer, yet Park intro duces lighter tones through the chicken disguise adorned by the penguin and the vision of Wallace dangling, asleep, from the mechan ical trousers. Horror is parod ied; it is a device used play fully by Park with a confidence that comes from his professional train ing, yet there is a quiet ness in The Wrong Trousers that creates a palpable tension to draw the audience in (see Figure 4.4). Difference is a marker that becomes visual and often verbal. Goffman stresses that stigma is created through the undesirabil ity of difference and the recog nition that it does not conform to our idea of normal ity (Barnes, Mercer and Shakespeare, 1999: 43). Crime can be an initiator of difference that leads to chaos and creates ‘a depar ture from the norm’ (Bauman, 1995: 13). Park uses crime to intro duce the threat to family and the famil iar; the every man’s routine is inter rupted by a perpet rator, and this also points to a threat to Britishness. To reiterate Grube’s (2011) theory of nation hood, discussed earlier, if Wallace and Gromit are ‘in’, Penguin is most defin itely ‘out’. Narcissism can also be seen as an identi fier for Penguin’s other ness, just as it can for Preston’s. Lowen and Kristeva describe the narcissist as ‘missing a sense of aliveness and as being dead of feel ings’ (Andreescu and Shapiro, 2014: 47). The narcissist will favour control and a delusion that he ‘is exclusively formed’, as well as erasing or attempt ing to erase the other person’s presence (2014: 47). This defin ition refers back to the personal ity traits of Bugs Bunny in Chapter 3. Bugs

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believes that his identity is unique, just as he believes that he is better than, and can therefore ‘best’, his peers. Penguin’s representation in the first part of The Wrong Trousers implies Lacan’s mirror stage theory as touched on earlier; Wallace and Gromit view him as the other ‘who is whole, from the perspect ive of a self who is frag mented’ (2014: 52). This, of course, is a fiction: Penguin is revealed as narcissistic crim inal mastermind, but the idea of self and other continue to invade these narrat ives with dramatic effect. Due to the fact that stop motion anim ation centres on the clay body itself, the way in which it moves is the focus of identity’s argu ment and the still ness and liveliness of Penguin and Preston represent other. Difference also becomes present through the notion of the grotesque. In Wallace’s sleepwalk ing scene, the penguin uses a remote control on the mech anical trousers to steer him up the wall of the build ing in order to steal the diamond. The situation embraces the absurd through its nod to slapstick humour, yet also acknowledges Wallace’s loss of consciousness and therefore of self. Lally states that Wallace and Gromit represent a ‘community of the grotesques’ (2005), referring to the bulging eyes and protrud ing teeth of the char acter designs. Abject bodies, such as Wallace’s lifeless form, ‘are those which bound ar ies, physical or conceptual, are opened or violated’ (Andreescu and Shapiro, 2014: 54). Penguin violates Wallace’s sense of self and his physical body, render ing it inan im ate. The clay body returns to being a dead object; the ‘real’ is limited through its still ness, until it jerks uncan nily to life with each mechan ical movement of the machine it is trapped within. In A Close Shave (Park, 1995), Preston’s represent ation as other is synonymous with machinery, but also with the future. When Wendolene admits that he is a cyber dog, Wallace’s reaction is ‘a cyber what?’ His is a world of mech an ical innovation and he is wacky inventor of a bygone era. Preston represents an alien ideal that Wallace cannot comprehend. Duffy, in ‘Anthropomorphism and the Social Robot’ (2003), explores the notion of the mechan ical device and its association with man. He claims that the robot is like an illusion of life, with its designer as puppetmaster. Identity is at the heart of the robot’s accept ance; ‘allow ing the robot to portray a sense of identity makes it easier for people to treat it as a socially capable participant’ (2003: 186). Preston’s identity remains elusive, remov ing him from this social acceptance, and he appears to make his own decisions independently of his owner. Wallace’s fear of Preston and what he represents is a mirror to the audience’s fear and, within the context of the nostalgic world in which these characters exist, we view Preston as emphasized other. Meanwhile, Leslie explores Marxism within the context of anim ation, and the idea of loss of self, in which Marx saw the machine as ‘animated monster’ (2013: 84). The worker ‘is subser vient to and led by an alien will and an alien intel ligence’. Leslie sees the machine as taking on a ‘liveliness’ that inhibits the freedom of the living body (2013: 84).4 Preston is animated monster; he is the literal machine in motion, a rejection of the Claymation world, and represents an embracing of the hard, dead

The case for Wallace and Gromit 83

robot object. His purpose is to profl ig ate the factory, his ethos originat ing in traditional industrial ization, yet he is cyberdog, represent ing the tech nological future. His world is therefore wholly different and alien to that of Wallace and Gromit, and he could be seen as a symbol of the computer ized future of the animated form – a very real threat to the clay figure and its identity. The threat posed by Preston may be seen as having a weight that extends beyond the narrat ive itself.

Self The Curse of the Were-Rabbit (2005) opens with a low camera shot represent ing the monster as it moves through the terrain within the periphery of Wallace and Gromit’s world. Otherness literally pervades Home here; the formula becomes more forceful, as does the horror and its parody ing. Crossingham explains that Aardman took the genre and played with it: ‘with a bit of subversion and just a subtle nod . . . it is possible to take characters like Wallace and Gromit almost anywhere’ (2015). Parody is key to the film: the organ player strikes up dramatic music to accompany the vicar’s speech, until someone announces, ‘give over’. Northern dialect cuts through moments of tension. When the vicar shows Victor how to destroy the monster, he mistakenly reveals a book on nun wrest ling. Moments of the ridicu lous (such as Gromit impersonat ing a female rabbit puppet to Wallace’s comments of ‘cheeky’ and ‘you’re a knockout’) (see Figure 4.5) are juxtaposed with horror, as Gromit waits beyond the bridge in the dark still ness, aware that something is lurking out there.

FIGURE 4.5

Gender play, The Curse of the Were-Rabbit

Source: Park (2005)

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Within this world of the famil iar, threat originates through an invent ive device, briefly alluded to in The Wrong Trousers. It is loss of self. Grier argues that ‘difference may be thought to be logically involved in the constitution of identity’ (2007: 2). We under stand the relationship between self and other, that one is not formed without acknowledging the other. However, because Wallace’s knowledge structure is informed by the famil iar and is fairly limited in its outlook of society, self becomes all the more crucial to him. Kearney, in Strangers, Gods and Monsters (2005), writes about the no-man’s land of other ness that it is where the wild things are, quite literally. At the same time, he believes that monsters are those that signal ‘borderline exper iences’ between the ego and other, such as Ahab and the Whale or Ripley and the Alien (2005: 3). Wallace and his Were-Rabbit fall into this category, as he unwittingly transforms himself into a veget arian wonder beast through his own invention. Difference becomes a stigma for Wallace, a marker of his own ineptitude, once Gromit forces his master’s mirror image upon him. Wallace, in identi fy ing his own monstrousness, is appalled and ashamed: ‘some people keep secrets; other people are secrets’ (Siebers, 2005: 2). Otherness becomes a physical presence through Wallace’s transform ation, but it also points to the metaphor ical: with his limited awareness and tight, anxious hold of self, Wallace feels its loss keenly. It represents the hero’s fall and the stigma this entails. As Alsford posits, the hero often feels alienation but essentially enjoys an intercon nected ness with human ity (2010). Difference places Wallace, isol ated and void of connection, firmly on the outside; his loss is both metaphor ical and physical. The issue of self, how it is defined and what may pose as a threat to it, is a famil iar and well-trodden theme within cinema, but why is self and its loss such a driver within animation? Perhaps it is because the audience’s palpable fear focuses on the loss of things – from Disney’s early influence and harsh life lessons on separation, to Warner Bros. anim ation’s obsession with survival in a hostile environ ment. Park’s world reflects live action cinema in the way it embraces many of the same conventions, such as the physical set, camera shots and character form ation. Identity polit ics point to the body, self and difference as well as to nostalgia, nation hood and the parody ing of the famil iar and the horrific. Monsters ‘defy our accred ited norms of identi fication’ (Kearney, 2005: 4), thereby stripping knowledge systems away and leaving us with a world we feel uncom fortable acknowledging: difference. The loss of things in the anim ated world, despite its arti ficial ity, is all the more palpable because we invest time in the ‘thing ness’ of this medium and in suspend ing our disbelief of its unreal ity. This complements the idea of identity polit ics, where the self ‘has the ability to take itself as an object’ (Burke and Stets, 2009: 9), and also is in a constant flux. Kearney opposes the view that self and other constitute both poles of our identity. In his argu ment, he explains how Western philosophers have banished strangeness to ‘Unreason’ and that, during this, ‘the Other passed from the horizon of reflect ive under stand ing into the invisible, unspeak able, unthinkable dark’ (2003: 7).

The case for Wallace and Gromit 85

Identity Identity in Wallace and Gromit is cemented in the idea of connection of its heroes, just as it is real ized through discon nection of its villains. This identity is formed from community, war, home, other ness and national cinema. Clay allows an immediacy, a cinematic direct ness that evokes the ‘real’. Purves quotes Oscar Wilde, ‘give a man a mask and he’ll tell the truth’ (2007: xvii), explaining that this is how he sees stop motion – its arti ficial ity somehow allows it to say something so directly to its audience. In Park’s Claymation world, characters are born and become real, through their ordinar iness and their physical ity. Park, as Chuck Jones before him, explained something about the process of film mak ing: ‘if you make it for your self then that is how it will appeal to others’ (Coates, 2013). There is a handmade, personal quality to each film that ignites the nation’s psyche. When some of Aardman’s models and sets were destroyed in a fire, as The Curse of the Were-Rabbit reached number 1 at the US box office, Park received letters of condolence for his lost figures (Belfield, 2013), among them a letter from Prince Charles, who happened to be a fan of Wallace and Gromit. Identity is indelibly stamped upon these films. Their secret lies in the relationship between a man and his dog, the nostalgic duo defend ing the borders of the famil iar against physical and metaphoric intruders of other ness. Our journey through identity in anim ation continues next with a dissection of gender, as a theme and a construct. Sexuality defines Betty Boop just as passivity marks Snow White; Bugs performs cross- gender ing for comedic effect as does Gromit, encased in his Were-Rabbit bride’s costume. Gender and its subversion becomes a means to an end. Identity polit ics are shaped by gender codes, which align with the body and its objecti fication, and they point to self and difference. We will now explore what happens to gender within anim ation and how it can be at once liber at ing and restrict ive.

Notes 1 Disney, claims Maltin (1987: 48), said that anim ation was an instinct ive art. 2 Walker (2012) discusses a sort of homeli ness associated with Hammer that accentuated familiar ity and comfort. 3 This can be seen in such films as The Mummy (Fisher, 1959b) and Hound of the Baskervilles (Fisher, 1959a). 4 Hill et al. argue that Marx saw the ruination of the mind and of self through capit al ist labour, creat ing ‘a dehu man ized being’; man becomes a commod ity and this represents a ‘loss of self ’ (2002: 123).

References Ackerman, A. (2011) Seeing Things: From Shakespeare to Pixar. Toronto: University of Toronto Press Alsford, M. (2010) Heroes and Villains. Luton: Andrews UK Ltd

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Alter, E. (2005) ‘Park Life’, Film Journal International, 108, 7, pp. 76–78 Andreescu, F. and Shapiro, M. (2014) ‘Narcissism and Abject Aesthetics’, Journal for Cultural Research, 18, 1, pp. 44–59 Barnes, C., Mercer, G. and Shakespeare, T. (1999) Exploring Disability: A Sociological Introduction. Oxford: Polity Press Bauman, Z. (1995) Life in Fragments: Essays in Postmodern Morality. Oxford and Cambridge, M A: Blackwell Belfield, A. (2013) Nick Park Life Story Interview, 28 February. Available at www. celebrityradio.biz/nick-park-life- story-interview/ [Accessed 4 February 2015] Bilton, A. (2013) Silent Film Comedy and American Culture. London: Palgrave Macmillan Briggs, C. (2005) Gromit Film ‘A Force of Britishness’. Available at http://news.bbc.co. uk/1/hi/enter tain ment/4309544.stm [Accessed 16 June 2015] Burke, P. and Stets, J. (2009) Identity Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press Christie, I. (2013) ‘Where Is National Cinema Today (and Do We Still Need It)?’ Film History, 25, 1/2, pp. 19–30 Coates, A. (2013) Interview: Nick Park CBE: Wallace & Gromit. How Did They Do it?, 24 July. Available at https://howdidtheydoit.net/creat ive/nick-park-cbe- creatorwallace-gromit/ [Accessed 4 February 2015] Cott, J. (1975) ‘The Limits of Silent Comedy’, Literature Film Quarterly, 3, 2, pp. 99–107 Duffy, B. R. (2003) ‘Anthropomorphism and the Social Robot’, Robotics and Autonomous Systems, 42, ‘Socially Interactive Robots’, pp. 177–190 Crossingham, M. (2015) [Email] inter view with Jane Batkin, 20th February 2015. Eveleth, R. (2013) The Earliest Stop Motion Animations are Weirdly Wonderful, 16 April. Available at www.smith sonian mag.com/smart-news/the- earliest-stop-motionanimations- are-weirdly-wonderful-23906192/?no-ist [Accessed 2 February 2015] Eyers, T. (2012) Lacan and the Concept of the ‘Real’. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan Gasek, T. (2012) Frame by Frame Stop Motion: The Guide to Non-Traditional Animation Techniques. Oxford: Focal Press Getsy, D. (2014) ‘Acts of Stillness: Statues, Performativity, and Passive Resistance’, Criticism, 56, pp. 1–20 Gibson, O. (2008) ‘A One-Off Quirky Thing’, Guardian. Available at www.theguard ian. com/media/2008/jul/21/television, 21 July [Accessed 4 February 2015] Goder, D. (2003) ‘Moving Pictures: The Little-Known History of Russian Animation’, Russian Life, 46, 6, pp. 24–31 Greydanus, S. (2014) Stop Motion Macabre. Available at www.catholicdigest.com/articles/ food_fun/film_television/2014/09-25/stop-motion-macabre [Accessed 2 February 2015] Grier, P. (ed.) (2007) Identity and Difference: Studies in Hegel’s Logic, Philosophy of Spirit and Politics. New York: State University of New York Press Grube, D. (2011) ‘How Can “Britishness” be Re-made?’ Political Quarterly, 82, 4, pp. 628–635 Harryhausen, R. and Dalton, T. (2005) The Art of Ray Harryhausen. London: Aurum Press Hastings, A. (1997) The Construction of Nationhood: Ethnicity, Religion and Nationalism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Hennigan, A. (2005) Nick Park Loves His Shorts. BBC. Available at www.bbc.co.uk/ filmnet work/features/nick_park_loves_his_shorts, 14 December [Accessed 4 February 2015] Hill, D., McLaren, P., Cole, M. and Rikowski, G. (eds) (2002) Marxism Against Postmodernism in Educational Theory. Lanham, MD: Lexington Books

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Hutchings, P. (1993) Hammer and Beyond: The British Horror Film. Manchester: Manchester University Press Hutchinson, P. (2014) ‘Seriously Funny’, Sight & Sound, 24, 1, pp. 6–7 Kearney, R. (2005) Strangers, Gods and Monsters – Interpreting Otherness. London: Routledge Kumar, K. (2010) ‘Negotiating English Identity: Englishness, Britishness and the Future of the United Kingdom’, Nations & Nationalism, 16, 3, pp. 469–487 Lally, K. (2005) ‘Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit’, Film Journal International, 108, 11, 3 October, p. 101 Leslie, E. (1997) ‘Wallace and Gromit: An Animating Love’, Soundings, 5, pp. 149–156 Leslie, E. (2013) ‘Animation’s Petrified Unrest’, in S. Buchan (ed.), Pervasive Animation. New York and Abingdon: Routledge, pp. 73–93 Lipo, C., Hunt, T. and Haoa, S. (2013) ‘The “Walking” Megalithic Statues (Moai) of Easter Island’, Journal of Archaeological Science, 40, pp. 2859–2866 Maker, W. (2007) ‘Identity, Difference and the Logic of Otherness’, in P. Grier (ed.), Identity and Difference: Studies in Hegel’s Logic, Philosophy of Spirit and Politics. New York: State University of New York Press, pp. 15–30 Maltin, L. (1987) Of Mice and Magic: A History of American Animated Cartoons. New York: Penguin Books Moore, L. and Casper, M. (2015) The Body: Social and Cultural Dissections. London: Routledge Paulus, T. and King, R. (eds) Slapstick Comedy. New York: Routledge Pizzello, S. (2003) ‘Conrad L. Hall: Artistry and the “Happy Accident”’, American Cinematographer, 84, 5. Available at www.theasc.com/magazine/may03/cover/page2. html [Accessed 2 February 2015] Purves, B. (2007) Stop Motion: Passion, Process and Performance. Burlington, M A and Abingdon: Taylor & Francis Ronen, R. (2002) Representing the Real – Psychoanalysis and Culture. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi BV Siebers, T. (2005) ‘Disability as Masquerade’, in J. M. Metzl and S. Poirier (eds), Difference & Identity: A Special Issue of Literature and Medicine. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins Press, pp. 1–22 Trav S.D. (2013) Chain of Fools: Silent Comedy and its Legacies from Nickelodeons to YouTube. Duncan, OK: BearManor Media Walker, X. (2012) ‘A Wilderness of Horrors? British Cinema in the New Millennium’, Journal of British Cinema & Television, 9, 3, pp. 436–456 Webster, N. (1913) Webster’s Revised Unabridged Dictionary. Springfield, M A: G. & C. Merriam Co. Available at www.brit an nica.com/EBchecked/topic/272128/VladimirHorowitz [Accessed 30 January 2015] Wells, P. (1998) Understanding Animation. London: Routledge Wells, P. and Hardstaff, J. (2008) Re-imagining Animation: The Changing Face of the Moving Image. Lausanne, Switzerland: AVA Publishing Wickham, P. (n.d.) ‘British New Wave’, Screen. Available at www.screenon line.org.uk/ film/id/445176/ [Accessed 15 June 2015] Williams, D. (2007) ‘Inappropriate/d Others: or, The Difficulty of Being a Dog’, TDR 1, pp. 92–118

Filmography Brooks, R. (dir.) (1967) In Cold Blood [DV D] Columbia Pictures Corporation Chaffey, D. (dir.) (1963) Jason and the Argonauts [DV D] Columbia Pictures Corporation

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Clayton, J. (dir.) (1959) Room at the Top [DV D] Romulus Films Cooper, M. and Schoedsack, E. (dir.) (1933) King Kong [DV D] R KO Radio Pictures Doig, C., Pilkington, C. and Dowling, P. (dir.) (1965–76) Vision On [DV D] BBC Fisher, T. (dir.) (1959a) The Hound of the Baskervilles [DV D] Twentieth Century Fox Fisher, T. (dir.) (1959b) The Mummy [DV D] Twentieth Century Fox Hitchcock, A. (dir.) (1927) The Lodger [DV D] Gainsborough Picture, Carlyle Blackwell Productions Juran, N. (dir.) (1964) First Men in the Moon [DV D] Ameran Films Mackendrick, A. (dir.) (1955) The Ladykillers [DV D] Rank Organisation, The Ealing Studios McCutcheon, W. and Porter, E. (dir.) (1906) Dream of a Rarebit Fiend [DV D] Edison Manufacturing Company Park, N. (dir.) (1989) Creature Comforts [DV D] Aardman Animations Park, N. (dir.) (1989) A Grand Day Out [DV D] Aardman Animations, NFTS Park, N. (dir.) (1993) The Wrong Trousers [DV D] Aardman Animations Park, N. (dir.) (1995) A Close Shave [DV D] Aardman Animations Park, N. (dir.) (2005) The Curse of the Were-Rabbit [DV D] Aardman Animations Reisz, K. (dir.) (1960) Saturday Night and Sunday Morning [DV D] Woodfall Film Productions Richardson, T. (dir.) (1959) Look Back in Anger [DV D] Orion, Woodfall Film Productions Starewicz, W. (dir.) (1912) The Revenge of a Kinematograph Cameraman [DV D] Khanzhonkov Starewicz, W. (dir.) (1933) The Mascot [DV D] Gelma-Films Vinton, W. (dir.) (1978) Claymation: Three Dimensional Clay Animation [DV D] Will Vinton Productions Walker, R. G. et al. (1954–59) The Adventures of Rin Tin Tin [DVD] Screen Gems Television

5 WHO AM I? GENDER AT PLAY Guys in corsets, girls in love

Cinema acts as a mirror to society, culture, self and difference. It illu minates and reflects back representations that occur, it is clear then opaque, offer ing truths and fictions of such representations. Images become ‘a substitute for reality for their audiences’ (Quart and Auster, 2011: 2). This is the story of cinema. The mirror occa sionally tilts and offers insights that seem incomprehensible or that chal lenge our sense of selves. We question, within this wistful looking glass: who are we and how are we defined? Freud claims that gender was a construct of identity, necessary in order to achieve self (that is, man or woman), yet Freud acknowledges the contradiction of gender, that ‘it never exists in a pure state’ and is not ‘fixed’ by nature (Connell, 1995: 10). Whittle goes as far as saying ‘gender, like God, is a concept of the imagination’ (1996: 210). Theorists continue to debate back and forth, between masculinity and the law of the father, to gender as a performative act, as something that cannot be enslaved by the category of ‘sex’ (Butler, 1990: 157). Gender in anim ation is distor ted; truths become fictions, waistlines are shrunk yet mermaids grow legs, sailors wear corsets, princesses lower their eyes whilst villainesses stare out at us, ‘confront ing the spectator’s gaze with their own’ (Bell, 1995: 116). Gender is malleable, yet tangible. It is something to contest; a mirror of the imagination that is not real and yet lives beyond fiction. Can we apply gender theory to animation, in the same way that it applies to live action cinema? We have explored Betty Boop’s perform ance and her self-consciousness, which allows her to ‘act’ the chase and capture, aware of her power ful body and of the possibil it ies of ‘play’. Similarly, we have witnessed Bugs’ and Elmer’s complicated love trysts, buoyed along by deceit and parody, and made access ible through the same idea of the not real. This is again reflected in the false WereRabbit created as bride to the beast in Wallace and Gromit, and demonstrated by

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Gromit, who ‘performs’ gender. Artifice is a common device to create gender at play in anim ation. This chapter will explore theor ies of femin ism, masculin ity and crossdressing in order for us to under stand how gendered and non-gendered identit ies are formed within anim ated characters. We will explore the mirror and sexual ity, as a metaphor ‘of woman as the looking glass held up to man . . . particu larly relevant to cinema’ (De Lauretis, 1987: 97), as well as consider ing the ‘trap’ of sexual ity, the ‘other ness’ of women, and apply these themes to anim ation. The Disney princesses will be addressed, specifically how they reflect American culture, remain ing passive yet demonstrat ing activ ity, and how they are good yet increasingly defiant. Indeed, the only trait that seems to suggest ‘fixed ness’ is their beauty. There is a complex ity to the princesses, argues Davis (2006), which reflects Disney’s own views of women. The mirror illu minates yet distorts Disney’s ‘good’ girls. What happens to identity in a Disney princess? The film Frozen (Buck and Lee, 2013) will be included as a case study to demon strate how gender has evolved yet remained static, how the eternal question of ‘What if I meet the one?’ becomes ‘What happens when I meet the wrong one?’ Frozen represents a mirror weighed down by complex it ies and contradictions, in which identit ies are steered by duplicity and the glass ceiling seems, paradox ically, both attainable and so utterly out of reach. The ever-shift ing domain of cross- dressing will be explored, where the question arises: ‘what is gender after all?’ (Garber, 1997: 47). Butler’s theory of gender as ‘trouble’ will be considered as we venture into the notion of ‘absence’ and the perform ativ ity and fluid ity of gender today. We have seen in Chapter 3 that Bugs’ penchant for wigs and lipstick had an element of continu ity to it. Popeye, similarly, was not afraid of cross- dressing and of the ‘reveal’ to audience. The mirror here represents gender as freedom, as anarchy in a time when gender bending and blend ing was viewed as ‘pathological’ (Ekins and King, 1996: 3). Gender as stabil ity is rejected out of hand in these instances; the theat rical replaces the binary. The mirror is distor ted, yet simultaneously defin ing.

A snapshot of gender theory Freud defined gender as sex, as becom ing male or female. Yet these divisions have proven problematic for theor ists. Binary divisions establish gender, yet gender is not fixed. Harry Brod suggests that ‘gender is not an attribute of individuals at all, but a relational category’ (2002: 165). Gender is a construct; a word that is applied to a division. It may indeed be a concept of the imagin ation. So why does it continue to be so heavily disputed? The answer lies in our desire for identity. We are taught that identity leads to belong ing and identity polit ics affirms this ideal, that it is formed by ‘a set of mean ings that define who one is when one is an occupant of a particu lar role in society’ (Burke and Stets, 2009: 3). We may evaluate and shift our sense of selves

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at any time, dependent on our circum stances, but we desire belong ing; that particu lar and pecu liar place we occupy in the world. Gender theory offers up answers to the question ‘Who am I?’ To posit such a question seems to imply that this relates directly to my sex. I am male or female; I adhere to a binary divi sion. Yet gender implies so much more than this. From the increasing androgyny of Disney princesses to defiant gender blend ing that serves to confuse the issue (Garber, 1997: 389) to Butler’s theory of gender as perform ance, the topic is more complex and contradictory than we can imagine. Yet it matters here because of the way in which anim ation chal lenges preconceptions of gender; it becomes both a represent ation of liberty and a prison. Animation creates and dissects gender representations with a courage that is often outrageous and thought-provok ing. Why? Because its artifice allows it to break rules, and because it constantly points to the ‘real’ and the ‘not real’ in order to construct and define itself.

Masculinity Lacan stated that ‘the law of the father constitutes culture’ (Connell, 1995: 19). Beasley claims that hierarch ies are created in the gender ing process between the mascu line and the femin ine (2005: 11), whilst Brod clearly states the ‘main stream maelstrom social currents’ carry men forward, whilst women who ‘act to advance their interests’ are ‘swim ming upstream’ (2002: 170). Masculinity is viewed as a dominat ing force of culture and society: men advance, women struggle. Brod sees these dominant groups in society as being ‘unmarked’ and therefore able to emerge as ‘individuals’, as opposed to the oppressed who are invisible (2002: 174). Jackson Katz (various, includ ing 2006) and Amanda Lotz have charted the journey of patriarchy effect ively, with Lotz explor ing new masculin ity and the fate of ‘armour plated men’ (2014: 43). Patriarchy has been viewed as the driving force of gender: we have witnessed its presence in Chapter 2, wherein Disney demon strated a patriarchy that pervaded both studio and film. The prince saves the princess; women and children are dutiful to patriarchy and, if they are not, they are outcasts. Burguera explains that the women in cartoon shorts in the past were ‘confined to domestic environments or were depicted negat ively outside the household domain’ (2011: 69). This extends to the Disney features, where the femmes fatales enjoy their liberty outside of convention, but are labelled as villainesses because of the apparently condemning nature of non- conform ity.

The woman question Freud, when asking the question ‘What do women want?’, laboured with an answer, Virginia Woolf imagined, feeling that he was ‘more qual i fied than women them selves’ to provide one. She visual ized him jabbing his pen on the paper ‘as if he were killing some noxious insect as he wrote, but even when

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he had killed it that did not satisfy him; he must go on killing it’ (Rishoi, 2003: 11). Women have been viewed as ‘other’ to men; patriarchal codes ensur ing that ‘identity’ was male, thus enforcing the idea of femin in ity being associated with weak ness (Adler cited in Connell, 1995: 16–19). Mary Wollstonecraft, fight ing for equal rights in the 1790s, claimed that women should not be perceived as orna ments or property, but as human beings, a position that unfor tunately led to her being branded ‘a hyena in petticoats’ (Beasley, 2005: 37). Chodorow suggests that women are viewed as ‘not-men’ (2005: 56); the absence of identity defines this comment. The fight for women’s rights was initially for integration, rather than identity; women, as ‘other’, needed to be accepted into a patriarchal society because that was what it was deemed to be – power equalled patriarchy. Chodorow’s initial writing on femin ism focused on ‘being and doing’, which was based on the idea that women ‘are’ and men ‘do’, and that male dominance was therefore univer sal (2012: 3). In the 1970s, the second wave of femin ism called for making women ‘part of the social land scape’ (Beasley, 2005: 19). As the women’s movement gathered momentum during this period, masculinity was deemed to be in crisis and this back lash cemented the idea that gender was tied to sexual ity: ‘the notion of gender as sexual difference was central to the critique of represent ation’ (De Lauretis, 1987: 1). Modernist and post modern ist approaches to femin ism continue to centre on the problem of identity. Modern femin ism focuses more on women’s difference from men (1987: 1), whilst postmodern femin ism establishes differences from the norm; of women symbol izing ‘other ness’. The gender system itself is described as ‘bi-polar’ (Beasley, 2005: 155); it is formed from the notions of hierarch ies, establish ing men at the top, yet men are often seen to be in crisis and women as ‘other’. The system, therefore, undergoes a perpetual crisis of gender binar ies. Bornstein argues ‘the trap for women is the system itself ’ (2005: 155). The construct of gender becomes a cage from which she longs to/needs to escape. If we apply this theory to female representation in anim ation, we might suggest the cage door is left open at times. Not for the princesses, perhaps, as their gender binar ies are clearly defined and crystal lized as reflections of society, but the door is unhinged for Betty Boop, whose swagger and winks to her captive audience live on through the annals of history, and for Ursula, who blatantly defies any fixing of gender. The above arguments are compel ling, although they are, of course, only the tip of the iceberg. For a deeper reading on gender theor ies, the authors mentioned provide clarity and insight into this continuing and compel ling discussion.

The body Gender represent ation can perhaps be more readily understood in terms of where the body is placed. If gender is viewed as binary, the body is at its centre. Freud’s

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theor ies place the body at the heart of the debate; however, he also calls gender a construction of identity (Beasley, 2005: 51). Irigaray, meanwhile, states that women are ‘parad ing in the mode of other ness’ (Butler, 1990: 16), placing the body outside of the argu ment. Women as ‘other’ create an ethereal image that denies identity and self. The body has been extended beyond the merely physical, to become a component ‘of social relations’ (Moore and Casper, 2015: 5). We have explored the potential of the body in previous chapters; that it remains an unfin ished entity (Blackman, 2008), that without it we appear to be nothing (Fox, 2012). The body represents both the mater ial self and the social self. If women are trapped within a cycle of objecti fication through sexual ity, then this must focus on the body and its represent ation. The cage traps the physical body and the door is locked; yet the social body may also be shut up inside this prison. For women, the body is a clear identi fier because of media’s attitude and obsession with it (see Mulvey’s male gaze theory in Chapter 1). We discussed Horton Cooley’s theory of the ‘looking-glass self ’ in relation to Looney Tunes in Chapter 3, and this can be applied here in terms of how our self appears to others and how we are judged based on our appearance (Moore and Casper, 2015: 198). Does a woman ever escape the looking glass? De Lauretis describes woman as image (1987: 97); therefore, the body is enslav ing, just as much as gender is. Animation, as a form, need not be contained. It refutes the idea of a cage; we have seen how objects signify the ‘real’ and how death stirs into life through the anim ator’s hand. Animation represents liberation from the stereotype. It questions itself retrospect ively, it exists in the past and is viewed in the present; therefore it is ulti mately reflect ive. How then does it represent gender? The answer is, with both careful consideration and wild abandon – wherever possible, anim ation embraces contradiction, using it to taunt its audience. We have seen this occur in Chapter 1 with Betty Boop’s incon stant flit ting between flir tation and victim ization. Within this argu ment of representation, there has always existed a dominant portrayal of women in the anim ation universe, and it is one that remains fascinat ing, heavily debated and ultimately troubled. It is, of course, the one that centres on the Disney girls.

The view from the turret Amy Davis, prolific author of Disney princesses, echoes Beasley’s view of gender as a contradictory system when she discusses Walt’s view of women. His was a distinctly bipolar view, she claims (2006: 112). Gender repres ent ation as contradiction of itself, as construct and masquer ade, sits well within the Disney canon. Davis argues that Walt’s view of women was as sources of ‘love and good ness . . . Danger and duplicity’ (2006: 112). This enforces the complex ity of how Walt under stood women. The Disney filmography can also, importantly, be viewed as a looking glass to American society itself.

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During the war years, women’s roles changed radically, as genderappropriateness altered to accom mod ate women in production, yet many of these roles had to be relinquished after the war ended and men returned to the work force. Masculinity in crisis, it could be argued, surfaced here in the 1940s. The self-made man and his social status were considered vital for manhood, as we discussed in Chapter 2. The transition masculin ity under went through the 1930s and 1940s was considerable, from loss of breadwin ner to over seas war hero to a reclaim ing of manhood. Gender endured intense conflicts during these years, as roles were under mined, then reclaimed and reaf firmed. Women, claim ing roles as workers during the 1940s, struggled to return to their status of ‘not- men’ (see page 92) that infers an absence of identity. Absence, of the woman within her ‘typical’ role, is a marker of 1940s society and is mirrored within Disney’s cinema (notably with the fleeing of Snow White [Hand, 1937] into the unknown). We can see this from the absence of woman in Pinocchio (Luske, 1940) (aside from the ethereal presence of the blue fairy) and with the death of mother in Bambi (Armstrong and Hand, 1942), which, as discussed in Chapter 2, was a pinnacle moment in the history of anim ation. Disney feature films reveal that absence is more strik ing than presence; Walt’s view of women reflects the precarious unbalancing of gender constructs that took place during this era – for instance, Bambi’s gaze to camera may be a mirror to the war babies who found them selves motherless during the working day. Disney illu minated the question of gender ‘trouble’, whether intentionally or not, and held it up to cinema’s, and society’s, gaze. The 1950s represented a consumer decade, in which the home and family were the focus and products were designed to ‘ease’ the life of a housewife. Males were ‘agents of author ity’, passing their knowledge on so that women could make purchases of various consumer products: the man ‘loafs on a chaise lounge while his wife gardens’ (Young and Young, 2004: 50). The trademark Betty Crocker under went a facelift in the 1950s to represent ‘mother’, but a more stylish version of her, ‘a helpful, loving person who could dispense advice’ (2004: 50). Certainly the ideal of woman as domestic goddess is mirrored in Cinderella (Geronimi, Jackson and Luske, 1950). The princess reflects the mater nal housewife, dispensing advice (albeit to rodents and a dog); however, happiness, for Cinderella, awaits in the fairy-tale castle rather than the kitchen. The ‘real’ is rejected for the ‘not real’; fantasies replace chores. Consumerism eats away at Cinderella; all her material gifts slip through her fingers at the witch ing hour, leaving her unhappy in rags once more. Whilst she craves true love, she also appears to crave the status and ‘things’ that accompany this. In achiev ing her goals, she escapes domest icity and enters a new social hierarchy. ‘Self ’ uses social entit ies to enable its development (Cinoglu and Arikan, 2012: 1115). Betty Friedan defines the mental ity of the 1950s and early 1960s woman as ‘the problem that has no name’ (2010). She high lights the lives of married women in the United States who, despite their consumer- centric homes and famil ies, yearn for more. The femin ine mystique itself is based on the idea that women are

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fulfilled by making others happy. This points to a lack of self through lack of reflex ive think ing, and Friedan’s work is cred ited with ignit ing femin ism, yet also of leading to the ‘decline of family life’ (Weiner, 2014: 301–303). It is the contradiction between female power and the return to the idea of pleasing others that defines the gender problem within Disney’s cinema. This continues to be a topic of much contention in the princess films. Whilst Pocahontas and Mulan represent some sort of progression of femin ine ideals through their actions, they revert to their submissive ‘princess in love’ identit ies that may comprom ise their real ization of such ideals. In addition, Lacroix argues that there is an ‘increased focus on the body in the char acters of color’, align ing represent ations with ‘the exotic and the sexual’ (in Cheu, 2013: 92). The physical and metaphysical body is allur ing, invit ing objecti fication through the gaze and simultaneously marking these princesses as different. Progress starts and stops, stops and starts. Andy Mooney resur rected the Disney princess line in the year 2000, after sales had dropped on merchand ising by around 30 per cent a year (Orenstein, 2006). He marketed different princess characters together for the first time, but thought it prudent to preserve their individual ‘mythologies’; thus ‘the princesses never make eye contact when they’re grouped: each stares off in a slightly differ ent direction as if unaware of the other’s presence’ (2006). With each Disney princess doll turned away from each other, they are also turned away from a collect ive voice. Women remain ‘other’ even within their tightly bound binary roles. They are seen as serving others: ‘the desire to mother signals women’s ongoing engagement with and nurtur ing of others, which offers a preferable social model of the self and society’ (Beasley, 2005: 57).1 However, Rozario argues that, despite the fact that the princess belongs in the paternal world of Disney, she has increasingly been assert ing her independence in recent decades (2004: 34). It isn’t until the age of Ariel in 1989, after an absence of princesses for thirty years, that she awakens from her slumber and questions both her surround ings and her circum stances. Ariel represents the ‘new’ princess: inquisit ive and proact ive. Where once ‘real happi ness seems to be linked to one trait only – passiv ity’ (Davis, 2006: 108), The Little Mermaid (Clements and Musker, 1989) offers some changes to traditional gender tropes (see Figure 5.1). Wasko claims that the worlds created by The Little Mermaid ‘are patriarch ies, in which society is dominated by men’ (Rozario, 2004: 35). Ariel is her father’s favour ite daughter, but is the most disobedient. She is curious about the world and wants to explore it. Sells, asking the question ‘Where do the Mermaids stand?’, compares Ariel’s assent to the world as ‘metonymic of women’s access to the white male system’ (1995: 177). She likens this struggle to Hillary Clinton’s polit ical career. Indeed, this holds particu lar weight at the time of writing, as Clinton vows to break down barriers whilst Trump is determ ined to build walls (Smith, 2016). For Ariel, the assent focuses on her voice, and Sells’ argument for break ing the glass ceiling is an effective mirror here. How do we speak when we have no voice? Ariel reflects the concerns of De Lauretis (1987) and Orenstein (2006), and also

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FIGURE 5.1

Ariel, The Little Mermaid

Source: Clements and Musker (1989)

the struggle of Clinton’s rise, metaphor ically, from the sea onto the shores of patriarchy. The collect ive voice, however, is again questioned here, by Senator Joni Ernst’s comment that ‘it’s not enough to be a woman’ (Bradner, 2015). The Little Mermaid sees Disney ‘reima gin ing women as speak ing subjects’ (Sells, 1995: 177). If traditional princesses represent passiv ity, their contemporary counter parts could be said to perform disruption. Ariel is a vibrant presence in the film, upset ting the patriarchal roles of her father and Eric. Rozario labels The Little Mermaid as a date movie, compar ing it to Dirty Dancing (Ardolino, 1987), and Ariel to Baby. She sees Ariel struggling to break away from a domineer ing father, just as Baby does, and embark on the journey into new, excit ing territory (Rozario, 2004: 49). However, Sells finds fault with Disney’s portrayal of its heroine, noting that Ariel’s interest ‘in the role of citizen becomes supplanted by her interest in the role of wife’ (1995: 180). This is a valid argu ment; the inquisit iveness at the onset of the story, when Ariel longs for adventure and freedom, tapers away to become a quest less interest ing. Here Ariel can be seen to be conform ing to Burke and Stets’ (2009) theory of ‘self ’, in that self and society are intrins ically linked because self can only exist and be mean ing ful if it relates to other selves. Disney prot agon ists must conform to society or become outcasts. Through Disney’s longing to present the ‘real’ in his feature animation, he limits character development within the rules of identity polit ics. Belonging is the continual goal. Does this make Ariel less relevant to the audience? Admittedly, I always felt disappointment that she didn’t do more, and that she grew up too quickly. Bell argues that Disney performed ‘a bizarre erasure of the femin ine’ within his cinema. His classic princesses were ‘weight less ciphers’ (1995: 108) who became symbols of their eras, rather than individuals. Ariel, whilst represent ing

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disruption and action, still struggles to break out of the princess mould. Gillam and Wooden, in ‘Post-Princess Models of Gender’, write that ‘the spunkiest of princesses, Ariel, Belle, Jasmine and, arguably, even Mulan, remain thin, beauti ful, kind, obed ient or punished for disobedience, and headed for the altar’ (2008: 3). Whilst we do see changes in gender represent ation from The Little Mermaid onwards, Disney’s patriarchal power continues to carve itself indelibly into each princess’s identity. With Frozen, discussed later in this chapter, the struggle becomes palpable.

Bodies in flux What of the duality and danger that represents Disney’s bipolar view of women? Gender cannot be broached in Disney cinema without a nod to the femmes fatales. As Davis states ‘it is the evil women – the bitches – who are the strong, active, no-nonsense’ types (2006: 107) and Rozario agrees, ‘the greatest tension is created between women’ (2004: 42). Whilst Disney’s erasure of feminin ity is acknowledged through its missing mothers and vapid princesses, the villainess points rather to an erasure of masculin ity. The matriarch in Disney cinema seeks to do more than disrupt patriarchy. She actively sets out to destroy those weaker than her, sweeping them aside, typically in her quest for beauty. In the absence of mother, the femmes fatales face camera directly, defiantly and meet the audience’s gaze (Bell, 1995: 116). These women chal lenge gender roles, from the murderous queen in Snow White to Medusa, who abducts and enslaves the child Penny for her own selfish means. The absence of a male order establishes that the problems for Disney princesses ‘are caused by equally compel ling women: evil to the point of monstrous’ (Davis, 2013: 1). Power is offered to Disney villainesses, but only fleet ingly. Princesses remain good girls caught up in events, or creat ing disruptions that are mere ripples in the well. The femme fatale is a tidal wave, wielding life- changing power and unbound by Disney’s moral ity lessons. How is identity represented among these women? They seem to merge with the monstrous and become a collect ive idea; she becomes they and they become mesmer izing in their madness. Disney’s representation transfers onto the screen as palpable fear. The studio’s very first foray into cinema features a cold-blooded queen who asks the woodcut ter to slice out her stepchild’s heart (but this is a cartoon! audiences must have gasped at the time). The narcissism that we glimpsed in Chapter 4 with Wallace and Gromit’s villains returns here in force, with the femme fatale favour ing control and craving an exclusiv ity of form. Disney villainesses offer disruption of gender. Indeed, Ursula ‘destabil ises gender’, Bell tells us (1995: 184). She does not conform in any way to patri archal language; she has been described as drag queen, her theat rical ity ‘undeniable’ (Sells, 1995: 182). Whilst this lends Ursula a freedom from gender constraints, her hamming up of the more serious themes in The Little Mermaid confuses her identity and creates an antag on ist who is neither she nor he, but ‘other’. Ursula

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turns her gaze inwards and play fully exam ines who she is; she is a masquerade of gender, as Butler defines the term: ‘an “act”, as it were, that is open to split tings, self-parody’ (1990: 200). Ursula dissects gender and finds it wanting, but her role as villainess points to her difference. As Cheu explains, represent ation ‘becomes a disjointed misin form ation telling young children that difference is not okay’ (2013: 155). Our obsession for what Michalko calls ‘puri fication and beauti fication of the body’ (2002: 22) leads to a society that fears difference. If bodies are interconnected with ideas of self and identity, as Moore and Casper suggest, then a body in flux is a marker of chaos or rebel lion. We can apply this to the Looney Tunes: malleabil ity of bodies and the violence they are subject to displays an unset tling (yet hilarious) anarchy onscreen. Bodies damage each other and them selves and identify their owners through the hier archy of selves. A theme that recurs through this book is the idea of control or its loss, of the body. We will revisit this in the follow ing chapter when we explore Adam Elliot’s stop motion ‘misfits’, and again in Chapter 8 with the disabled bodies of WALL-E. Within Disney, the body signifies control and points to belong ing. The body is seen as a site for identity; Woodward stresses that in Western culture it becomes a ‘project’ (2000: 36). Within Disney, the body of the princess denotes conform ity and good ness; the physical body ‘fits’ and is carbon copied from feature to feature. It announces its power to its young viewers and invites them to control their own bodies in turn. Foucault discusses the social production of the body ‘through discipline and surveil lance’ (Moore and Casper, 2015: 11). Body polit ics is a theme that reveals dark secrets and obsessions. Within animation, it is able to push bound ar ies, as we have discussed. Yet the issue of the abled and disabled body returns to haunt this medium; malleabil ity of the figure points curiously to both active and inact ive selves. Ursula’s representation as drag queen high lights Disney’s uneasiness with gender fluid ity and also the character’s inabil ity to control the body. Ursula is flabby; she invites Ariel to use her body as a weapon of power, yet her own body signi fies her lack of control. Woodward high lights societal perceptions: ‘the bad body is fat, slack, uncared for; it demonstrates a lazy and undisciplined “self ”’ (1997: 123). Meanwhile, gender for princesses, Disney insists, is fixed. The body matters and belong ing is all-important.

The women of animation Let us pause here for a moment and consider the women who work within ani mation, a valid digression, I am sure you will agree, within a chapter on gender. We know that, signi ficantly, Frozen (2013) was co- directed by a woman, Jennifer Lee, who, with Chris Buck, also wrote the screenplay. This heralds a new era for Disney, as it has already done for Pixar and DreamWorks. Lasseter offered the role to Lee after her writing prowess on Wreck-it Ralph (Moore, 2012). On cinema screens, Frozen was preceded by Get a Horse! (MacMullan, 2013), a

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retro Mickey Mouse anim ation directed by Lauren MacMullan of The Simpsons fame. Katherine Sarafian, Producer at Pixar, explains: ‘in terms of gender balance in our studio, the numbers are not nearly where we want them to be. The number of women in our ranks has increased over time, but this requires an active approach, given that anim ation has histor ically employed more men’ (in Flores, 2016). The issue of gender remains a point of contention. Brenda Chapman became anim ation’s first female director when she co- directed (with Steve Hickner and Simon Wells) The Prince of Egypt for DreamWorks in 1998 and then went on to co- direct Pixar’s Brave (Chapman and Andrews, 2012), before leaving the film due to creat ive differences. Chapman has since moved back to DreamWorks, whilst also consult ing for Lucasfilm. Of Pixar, she remarks ‘that door is closed . . . the atmosphere and the leader ship doesn’t fit well with me’ (Schavemaker, 2013). Chapman sees women as having a ‘different perspect ive’ from male directors, and that tenacity remains hugely import ant for women trying to break into the animation industry (Diamond, 2012). It is not enough to be a woman, Hillary Clinton and Joni Ernst both declare of the polit ical land scape of America, and this applies to animation in equal measures. Whilst a woman ‘ticket’ is certainly decried as an unsuit able admit tance to polit ics by Clinton herself, it seems unfair that women have to be more and do more in order to succeed. Interestingly, DreamWorks’ Katzenberg ‘now employs far more women producers than men’ (McClintock, 2012), prefer ring to build stars from within. He gave long-term animator Jennifer Yuh Nelson the opportun ity to direct Kung Fu Panda 2 (2011) as a solo director and she comments succinctly on the nature of gender differences in the industry: ‘if you do good work and you provide a very good service, then it’s just bad business to assume that if she’s a girl, she can’t do it’ (Sperling, 2011). I inter viewed Nedy Acet, a char acter animator at DreamWorks (for the full inter view, see Chapter 8), who told me that the company pushes for greater equal ity, and that its track record of employ ing women remains very strong in the industry (2015). Conversely, the publicity Pixar has attracted regard ing its women directors may be summar ized by Sperling’s article ‘When the Glass Ceiling Crashed on Brenda Chapman’. Her removal from Brave is said to have ‘stung not just Chapman but also her female colleagues in the animation community’ (2011). The negat ive publicity surround ing her depar ture from Pixar may continue to rever berate for a little while yet.

Industry voices: interviews Joanna Quinn Annecy award winner and 2D director of Girl’s Night Out (1988) and Body Beautiful (1991), Quinn creates representations of women that have been chal lenging

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FIGURE 5.2

Beryl, Girl’s Night Out

Source: Quinn (1988)

perceptions since the 1980s. In Girl’s Night Out, Beryl is a bored housewife who craves freedom and visits a male strip club with her work mates (see Figure 5.2). I asked Quinn if Beryl was intended to rock the boat in a time when animation was fairly conser vative in its depiction of gender roles: Yes, I made Girl’s Night Out when I was at college in the mid 1980s and there was a lot of sexist anim ation around. The women characters in most of the anim ation at that time were stereotypical . . . either battleaxes, nagging wives or dumb sex kittens, none of the women had a real voice . . . It wasn’t a polit ical decision, it was a natural decision as I was a woman myself and wanted to tell the story from my point of view. Watching it along side other films at fest ivals I noticed how different it was because it dealt with women’s sexual ity from a woman’s point of view. I got a lot of compli ments from both men and women but it also ruffled a few feathers. (Quinn, 2015) Quinn explains that the key to Beryl’s identity and success is that ‘she’s a heroine to the under represented’. Quinn views her films as femin ist; she does not seek to present femin in ity, but prefers chal lenging gender stereotypes that have become stale. Girl’s Night Out represents women chal lenging ‘the sexual pred atory pack as a male thing’.

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In Body Beautiful (1991), Beryl’s own body is the focus of attention as she is bullied by a male colleague and becomes fixated with a local compet ition. Beryl’s desire is to achieve what she considers to be the perfect figure and Quinn places the body at the centre of this film and dissects how it is viewed by society and how it can be controlled as a ‘site’ of representation. Beryl controls and manipulates her animated body, achiev ing identity through this construction. She is objecti fied by her audience, just as Betty Boop is, and like Betty she controls their gaze and offers a performance of her body, which is a construction of power. Beryl Productions (Quinn’s company) is able to deal with issues that Disney cannot, such as gender and body representation, because of its freedom from constraints. On the Disney princess, Quinn states: ‘I’ve never been a big fan of Disney films, even growing up, probably because I’ve never identi fied with any of the female characters. Everything is too sanit ized for me, too white and too Anglo Saxon . . . the design, particu larly of the female characters, is repet it ive and clichéd’ (2015). I asked Quinn how important she thinks female directors are and if they are making an impact in the anim ation industry: I think it’s very important to have women directors in the industry for the simple reason that we need a balance and to hear women’s stories. It’s outrageous that there are so few women directors in anim ation or women in writing teams, so few women in CG anim ation, so few in special effects – just far too few women getting through. (Quinn, 2015)

Marie Paccou Paccou is a French anim ation director who created Un Jour, an award-winning short in 1998, and directed films such as Moi, l’autre after graduat ing from the RCA in 2000. She opened an animation school in France, began a film festival in her village and continues to write and create animation. Paccou cites the Festival de Baillargues as a major influence on her career and was inspired by The Man Who Planted Trees by Frederick Back and The Street by Caroline Leaf. She began using the soft ware Tic-Tac-Toon at ENSAD in Paris and found that by using the filling zone tool rather than the pen she could achieve a scratchy tech nique, which resembled etching. I asked Paccou about the influence for her films Un Jour (One Day) and Moi, l’autre (Me, the Other) and she cites indie comics, partic u larly those by female artists such as Julie Doucet, Anke Feuchtenberger and Dominique Goblet. Un Jour features a woman who is encumbered one day by the presence of a man who enters her belly; she comments, ‘I real ized I would have to get used to him’, and accepts him into her life. Paccou explains that love is the subject of this film and that desire begins, ‘elliptically, after the encounter’. In Moi l’autre the question she asks is ‘How does one become an adult?’ This film is a journey of self

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into adulthood, with the begin ning and end shot being symmet rical (the first showing the child; the second, the woman and man). The mother and child are reflections of each other, and the man remains on the periphery for much of the film. Finally, the woman breaks the bond with her child hood. Identity is a strong theme within this work; wholeness and the fractur ing of self are very apparent, and Paccou remarks that she was engaged in the process of ‘metaphor ical writing’ within these two films and her other earlier work. When asked about gender in the industry itself and if she thought that women brought value, Paccou comments: ‘they bring value, as men do. They bring their exper ience of life, their knowledge of human relationships, their existential questions.’ She believes that there is a difference in film mak ing between genders and points to the independence preferred by women: ‘women usually make films with less money and smaller teams than men’. Finally, I asked Paccou about her views on women having a ‘voice’ in the industry. ‘To work in animation, usually one doesn’t need biceps. My biceps are small. But my eyes and brain work fine’, she responded.

Hilary Audus Audus is UK Director of The Snowman and the Snowdog (2012b), Horrid Henry (2012) and The Bear (1998), among other 2D projects. In Chapter 3 she offered her insights into identity in 2D anim ation and the influence of live action comedy on the form (see page 65). I asked Hilary about attitudes towards women in anim ation and whether or not she saw them as evolving: ‘The attitude towards women has changed since I started within the industry. I remember a male animator asking me what I did when I had just started working at TVC. I replied that I was an assist ant anim ator. His response was, “you can’t be, you’re a woman!” ’ (Audus, 2015). What is clear among the women who work in the anim ation industry is that they share a tenacity to succeed and they demon strate a like-minded strong sense of identity in order to maintain successful careers. Women in Animation (WIA) seek to bring gender parity to the industry; however, the Animation Guild compiled figures in 2015 that were worry ing, as 20 per cent of animation workers are women. These results were discussed at Annecy, with Dean, WIA co-president asking ‘How does this happen? . . . How do we change it?’ (Flores, 2015). WIA are hoping that their initiat ive ‘50/50’ (raising the number of women in animation to 50 per cent by the year 2025) will be a success. Rosa Tran, award-nominated producer of the stop motion film Anomalisa ( Johnson and Kaufman, 2015), argues that women wanting to break in to anim ation have to declare, ‘Don’t look at me in just one way. I can do anything’ (in Flores, 2016). Women are carving out an identity in anim ation, creat ing chal lenging canons of work, yet the issue of ‘voice’ lingers. Quinn declares that women’s stories must be heard, whilst Yuh Nelson retorts that girls can do the job, too.

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Voice is a signi fier to change; it remains something that is desired, chal lenged and contested.

Voice and difference: Frozen With Elsa and Anna dethron ing Barbie as the top toy during Christmas 2014 (Kell, 2014), Disney’s Frozen made quite an impact on society and debates continue to surface. Is this a femin ist text or an anorexic one? Is it proof that Disney princesses have evolved or does the glass ceiling remain unat tainable? Body image and appet ite are dominant themes within the film 2 and what is significant is the discourse that it has produced. As Holmes states, ‘commentators have variously debated its apparent status as Disney’s first real venture into femin ism’ (2013). We will specifically be discussing voice and difference in this case study. ‘Voice has almost always been heard’, Applebaum attests – it is ‘a sound with a meaning’ (1990: 3); whilst Saleci and Zizek argue that voice and gaze are a medium, ‘a cata lyst that sets off love’ (1996: 3). Voice is an identi fier of self, it cements and displays self- consciousness. When a voice is discon nected from a body, it is only a trace of an object and it moves into the realm of other (Dolar, 1996: 14). If we apply this theory to Disney princesses of the past, we see a correlation between absence of voice and absence of self. Disconnection becomes the dominant marker through an inabil ity to speak or to be heard. Snow White is often overcome with terror, render ing her speech less, Cinderella is subser vient to her mistress, whilst Sleeping Beauty’s discon nection is related through her unconsciousness. Voice becomes central to Ariel, who uses it for empower ment, connection and self-consciousness; however, she will readily surrender it for love. Anna achieves and retains voice in the same vein as Merida; these are Disney and Pixar’s New Age teens, posit ive embod i ments of speech and action. Anna uses dialogue excessively and aligns herself with Joan of Arc. She relates to woman as warrior (saving Kristoff ) and also assumes the role of active princess, follow ing in the foot steps of Mulan and Pocahontas, who embrace both ‘good daughter’ and ‘tough gal’ categor ies of Disney heroines (Davis, 2006: 175). Anna is revision ist in her voice and open desire, and these elements resonate through the film. She is a speak ing subject, able to make demands that are heard; the once ethereal princess now assum ing a solid presence. Love is one of her demands. She asks ‘What if I meet the one?’, assum ing the role of traditional princess at the ball; however, love is reeled out in fast-forward through rapid-fire exchanges, and a relationship is cemented in just one evening. The affair is juven ile; Anna and Eric ‘play’ at love. It is a post modern inter pret ation, a twist on the classic formula, for the audience’s ready amusement. Voice reveals Anna as flesh-and-blood princess, she is ‘feisty as ever, but also fallible’, claims co- director Lee ( Jones, 2013). Anna mirrors a contemporary teenager more than Ariel; she desires her prince readily rather than wist fully from afar, as the little mermaid does, and Rozario’s theory about Disney embracing the date movie seems very apt here.

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FIGURE 5.3

Elsa the outcast, Frozen

Source: Buck and Lee (2013)

Lee’s presence as co- director is signi ficant, proving ‘the inherent value of having women make films for women’ (2013) and Wells points to a ‘femin ine aesthetic’ that female directors create (2002: 198–200). Lee’s input alters the dynamic of Frozen in terms of Anna, who is presented not as object but as relatable subject. Her defiance and appet ite remind the younger audience members that even Disney princesses are human. Elsa, by contrast, is not. She is other. As is often the case (oblig atory, even) in a Disney feature, the sisters become orphaned and the castle is their keep, until social status dictates that they must introduce them selves to their subjects. Elsa’s avoid ance of society aligns her immediately with difference (see Figure 5.3). She is an enigma: liber ated yet enslaved, frozen in her own solitude, an outcast. In this way, we can see how Frozen works as a femin ist (yet also contradictory) text, speak ing for and against women. An empowered Elsa hurts Anna, with the icy grip of other. She is dangerous (‘You’re no match for Elsa’, Anna tells Eric), yet Elsa remains trapped within a cage of her own construction. Stigma marks one as ‘not quite human’ (Bauman, 1995: 43), whilst Hall claims that difference ‘leads us, symbol ically to close ranks’ (1997: 237). Elsa’s troubled relationship as outsider to society identi fies her other ness and notions of self become unstable. There is a duality to Elsa’s identity, of feeling too much and not at all, of being enslaved and liber ated, that serves to show us that her identity is something of a paradox. Anna simultaneously plays at love and at heroism: she saves her man then needs him, she is good daughter and tough girl, child and adult, hungry and sated. Anna’s identity focuses largely on ‘play’. These traits position Frozen as a post modern text, in which identity polit ics become questioned and truths are not absolute. True love’s kiss reveals the core of Frozen, yet this remains problem atic. Anna needs her sister’s true love’s kiss to save her from the ice in her heart, but the ice in her heart was placed there by her sister. Elsa, then, is para dox ically killer and saviour. Frozen could be read in a number of ways: as a tale of hered it ary disease

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(the ice passing from one sister to the other), of domestic abuse (the ice represent ing Elsa’s neglect of Anna and of her violence towards her), as a warning that belong ing and conform ing are more import ant than power, or as a celebration of women and their love and respect for each other: sisterhood. What is certainly undeniable is that the prince is repositioned at the edge of the story. Whilst the body remains largely a focus within the film, partic u larly Elsa’s and her achievement of sexual ization through ‘letting go’, there is a move away from the dutiful princess. Anna achieves a new freedom through voice and desire, but she still, crucially, ‘belongs’. We are meant to identify with the princess who conforms to society, rather than the one who remains on the outside. Elsa destroys, hurts and heals, as witch, magician, sister, mother and other. Hope is offered tent at ively as Frozen concludes – that Anna has brought Elsa back in from the cold. However, the image that stays with us may be the one of Elsa wander ing through the whiteout, empowered yet ostracized, other and frozen. The ‘woman’ question remains troubled, but Disney’s cinema continues to prove complex and import ant.

Gender blending: guys in corsets Postmodern views of gender reveal ‘self ’ as unstable. Beasley claims that gender becomes ‘an oblig atory masquerade’ and that post modern femin ism points to there being ‘no “truth” behind identity’ (2005: 24). Butler, meanwhile, asks an interest ing question: ‘is the breakdown of gender binar ies . . . so monstrous, so frighten ing, that it must be held to be defin itionally impossible?’ (1990: ix). For Butler, the body is an external ized construction; gender becomes performat ive; an act, a ‘doing’ (1990: 34), rather than a noun. Performance of the body is at the centre of Butler’s theory. Its perform ance is repeated over and over, in order to establish representation. Butler views gender and identity as fictions, and Beasley suggests this rejection of ‘fixed’ identity might be dangerous (2005: 112). Indeed, Glass and Layton dismiss Butler’s ‘romanticising’ of instabil ity (2005: 115); however, it is Butler’s theory that aligns itself most closely with anim ation. In What’s Opera Doc? ( Jones, 1957), discussed in Chapter 3, Bugs assumes the role of the beauti ful Valkyrie Brunnhilde. The blur ring of gender roles is a common occur rence between these two prot agon ists, but essentially they remain perform at ive. As Wells notes, ‘Bugs remains “male”, yet looks “female” and clearly his posture and gesture are affected in a femin ine way. This is both the perform ance of gender practices and the signi ficant blur ring of gender distinctions’ (2002: 206). The audience is famil iar with Bugs’ penchant for wigs and lipstick, so the trick is on Elmer, who repeatedly forgets it. The theat rical ity of Bugs is exag gerated to suit Wagner’s music. In ‘The Kiss of the Rabbit Woman’, Telotte argues that the amorous pursuit, itself, has remained a conspicuous part of American animation. He suggests that the chase between Elmer and Bugs is in ‘deadly earnest’ and that the kiss from

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Bugs is a ‘taunt ing gesture’, quite literally a ‘kiss- off ’, that leads to Bugs’ escape. Telotte suggests that love might become post modern in the cartoon world (2012: 136–138). Postmodernism is defined as a ‘gnawing pessim ism’ (Grenz, 1996: 13). Within perform ance, truths are not absolute and presence may become absence; cinema exper i ments with continuous narrat ives and scenes may become ‘hoaxes’ (1996: 32). We can see this in Anna and Eric’s faux court ship in Frozen. The scepticism that defines postmodern work is also mirrored within What’s Opera Doc? Grenz explains how post modern cinema delights in ‘collapsing space and time into an eternal here-and-now’ (1996: 32). Animation has always embraced this. We can also see post modern ism in the representation of Bugs’ and Elmer’s relationship, which typically reveals the ‘hoax’ or illusion of a truth. Yet, paradox ically, identity and images of self resonate between these characters and cement them as ‘real’ in anim ation terms. Clarity of self, always present in these char acter represent ations, blends with repetition of performance to create belief. Familiarity is embedded within Bugs’ gender bending; the act then becomes established throughout Warner Bros.’ anim ation filmography. We are, however, constantly aware (as is Bugs) of his rabbit roots. He slips in and out of gender bending with ease, showing the flux of roles – they are flex ible, interchangeable and performat ive. What is particu larly interest ing is that this bending and blend ing was occur ring in Looney Tunes cartoons during the 1940s and 1950s, when transvest ism itself was still viewed as ‘pathological’ and something of a ‘perver sion’ (King, 1996: 84). Gender being recog nized as something other than one’s biological sex, and discourses on transsexual ity, did not surface until the late 1960s (Hines, 2007: 12). Transvestism, accord ing to Garber, is a marker for anxiety about the fixing and changing of identit ies, the idea of absent selves. It points to the body and declares ‘the body here is no body’ (1997: 374). With the body absent, or Other, gender representation becomes blurred; its permanence becomes impermanent. The mirror is signi ficant. It distorts, ‘is suggest ive: same and different, self and “other” ’ (1994: 25). It is a different mirror to the one through which we view Elsa. She is fixed as an image, is a metaphor through her body to invite objectification in her ‘letting go’ scene, as is Betty Boop. With gender blend ing, the mirror is a distor tion and the transvest ite ‘points towards itself – or, rather, toward the place where it is not’ (1994: 37). Animation uses transvest ism as a device that allows liber ation from gender constraints, result ing in post modern humour and anarchy. Looney Tunes was always a revolutionary studio, taking on the compet ition, the bosses, and Hollywood itself, as we saw in Chapter 3. What better way to attack a patri archal, conser vat ive system than with a little gender blend ing? Bugs, as omnipotent presence, chooses to exper i ment with his sexual ity in a playful and manipu lat ive manner. After all, ‘to be fluid in one’s gender chal lenges the oppressive process of gender’ itself (Whittle, 1996: 210). Characters in drag destabil ize gender, as Sells discusses in her study of Ursula. She is seen to represent ‘that which is outside

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even the patriarchally domest icated outside’ (1995: 184). Patriarchal gender codes do not apply to transvest ism. The threat posed by, what Butler calls, ‘presumptive hetero sexual ity’ exists within discourse to sound like ‘you-will-be-straight-or-you-will-not-be’ (1990: 157), and she discusses sex as enslav ing. However, the cross-dressing character in anim ation can be seen to cast off the shackles of binary codes and flaunt their freedom through defiant acts of transvest ism. Popeye represents a good example of gender defiance. In his very first appearance in Popeye the Sailor (Fleischer, 1933), his masculinity is immediately established as he strolls along the deck, smoking and singing ‘I’m strong to the finish cos I eat good spinach’, his tattooed and muscu lar arms clearly on display as he smashes an object to pieces. Wells discusses Popeye’s ‘organic expansion and the strength of hard metal and machines’ (1998: 191). His masculin ity is exaggerated to the point where he moulds with his hard environ ment. Popeye then performs an act that shatters the binary gender code we have assigned to him. He lifts up his T-shirt to reveal a beautiful, white-boned corset beneath. The corset is intricately detailed and it pulls in at the waist, hinting at feminine curves (see Figure 5.4). The sailor’s relationship with transvest ism is not unfamil iar. Theatre encouraged cross-dressing perform ances among its actors, recog nizing that audiences found them enter tain ing and these are evident in renaissance productions during the 1580s, as ‘Actors were in effect allowed to violate the sumptuary laws that governed dress and social station – on the supposedly “safe” space of the stage’

FIGURE 5.4

Popeye reveals all, Popeye the Sailor

Source: Fleischer (1933)

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(Garber, 1997: 35). The spectre created by, and ‘uncanny inter vention’ of, the transvest ite served to deconstruct and destabil ize anxiet ies about identit ies and how they change (1997: 32). Society’s attitudes towards cross-dressing in the 1800s prove fascinat ing. Farrer documents and discusses letters sent in to The Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine prior to 1873, from men who claimed they enjoyed wearing corsets. Society newspaper, between 1879 and 1900, featured similar letters from men – for example, one that admit ted ‘at every movement of the body I hear the fascinat ing creak of a new satin corset’ (1996: 13). Gender blending was considered taboo prior to the 1960s, when the transsexual subculture community really became established, but the captivation between audience and cross- dresser has long existed. Sailors and cross- dressing became particu larly appeal ing to a more widespread audience as time went on: ‘several south seas music als of the 1940s actually featured some unlikely looking sailors in drag’ (Garber, 1995: 57). The stage offers a distance and a fiction for gender blend ing: the object is the body, perform ing for the spectator. We return to mirrors once more – the transvest ite reveals familiar ity and difference, same and other, but at a safe distance. Indeed, Garber claims that to cross-dress on the stage within a very male context (such as the Navy), asserts maleness, and she argues that the male transvest ite actually proves ‘that he is male against the most extraordin ary odds’ (1997: 60, 96). We can clearly apply this to Popeye. His masculin ity is not called into question through the revelation that he wears a corset. Because of our familiar ity with the theatre of transvest ism and the relationship between the sailor and the musical, we may view Popeye’s masculin ity as being embod ied through his actions. His identity remains intact: he is Popeye, eating spinach and fight ing the villain and winning the girl and wearing corsets when it suits him. In the same cartoon, he performs a hula dance with Betty Boop (in which she is topless) and this further enhances his masculin ity, for he is comfort able enough to play fully subvert gender roles. The Simpsons regu larly represents cross- dressing. A notable example is the episode ‘Dead Putting Society’ (Moore, 1990), in which Homer and Ned adorn their wives’ dresses to mow the lawn. Homer performs this act reluct antly (it was, after all, from losing a bet), whilst Ned enjoys the freedom it offers. He often reflects on his cross-dressing fratern ity days with a sense of deep nostalgia. Bart, imbued with naughty schoolboy traits (which serve to define his juven ile masculin ity), represents gender as fluid and malleable, as he dresses in girl’s clothes or demon strates a beauty queen’s walk to Lisa (Kirkland, 1992). Bart, confident in his sexual ity, chal lenges stereotypes repeatedly. He plays at gender in the same way as Bugs (and walks better than Lisa in heels). Homer, similarly, questions gender as performance: in one particu lar episode he stands in front of the mirror topless, and declares ‘man’ before pushing his cleavage together and declar ing ‘lady’ (Marcantel, 2006). This act of gender binary-break ing enter tains Homer and his audience; gender, like identity, is never fixed. Through the device of play, both are destabil ized by anim ation.

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Decline of the alpha male Originally in the Disney features, the prince was ‘a card board character, almost an after thought’ (Davis, 2013: 147). Fairy tales can be seen to limit character development, through having to adhere to their archetypes. The prince was admit tedly always central to the princess’s happiness, but over time he evolved into a more action- orient ated, interest ing character. Today, however, young boys and girls are increasingly question ing their binary roles and this is beginning to be reflected within anim ations such as Steven Universe (Sugar, 2013– 16) and Adventure Time (Ward, 2010–16). Davis states that ‘the celebration of gender-confused boys wanting to dress and act like girls is a growing trend, seeping into main stream culture’ (2013: 19). Young girls are able to relate to more action-based, assert ive characters like Merida and Anna, with a study on Disney gender roles assert ing that there is ‘a chronological movement towards a more androgynous princess’ (England, Descartes and Collier-Meek, 2011: 562). Wohlwend conducted a study in 2012 that found that young boys at play explored and exper i mented with stereotypical gender roles of Disney heroines, appropriat ing identity issues and subvert ing these to create ‘gender trouble’. The study high lighted how two boys in partic u lar managed to recruit other children into their game to destabil ize the identit ies of princesses and their roles and to give the toys new mean ings. This play was ‘transform at ive’, as the boys discussed and agreed that the princess doll needn’t be a girl, that it ‘can be anything we want it to be’ (2012: 602). Masculinity, in its traditional sense, has been in crisis for some time. This can be applied to Frozen, with the sidelin ing of both Eric and Kristoff. Although Anna desires both men at different times, it is on her terms. But is this bad news for anim ation’s heroes? Pixar offers a more revision ist view of masculin ity. According to Gillam and Wooden, Pixar ‘consistently promotes a new model of masculin ity, one that matures into acceptance of its more traditionally “femin ine” aspects’ (2008: 2). This complements England et al.’s study that the common traits of Disney princes evolve into emotion and affection, thus mirror ing their princess counter parts (England et al., 2011). The Pixar hero is ‘a kinder, gentler understand ing of what it means to be a man’ (Gillam and Wooden, 2008: 3). Woody in Toy Story (Lasseter, 1995) wrestles with his patriarchal role and finds that his emotions are at first an obstacle to achiev ing his goals, but that ulti mately he learns that a man is defined by his actions rather than the role assigned to him. Buzz assumes the role of astronaut, hero and leader before he discovers the truth about his own identity. He reflects on his own predeter mined role within society and discovers limit ations to traditional mascu line traits, subsequently embracing more femin ine ones instead. As his role is revealed to be a fabrication, he under stands what is more important: that he belongs to a child, which points to the ‘realism’ of the object and the mean ings it is assigned. At the onset of Toy Story, Woody and Buzz assume their patriarchal roles, creat ing ‘the tenuous alpha

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position among fellow characters’ (Gillam and Wooden, 2008: 5), but this identity is stripped away to reveal a new type of hero: ‘The decline of the alpha male is gender-coded in all the films’ (2008: 5). Masculinity, in Pixar, goes beyond crisis; it is revealed as an illusion from which characters emerge, their gender roles reimagined. This chapter has explored gender construction, other ness, mirrors and performance to ascer tain how anim ation both embraces and rejects stereotypes. Gender continues to matter. With growing roles for female animation directors in the industry, we are seeing progres sion of voice. The question as to how we address gender roles continues to resonate, and the response is complex, fascin at ing and troubled. As Mulvey states: ‘the new grows only out of the work of confrontation’ (in De Lauretis, 1987: 135). Frozen emerges from the winterland to offer a voice that certainly chal lenges patriarchal codes, whilst masculin ity finds itself muffled, the alpha male contested. Transvestism has paved a way through gender trouble: roles are distor ted in the mirror, destabil ization of gender offers new hope and liberty in anim ation. As Connell posits, ‘what we are moving towards is indeed something rich and strange’ (1995: 234). The journey continues. Following on from the theme of difference touched on within this chapter, with regards to Ursula and Elsa, we will move on now to discuss the filmography of Adam Elliot, in which difference points to stigma; stigma, to other ness. The audience generally aligns with the able-bodied and the society- driven protagon ist, and in this chapter these traits have pointed to Ariel and Anna. In Chapter 6, the disabled and stig mat ized demonstrate new directions in anim ation and respond to the growing concern about fractured societ ies, identity and the wander ing that occurs across land scapes.

Notes 1 Walt, accord ing to Davis, saw women’s traits as ‘serving the import ant function of balancing the needs, views, goals and character ist ics of men and masculin ity’ (2006: 116). 2 Queer read ings of Elsa also featured in this symposium.

References Applebaum, D. (1990) Voice. Albany: State University of New York Press Bauman, Z. (1995) Life in Fragments: Essays in Postmodern Morality. Oxford and Cambridge, M A: Blackwell Beasley, C. (2005) Gender and Sexuality: Critical Theories, Critical Thinkers. London: SAGE Bell, E. (1995) ‘Somatexts at the Disney Shop: Constructing the Pentimentos of Women’s Animated Bodies’, in L. Haas, L. Sells and E. Bell (eds), From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics of Film, Gender and Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 107–124 Blackman, L. (2008) The Body: The Key Concepts. Oxford: Berg Publishers

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Bradner, E. (2015) Joni Ernst Knocks Hilary Clinton: ‘It’s not enough to be a woman’, CNN Politics. Available at http://edition.cnn.com/2015/06/07/polit ics/joni- ernst-hillaryclinton-woman-iowa/ [Accessed 30 October 2015] Brod, H. (2002) ‘Studying Masculinity Studies as Superordinate Studies’, in J. K. Gardiner (ed.), Masculinity Studies & Feminist Theory: New Directions. New York: Columbia University Press, pp. 161–175 Burguera, X. F. (2011) ‘Muffled Voices in Animation. Gender Roles and Black Stereotypes in Warner Bros. Cartoons: From Honey To Babs Bunny’, Bulletin of the Transilvania University of Brasov, Series IV: Philology & Cultural Studies, 4, 53, 2, pp. 65–76 Burke, P. and Stets, J. (2009) Identity Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press Butler, J. (1990) Gender Trouble: Feminism and The Subversion of Identity. New York and London: Routledge Cheu, J. (2013) Diversity in Disney Films: Critical Essays on Race, Ethnicity, Gender, Sexuality and Disability. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company Chodorow, N. (2012) Individualizing Gender and Sexuality: Theory and Practice. New York: Routledge Cinoglu, H. and Arikan, Y. (2012) ‘Self, Identity and Identity Formation: From the Perspectives of Three Major Theories’, International Journal of Human Sciences, 2, pp. 1114–1131 Connell, R. W. (1995) Masculinities. Oxford: Polity Press Davis, A. M. (2006) Good Girls and Wicked Witches: Women in Disney’s Feature Animation. Eastleigh, Hampshire: John Libbey Davis, A. M. (2013) Handsome Heroes & Vile Villains: Men in Disney’s Feature Animation. New Barnet: John Libbey Publishing De Lauretis, T. (1987) Technologies of Gender: Essays on Theory, Film, and Fiction. Bloomington: Indiana University Press Diamond, A. (2012) ‘Inspired by Her Daughter: An Interview with the Co-Director of Brave’, 15 July. Ms Magazine. Available at http://msmagazine.com/blog/2012/07/25/ inspired-by-her- daughter-an-interview-with-the-co- director-of-brave/ [Accessed 4 April 2015] Dolar, M. (1996) ‘The Object Voice’, in R. Salecl and S. Zizek (eds), Gaze and Voice as Love Objects. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, pp. 7–31 Ekins, R. and King, D. (eds) (1996) Blending Genders: Social Aspects of Cross-Dressing and Sex-Changing. London: Routledge England, D. E., Descartes L. and Collier-Meek, M. A. (2011) ‘Gender Role Portrayal and the Disney Princesses’, Sex Roles, 64, 7, 555–567 Farrer, P. (1996) ‘In Female Attire: Male Experiences of Cross-Dressing – Some Historical Fragments’, in R. Ekins and D. King (eds), Blending Genders: Social Aspects of CrossDressing and Sex-Changing. London: Routledge, pp. 27–38 Flores, T. (2016) Women in Animation Leads Push to Get More Females into the Toon Businesss. Available at http://variety.com/2016/biz/news/women-in-animation-heads-chargeto-get-more-females-in-industry-1201696361/ [Accessed 17 May 2016] Fox, N. J. (2012) The Body. Cambridge: Polity Press Friedan, B. (2010) The Feminine Mystique. London: Penguin Garber, M. B. (1997 [1995]) Vested Interests: Cross-Dressing and Cultural Anxiety. Harmondsworth: Penguin Gillam, K. and Wooden, S. (2008) ‘Post-Princess Models of Gender: The New Man in Disney/Pixar’, Journal of Popular Film & Television, 36, 1, pp. 2–8 Grenz, S. (1996) A Primer on Postmodernism. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishers

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Hall, S. (ed.) (1997) Representation: Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices. London: SAGE/Open University Hines, S. (2007) TransForming Gender: Transgender Practices of Identity, Intimacy and Care. Bristol: Policy Press Holmes, S. (2013) ‘Cold and Hungry: Discourses of Anorexic Femininity’. Available at http://auteu se th e or y.blog spot.co.uk/2014/11/cold- and-hungry- discourses-ofanorexic_21.html [Accessed 3 April 2015] Jones, E. (2013) ‘Disney’s Frozen is Good News for Little Girls’, Independent, 2 December. Available at www.independent.co.uk/voices/comment/disneys-frozen-is-goodnews-for-little-girls-8978485.html [Accessed 4 April 2015] Katz, J. (2006) The Macho Paradox: Why Some Men Hurt Women and How All Men Can Help. Naperville, IL: Sourcebooks Inc. Kell, J. (2014) ‘Frozen Dethrones Barbie as Top Toy for Girls This Holiday’, Fortune Magazine, 25 November. Available at http://fortune.com/2014/11/25/frozendethrones-barbie/ [Accessed 4 April 2015] King, D. (1996) ‘Gender Blending: Medical Perspectives and Technology’, in R. Ekins and D. King (eds), Blending Genders: Social Aspects of Cross-Dressing and Sex-Changing. London: Routledge, pp. 79–98 Lotz, A. D. (2014) Cable Guys: Television and Masculinities in the Twenty-First Century. New York and London: New York University Press McClintock, P. (2012) ‘How DreamWorks Animation Became One of Hollywood’s Most Female-Driven Studios’, Hollywood Reporter, 12 May. Available at www. holly wood reporter.com/news/how- dreamworks-animation- became-one-398089 [Accessed 6 June 2015] Michalko, R. (2002) The Difference That Disability Makes. Philadelphia, PA: Temple University Press Moore, L. and Casper, M. (2015) The Body: Social and Cultural Dissections. London: Routledge Orenstein, P. (2006) What’s Wrong with Cinderella?, 24 December. Available at www. nytimes.com/2006/12/24/magazine/24princess.t.html?_r=0 [Accessed 15 June 2015] Quart, L. and Auster, A. (2011) American Film and Society since 1945, 4th edition. Santa Barbara, CA: A BC-CLIO, LLC Rishoi, C. (2003) From Girl to Woman – American Women’s Coming- of-Age Narratives. Albany: State University of New York Press Rozario, R.-A. (2004) ‘The Princess and the Magic Kingdom: Beyond Nostalgia, the Function of the Disney Princess’, Women’s Studies in Communication, 27, 1, 34–59 Salecl, R. and Zizek, S. (1996) Gaze and Voice as Love Objects. Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press Schavemaker, P. (2013) ‘An Interview from Abroad with Brenda Chapman’, Animation Magazine, 11 June. Available at www.anim ation magazine.net/people/an-interviewfrom-abroad-with-brenda-chapman/ [Accessed 13 June 2015] Sells, L. (1995) ‘Where Do the Mermaids Stand? Voice and Body in The Little Mermaid’, in L. Haas, L. Sells and E. Bell (eds), From Mouse to Mermaid: The Politics Of Film, Gender, and Culture. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 175–192 Smith, D. (2016) Hillary Clinton v Donald Trump: The Looming Battle for the Soul of America, 5 March. Available at www.theguard ian.com/us-news/2016/mar/05/hillary- clintondonald-trump-gereral- election-battle-american-future [Accessed 13 May 2016] Sperling, N. (2011) ‘When the Glass Ceiling Crashed on Brenda Chapman’, Los Angeles Times, 25 May. Available at http://articles.latimes.com/2011/may/25/entertain ment/ la- et-women-animation-sidebar-20110525 [Accessed 13 June 2015]

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Telotte, J. P. (2012) ‘The Kiss of the Rabbit Woman’, Screen, 53, 2, pp. 136–147 Weiner, L. Y. (2014) ‘A Strange Stirring: “The Feminine Mystique” and American Women at the Dawn of the 1960s’, Journal of the History of Sexuality, 23, 2, pp. 301–303 Wells, P. (1998) Understanding Animation. London: Routledge Wells, P. (2002) Animation Genre and Authorship. London: Wallflower Press Whittle, S. (1996) ‘Gender Fucking or Fucking Gender? Current Cultural Contributions to Theories of Gender Blending’, in R. Ekins and D. King (eds), Blending Genders: Social Aspects of Cross-Dressing and Sex-Changing. London: Routledge, pp. 196–214 Wohlwend, K. E. (2012) ‘The Boys Who Would be Princesses: Playing with Gender Identity Intertexts in Disney Princess Transmedia’, Gender & Education, 24, 6, pp. 593–610 Woodward, K. (1997) Identity and Difference. London: SAGE/Open University Woodward, K. (2000) Questioning Identity: Gender, Class And Nation. London: Routledge/ Open University Young, W. and Young, N. (2004) The 1950s. London: Greenwood Press

Interviews Acet, N. (2015) author inter view, 22 October Audus, H. (2015) author inter view, 22 October Paccou, M. (2016) author inter view, 23 May Quinn, J. (2015) author inter view, 15 October

Filmography Ardolino, E. (dir.) (1987) Dirty Dancing [DV D] Great American Films Limited Partnership, Vestron Pictures Armstrong, S. and Hand, D. (dir.) (1942) Bambi [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Audus, H. (dir.) (1998) The Bear [DV D] TVC London, Channel 4 Television Corporation Audus, H. (dir.) (2012a) Horrid Henry [DV D] Novel Entertainment Productions Audus, H. (dir.) (2012b) The Snowman and the Snowdog [DV D] Sianel 4 Cymru (S4C), Snowman Enterprises, Lupus Films Back, F. (dir.) (1987) The Man Who Planted Trees [DV D] Canadian Broadcasting Corporation/National Film Board of Canada Buck, C. and Lee, J. (dir.) (2013) Frozen [DV D] Walt Disney Animation Studios Chapman, B., Hickner, S. and Wells, S. (dir.) (1998) The Prince of Egypt [DV D] DreamWorks Animation Chapman, B. and Andrews, M. (dir.) (2012) Brave [DV D] Walt Disney Pictures, Pixar Animation Studios Clements, R. and Musker, J. (dir.) (1989) The Little Mermaid [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Fleischer, D. (dir.) (1933) Popeye the Sailor [DV D] Fleischer Studios Geronimi, C., Jackson, W. and Luske, H. (dir.) (1950) Cinderella [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Hand, D. (dir.) (1937) Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Johnson, D. and Kaufman, C. (dir.), Tran (prod.) (2015) Anomalisa [DV D] Snoot Entertainment, Starburns Industries Jones, C. (dir.) (1957) What’s Opera Doc? [DV D] Warner Bros. Kirkland, M. (dir.) (1992) ‘Lisa the Beauty Queen’, The Simpsons, season 4, episode 4 [DV D] 20th Century Fox Television, Film Roman Productions, Gracie Films

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Lasseter, J. (dir.) (1995) Toy Story [DV D] Pixar Animation Studios, Walt Disney Pictures Leaf, C. (dir.) (1975) The Street [DV D] National Film Board of Canada Luske, H. (dir.) (1940) Pinocchio [DV D] Walt Disney Productions MacMullan, L. (dir.) (2013) Get a Horse! [DV D] Walt Disney Animation Studios Marcantel, M. (dir.) (2006) ‘The Mook, the Chef, the Wife and Her Homer’, The Simpsons, season 18, episode 1 [DV D] 20th Century Fox Television, Film Roman Productions, Gracie Films Moore, R. (dir.) (1990) ‘Dead Putting Society’, The Simpsons, season 2, episode 6 [DV D] 20th Century Fox Television, Gracie Films Moore, R. (dir.) (2012) Wreck-It Ralph [DV D] Walt Disney Animation Studios Paccou, M. (1998) Un Jour [DV D] distributed by Der KurzFilmVerleih (for 2001 version) Paccou, M. (2001) Moi, l’Autre [DV D] Filmakamedie Baden Württemburg/Royal College of Art Quinn, J. (dir.) (1988) Girl’s Night Out [DV D] Channel 4 Television Corporation Quinn, J. (dir.) (1991) Body Beautiful [DV D] Beryl Productions International, Sianel 4 Sugar, R. (creator) (2013–16) Steven Universe [DV D] Cartoon Network Ward, P. (creator) (2010–16) Adventure Time [DV D] Frederator Studios, Cartoon Network Yuh Nelson, J. (dir.) Kung Fu Panda 2 [DV D] DreamWorks Animation

6 THE MISFITS Bodies, difference and wandering in the Clayography films of Adam Elliot

Identity polit ics move through anim ation in compel ling ways, merging, assim ilat ing and chal lenging notions of self, difference, gender and the body. Representation connotes arti ficial ity, yet simultaneously demonstrates the ‘real’ through the life of objects. Identities are conceived of and ‘set’ long before we view and connect with the cartoon. We are watch ing an event of the past, reflections of an act that has occurred. As mentioned in the introduction to this book, Walter Benjamin discusses the painter as possessing a magician-like presence – as one ‘who comes close to reality, . . . he never enters this reality, he always represents it’ (Decoster and Vansieleghem, 2014: 797). Animation is simil arly repre sent at ive; its identity polit ics become labels to be applied. They are often exaggerations of self and other ness, enhancing and driving identity to its very core to allow anim ation to gain a level of ‘real’ that feels more vibrant, more alive. In Chapter 4, I explored self and other ness in the films of Wallace and Gromit and discussed how clay creates an immediacy and inter pret ation of the ‘real’ through its plasmation. This form in particu lar celebrates the horrific and comedic. Stop motion invites a focus on bodies, disabil ity and stigma because it possesses a physical ity that other forms do not, a liveliness moulded from deadness. Difference becomes immediately identi fiable through the imper fections of clay. It lends itself to the grotesque. Hall tells us, ‘difference signi fies. It “speaks” ’ (1997: 230). In anim ation terms, why does it speak and what does it say? Chapter 5 focused on gender polit ics and demon strated other ness through the characters of Ursula and Elsa – the former defying binary codes or any sense of fixing, the latter finding empower ment on the ‘outside’. Gender polit ics often point to issues of non-belong ing. My case study for this chapter focuses primar ily on the work of Oscar-winning Australian director Adam Elliot. His films speak to us of differ ence, isolation and

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stigma. His characters, wander ing through time and space in search of companionship and of a sense of self and belong ing, are marked by difference through disabil ity. They are set apart from others and, as their difference is perceived as such, they become labelled as ‘misfits’. Appiah argues that ‘a condition becomes an identity – the deaf become the Deaf ’ (2007: 112). He suggests, however, that the ‘other’ may actu ally not be ‘very Other at all’ (2007: 64). Difference is a marker: it positions individuals and groups of people apart from society, on the outside. Because of this, those people may see them selves as others possibly see them, as belong ing to a ‘freak show’. Within the world of Wallace and Gromit (see Chapter 4), we have seen difference point to narcissism through the representation of villains, reveal ing a similar idea of uniqueness of self. We will now further explore this idea of the audience longing to view ‘others’, yet simultaneously being repulsed by the spectacle of difference. We gaze upon others and recog nize that they are not the same as us. This is an intrinsic part of identity theory; it ‘is marked by simil ar ity’, Woodward suggests, ‘of the people like us and by difference, of those who are not’ (2000: 7). We have seen in previous chapters how self hood is the other of the other (Maker, 2007: 23) and that we need both poles of identity in order to create truth. How, then, do we move towards acceptance of other? Elliot has been called an import ant anim ator because of the sensit ive issues he broaches within his cinema. Rather than shying away from controversy, he chooses to embrace and celebrate difference. He explains: ‘when I go to the cinema, it’s always, “come on, come on – give me more” ’ (The Scotsman, 2010). Elliot pushes his char acters and their narrat ives in order to make his audience feel something, maintain ing that ‘You can’t just do gags’ (Mitchell, 2011). In an interview with the author, Elliot explained that his films are mani fest ations and extensions of himself (see Figure 6.1): ‘My aim with all my characters is to get the audience to empath ize with them; create vivid characters and tell stories that resonate so audiences can begin to under stand what it is to feel like the “other”. I believe we are all “imper fect” and people need to under stand how my characters are not that different from them selves’ (Elliot, 2015). Other may not be as other as we imagine. In order to under stand the themes in Elliot’s work, and how identity is conveyed, we must extend the earlier discus sions on difference that we have carried out in this book and further establish what we mean by the term itself.

Difference, otherness and fear of fixedness Frantz Fanon, in The Fact of Blackness (2003: 71), includes a poem: Africa I have kept your memory Africa You are inside me Like the splinter in the wound

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FIGURE 6.1

Elliot and Harvie (2015)

This connotes a sense of difference, of acceptance of who one is and frustration of the same. Place is central to identity, as discussed in previous chapters; location speaks of who we are, of where we are. We will return to this idea in due course. The poem denotes a sense of identity and how it lives inside us, continuing on forever, through memor ies of place but also under stand ing of self. Place and self both prove to be valid signifiers within Elliot’s Clayography work. Difference is import ant. Bakhtin stresses that we need ‘difference’ in order to construct ‘meaning through a dialogue with the “other” ’ (Hall, 1997: 235). Without the other, how do we define ourselves? So the argument goes. Hall maintains that if we mark difference, we will ‘stig mat ize and expel anything which is defined as impure, abnor mal’ (1997: 237). Other remains the spectacle to enjoy from a distance. Society is necessary in the construction of identit ies. Each of our chapters has shown us how self relies upon its environ ment, its sense of belong ing and interaction with others and that when this breaks down, difference fills the void. The most recent example I used is of Elsa’s out- casting from the village in Frozen, wherein other ness creeps in and we are asked instead to align ourselves with Anna, who simply ‘belongs’. Similarity marks identity, just as difference does (Woodward, 2000: 7). In today’s malle able society, identity does not disappear but is ‘reconstructed and redefined’ (Bauman, 1995: 79–81). Identity changes constantly, it is in flux, in disorder and disar ray. Today we have a ‘fear of being fixed’ (1995: 79). Our lives, like our iden tit ies, are moulded and shaped by our surround ings, our actions, society and culture. Fixedness has not come to represent the twenty-first century; many writers claim that identity is in constant movement and has become much more malleable today than in the past. Bauman talks of the ‘horror of being bound and fixed’

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(1995: 26). If we are horrified by that which is unchanging, surely we are more open to the idea of other, although this does not mean that it becomes less of a spectacle. We are a malleable audience, gazing unabashed at difference, as Norden suggests, ‘members of main stream society are fascin ated by people with genetic disorders’ who consequently become ‘Others and mirrors of the self ’ (1994: 3–5). The idea of identity as fluid and in constant flux complements and reflects cinema today. It reson ates particu larly with animation, which has always embraced fluid ity and the ‘flux’ of bodies, selves and worlds. From Bugs’ constant role plays in which gender is disputed and dissected, to Betty Boop’s asser tion of sexual ity as perform ance, to Gromit’s inter play with the audience, animation represents a post modern playground of identity polit ics. Vít Rosicky’s short film Identity (2015), in particu lar, reveals the fluid ity of self and how it is misplaced and reimagined, and Rosicky focuses on the abled and disabled body to demonstrate wholeness and incompleteness of self. The prot agon ist loses parts of his identity bit by bit – his phone, his glasses and then his hand in a car accident. The film dissects what it means to have an identity and how it can be reconstructed (in this case, through 3D printing of a synthetic hand), but how, essentially, we imagine wholeness of self. Self in flux can be applied to Elliot’s work, in which prot agon ists are wanderers, immig rants isolated by difference. They strive to become whole and to relate to others, reveal ing that ‘belong ing’ is very much part of Elliot’s filmography.

Adam Elliot in interview Adam Elliot studied at the Victorian College of the Arts, Australia, in 1996 to gain his postgraduate diploma. Like Park, he developed a love of plasticine and stop motion. Elliot struggled to become an independent anim ator within a compet it ive environ ment, claim ing that this route suited him because he is, quite simply, a self- confessed control freak (The Scotsman, 2010). He coined the word ‘Clayographies’ to describe his anim ations, many of which are biograph ies of his family and friends. The ‘real’ pervades his work because of the authenticity of its narrat ive and character ization. I inter viewed Elliot to ask him why he focuses specific ally on themes of national identity and difference within his films and how he chooses his biograph ies: My films are mani fest ations and extensions of myself. All my char acters are based on real people but there is also a healthy dose of my own psyche. My characters are people who often feel misunder stood, marginal ized and certainly ‘different’. My aim with all my char acters is to get the audience to empath ize with them; create vivid characters and tell stories that resonate so audiences can begin to under stand what it is to feel like the ‘other’. I believe we are all ‘imper fect’ and people need to understand how my characters are not that different from them selves.

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I try and create very real and dimen sional characters and am particu larly interested in the stories of migrants. In this modern world so many people end up in very alien environ ments and have to attempt to assim ilate and ‘fit in’. I love difference and it has taken me many years to learn to celebrate what makes me unique and an individual. I abhor societ ies that try to homogen ize, control and gentrify their people . . . ‘difference’ should be cher ished and celebrated. (Elliot, 2015) Elliot’s cinema resonates with themes of stigma and other ness, and I wanted to know if he adhered to the Chuck Jones school of thought, in making films for himself rather than for an audience, as the poignancy and seriousness of issues tackled in his work seem partic u larly personal. I strive for authenticity and believabil ity, which is very hard to achieve when your prot agon ists are six-inch-high blobs of clay. I do write for myself, but try to create stories that are univer sal and characters that are easily accessible and archetypal. I don’t live in a bubble and have to remember my blobs and I are nothing without my audiences. (Elliot, 2015) Elliot has met Park several times and commented that stop motion anim ators, anim at ing with clay, are a ‘rare breed’. He notes that there is a sort of obses sion with this medium; ‘it has a charm and unique engagement other forms of filmmak ing don’t possess’. Elliot, like Park, emphasizes the tangibil ity and tactil ity of clay that lends it a magic touch, and this transfers to the viewer: ‘Audiences love seeing the finger prints on the clay, as it reminds them that what they are watch ing was not generated on a computer.’ Appiah (2007) writes that ‘condition becomes an identity’. In Elliot’s cinema, Harvie Krumpet’s and Max’s identit ies appear to be enhanced by their conditions; difference creates identity, as we have seen in previous chapters (identity needs other ness in order for self to be complete). I was interested to know if Elliot faces chal lenges, either in the creative process or from external bodies, when addressing disabil ity in his cinema: I’m very lucky as a writer and film maker to have always had total creat ive control and freedom to tell the stories I want. I have never been censored or ‘steered’ by producers or investors. My characters are often seen as ‘underdogs’, which is a term I prefer over ‘disabil ity’. As mentioned, we are all imper fect to some degree. Some us strive to hide or cure our imper fections; others are happy and comfortable to live with, cope and often celebrate their faults and quirks. (Elliot, 2015)

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The most import ant consideration Elliot has to address is whether his audience will exper ience apathy or indif ference to his films, and that the connection with the viewer is crucial: ‘I’d rather them hate my film than feel nothing.’ When Harvie Krumpet received the Oscar award in 2004, strik ing a blow to Pixar’s nomination Boundin’ (Luckey, 2004), Elliot and his team were invited to meet with the commercial anim ation studios in Hollywood. I asked him about the exper ience of pitch ing Mary and Max (Elliot, 2009) to Disney, and he commented that, despite the enthusiasm his films were met with, the themes of his stories were a little too ‘odd’ and ‘chal lenging’ for the commercial studios, who would not be allowed to pursue them. Oscar success for an independent stop motion director signals an industry that is moving forwards, creat ively, to embrace the form as a more serious and poignant medium (Elliot’s themes include stigma and displacement), but just how much movement can there be in the face of the domin ant corporate studios? I think anim ation in all its shapes and forms is certainly in a healthy and continually evolving state. Having said that, independent and chal lenging stories, whether short or feature length, are often tricky and expensive to get made, even more so with the decline of theat rical arthouse cinema. The film industry is in a state of flux and transition. There has never been so much anim ation being made and thank fully there is still a strong demand for content. I’d prefer there be less quantity and more quality. There is a lot of bad animation out there. (Elliot, 2015)

Australia When Elliot was asked to open the Sundance Festival with Mary and Max in 2009, his response was: ‘Are you sure? We’re anim ation, we’re Australians’ (The Scotsman, 2010). The phrase proves signi ficant, within a book about identity. Australia’s sense of self has conjured many colour ful and negat ive images of human ity, particu larly the attempted erasure of the indigenous people from the land scape. National identity is wholly relevant. Between 1947 and 1954, 170,000 ‘displaced persons’ were transpor ted from Europe (Sherrington, 1980: 133). Previously, in 1788, Port Jackson saw 1,000 convicts land there (1980: 3). Do these figures define Australia? No, but they do something to explain the migrant pattern to a country that was once seen as punish ment, then saviour, to so many settlers. Sherrington explains that it was ‘once assumed that Australian identity must be sought within, from the uniqueness of the Australian environ ment’ itself (1980: preface). Identity was fluid and tent at ive – from the mirror ing of rural England in southern areas, to the acceptance of migrant identit ies – yet in 1901 the Bulletin called for control of the

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popu lation to ‘keep the race pure’. A white Australia, claims Sherrington, was univer sally accepted at this time (1980: 1991). Interconnectedness has been explored among people who exper ience relatedness in a spir itual way to each other, in particu lar indigenous people, ‘based on a racially oppressed status, and as humans’ (Neville et al., 2014: 423). Interconnectedness is related to belong ing, and therefore to cultural identity. Andi Spark, Australian animation director and Associate Professor at Griffith Film School, presented a paper at the SAS Conference in 2015 on Australian First People’s Animation. She focused on what Australians term ‘the Aboriginal problem’. Spark argued that Aboriginal culture naturally lends itself to animation through its spir ituality, that its stories are not considered as belong ing to the past only; they continually evolve. This body of work is recognized and protected today, through what are known as Dreaming stories such as Kaennener the Brave: The Tasmanian Tiger (2000), for future generations to understand their cultural heritage. The focus of the Dreaming stories is that of Ancestor spirits who created the land and its animals and moved through it, forming relationships with others as they existed in human form. Once their task was completed, they became rocks, trees, stars and water ing holes. The animate became the inan im ate, but spir itual ity lived on through objects, as Neidjie, a Kakadu elder, remin isced: ‘Our story is in the land . . . it is written in those sacred places’ (Big Black Dog Communications Pty Ltd, 2015). Within the dominant ideology of Australia, the indigenous popu lation struggles to be heard; their culture is often established as something of a ‘cheap souvenir’, Spark (2015) believes, yet anim ation is one plat form that allows true identity to exist and voices to be heard. True identity remains a contentious issue, as it proves to be malleable and free floating, anchored only by the weight of the here and now, as Oyserman, Elmore and Smith posit: self is both stable and ‘a fluid, ever-changing description in the moment’ (2012: 79). Animation as a medium, however, lends identity truth through its fearlessness, in which important issues of displacement, erasure and difference may emerge and speak with more force. The weight of stigma, within Aboriginal Dreaming stories and Elliot’s Clayographies, creates the ‘real’; difference is an enabler of true identity polit ics within the ‘artifice’ of anim ation. This chapter does not aim to answer the question of what it means to be an Australian; there are many writers who tackle this more effect ively, among them Kay Schaffer, John Docker and James Jupp. What proves interest ing, however, in the context of anim ation, is the implication of national identity and how it is approached in Elliot’s films, as well as how being an Australian is questioned. Displacement charts Australia’s history and pervades its cultural outputs. It is not alone on this journey; domin ant societ ies dictate a homogen ization of land scapes and indigenous popu lations, as we have seen in our discussion of Lilo and Stitch in Chapter 2. Australia, however, is a nation on the move, fluid, contem porary and exper i mental, troubled by its own history, and constantly question ing its under stand ing of ‘difference’.

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Harvie Krumpet (2003) Harvie Krumpet was intended to be a univer sal character, an archetype for his audience. Underdog at all times, he exists in a world that he never truly understands, his sense of identity both fixed and free-float ing (see Figure 6.2). The film flickers between drama and black comedy, through scenes such as the death of Harvie’s parents (whom he finds in the snow, frozen – naked – to a bicycle). The film’s idiosyncrasies are accentuated by the fact that its characters remain silent throughout; they are visual signs to the voice of an invisible narrator. Harvie’s only spoken words in the film are ‘thank you’, uttered to a dead person. Elliot’s ‘silent’ cinema becomes a visual spectacle. It may be viewed as a cinema of attraction, allud ing to a fascination with novelty, and the idea of the ‘display’ that takes place, as Gunning argues: ‘since silent cinema was mute, it had to compensate with other regimes of signi fiers to carry narrat ive inform ation and therefore developed its own language’ (2004: 42). The display Gunning mentions points to the spectator, who finds this cinema attract ive, satisfy ing or disquiet ing. Early cinema was viewed as a fairground, in which the pleasure of looking moulds or contrasts with the object of the gaze; Gunning describes its novelty, which, like the fairground, may place ‘physical freaks and oddit ies’ on display (2004: 44). The attraction aroused by early cinema focuses on a curiosity to be satisfied; it becomes a spectacle that shouts, ‘Here it is! Look at it’ (2004: 44). Elliot’s films draw us into a cinema of attraction through the clear placing of characters on display, for us to view. The notion of physical ‘freaks’ evokes the fairground; the difference of Harvie Krumpet is palpable through physical deform it ies that mark him (some, literally, from assault) as he jour neys through his life. Elliot invites the spectator to view this cinema and to judge it with the

FIGURE 6.2

Harvie and Koala (2015)

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inform ation that is given, through narration and visual signs. Difference, positioned in the centre of the frame, becomes unavoid able. Banishment and trauma impact on Harvie’s sense of self, as an immigrant unable to control his destiny, or his place in the world. Cohen describes those who dream of home but live in exile as exper iencing a ‘collect ive trauma’ or ‘banish ment’ (2008: 7). The diaspora itself is thought to establish and preserve identity. Cultural identity is ‘a matter of “becom ing” as well as of “being” – it belongs to the future as much to the past’ (Woodward, 1997: 52). It is not fixed, as we have discussed; it evolves accord ing to one’s circum stances. We have seen Bauman refer to identit ies as a change of costume, and this refers to both persons and things, which perpetually shift in today’s society. This denotes a carefree attitude towards personal identity as it adjusts accord ing to the situation, and this theory naturally applies itself to anim ation, where char acters morph from or into other objects and ‘self ’ moves in the moment. Harvie’s identity is certainly in flux. He becomes as much as he exper iences being; his future ‘self ’ is established through change, and this theme recurs.

Pilgrims This film demonstrates shift ing identit ies through displacement, as well as difference and stigma. Harvie is a pilgrim, constantly wander ing in search of home and some sort of connection. His story is at times uplift ing, at others oppressive, but his environ ment and his actions are in constant transition. They reflect the world around him, creat ing a univer sal character that we connect to. Harvie represents change, accept ance, disruption, and then further change (see Figure 6.3). The importance of place is present in previous chapters, predom inantly in Chapter 3, where I demonstrated Bugs and Daffy’s struggle either to be contained or to belong. Bauman suggests that ‘wherever the pilgrim may be now, it is not where he ought to be, and not where he dreams of being’ (1995: 83). He discusses the idea of hybrid ization, created through the massive increase in migrations between continents, leading to a new global era. Chambers argues that ‘all identit ies are formed “on the move” at the unstable point where subjectiv ity meets the narrat ive of history’ (1995: 133). There is a sense of flux and fluid ity to identity that occurs naturally, within our shift ing idea of place and of self. Rapport and Dawson agree, placing modern culture within the idea of ‘wander ing’ (1998: 24). We establish culture as we wander and reinvent ourselves on this journey; we negotiate our identity through memor ies and remain intrinsically connected to our past.

Stigma The stigma of difference continues to mark Harvie. After he is struck by lightning, he is dismayed to read the head line ‘retarded migrant becomes human magnet’ and this leads to his depression. Harvie, rejected by Australian society,

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FIGURE 6.3

Harvie at sea, Harvie Krumpet

Source: Elliot (2003)

remains migrant, wanderer and outcast. Stigma places him firmly on the outside (where we also find Elsa and the Were-Rabbit, who remain releg ated to spectacle through their inabil ity or unwill ing ness to belong – see Chapters 4 and 5). Goffman’s theory on difference states that ‘ “undesired different ness” from the “normals” provides the basis for stigma’ (Barnes, Mercer and Shakespeare, 1999: 43). We are not told whether Harvie feels victim ized by the terms ‘retarded migrant’ or ‘human magnet’, but both would indicate stigma, that is, a depar ture from the norm. Harvie is judged by his visual appearance and also by his nonvisual difference (the head line itself ). As we will see with the character of Max, these protagon ists do not accept the labels that are attached to them. This demon strates how Elliot tells stories without comprom ise and reveals the truth about living with affliction (that those afflicted do not feel different). In fact, Harvie’s thalidom ide daughter Ruby, educated by her father’s beliefs on difference, embarks on a successful career champion ing the rights of the disabled in the United States. The ‘real’ is applied to his cinema of attraction, and difference becomes both famil iar and celebratory.

The institutionalized self Pleasant Paddocks, Harvie’s final abode, is signi ficant in determ in ing identity within Elliot’s film. Goffman discusses the meaning of institutions and how these

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affect mental patients, reveal ing that a ‘morti fication of self ’ takes place as identity is questioned, stripped back and reimagined: ‘The old self is removed and a stand ard ised, institutional alternat ive is provided’ (in Barnes et al., 1999: 45). Three possibil it ies of conform ity arguably take place: conver sion/colon ization/ withdrawal (1999: 46). The last choice leads to a sort of underlife, creat ing subcultures that can be seen as revolutionary. Harvie, in reject ing conform ity, creates an anarchic space for himself at Pleasant Paddocks, where he slips in and out of ‘dreamworlds’. The idea of Harvie as perpetual pilgrim, wander ing through land scapes, is palpable here: place does not constrain him, because of the jour neys he has made. The presence of the fake bus stop in the grounds of the institution acts as the imaginary journey, offer ing hope to the inhabit ants who believe they can visit relat ives, long dead. They sit, ‘waiting for a bus that would never come’, content in the idea of the journey. Place continues to emphasize identity; at Pleasant Paddocks it reveals Harvie’s developed sense of self, and pushes it to extremes. The fantasy of a setting in anim ation somehow develops a truer meaning, through the use of exaggeration of place (the ‘object’ – that is, Harvie – therefore becomes more real). Much like the Looney Tunes trying to break out of their asylum and behav ing accord ingly, Harvie favours revolution. He regu larly embraces nudity (despite this being prohibited), and the underlife that being institutional ized offers. In his final scene, Harvie sits resplendently naked, and ponders, ‘life is like a cigarette – smoke it to the butt’.

Mary and Max (2009) Elliot described the process of creat ing Mary and Max as being ‘like making love and being stabbed to death at the same time’ (The Scotsman, 2010). The intricacies of stop motion certainly factor in the exper ience, yet it is these intricacies that create complex and poignant representations of the ‘real’. At the Sundance Film Festival a woman in the audience stood up and declared, ‘my son is autistic’, and Elliot awaited the back lash, aware of his cinema’s ability to confront and chal lenge serious life issues. The woman then announced, ‘this was the most beauti ful film ever’ (2010). Mary and Max is a Clayography of two outcasts from society, with each narrat ive related in an essentially isolated way. The two prot agon ists never meet; they simply exchange letters across continents and oceans, bound by an unlikely friend ship. The central themes of this film are living with affliction and learn ing to accept one’s own identity. Mary, a young girl located in the suburbs of Australia, isol ates herself from society through her constant question ing of her own belong ing. She owns a pet rooster but calls it Ethel, testing the bound ar ies of gender identity. She is an active prot agon ist, which contrasts starkly with the largely immobile Max. Whilst she questions, he acts as a vessel of reception. Mary, bereft of friend ship, decides to write to Max to ask where babies come from, finding his name in the phone

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book. Location and ‘locat ing’ are key to identit ies in this cinema (Mary, in Australia, locates Max in New York); place is again a marker for self, as well as an enabler of belong ing. Mary’s world is saturated in sepia tones, accentuat ing the dry, barren Australian neighbourhood where only the dogs wander outside, whilst the New York colour palette is grey and the city is likened to a Western, with gunshots piercing its ‘Welcome’ sign. This reflects the ‘real’ of 1970s New York, when street crime was at an all-time high (Sterbenz, 2013). In 1976, the city’s blackout saw New York descend into chaos and violence, and it is into this explosive melting point that Elliot places Max Horowitz. Max suffers from Asperger’s syndrome (yet to be diagnosed) and Elliot, in creat ing his character within this timeline, places ‘difference’ against a violence of extremes. The director replaces the iconic Statue of Liberty, first with a 2D image of a grin ning character and, second, with the heavy features of Max himself. The defacing of US iconography is signi ficant in that it creates a sort of global ization of Elliot’s ‘brand’ as well as a revelation of America’s ethnic population (see Figure 6.4). Baudelaire states that ‘all the visible universe is nothing but a shop of images and signs’ (Abel, 2004: 63). Silent cinema (in this case, silent apart from the narrators) accentuates and invites meaning; its audience’s visual awareness is heightened and curious. We have seen the influence of silent cinema on Gromit, as he replicates Keaton’s stony-faced gaze to camera and it is mirrored by Harvie’s gaze of anxiety and bewilder ment. Stop motion is glar ingly confrontational in its connection with us; finger printed, imper fect characters gaze out across the physical set and, in Elliot’s case, the connection is made through the very difference that is being signi fied. Harvie wanders from place to place, seeking belong ing but alienat ing others with his idiosyncrasies, whilst Max sits in his apart ment, trapped

FIGURE 6.4

Max (2015)

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within a prison of his own construct. The gaze of the stop motion character aligns itself with silent cinema and becomes a poignant yet jarring reminder of identity.

Difference Max cannot under stand non-verbal signs; he finds people confusing. Narration, alone, enables Elliot to reveal the detailed biograph ies of his characters (for example, Max’s penchant for gold fish and his distress when they die because of their refusal to float in a ‘symmetrical’ way). The narrat ive of one’s life enforces one’s identity: ‘one thing that matters to people across many societ ies is a certain narrat ive unity, the ability to tell a story of one’s life’ (Appiah, 2007: 23). This reiterates Harvie’s sense of self; his identity is in flux but is also reinforced by events. Elliot’s depiction of disabil ity in Mary and Max is without limits and, as Mitchell explains, this storytelling ‘indulges a far health ier and more socially aware impulse to bring ing these issues out into the open’ (2011). Other characters’ perceptions of Max as ‘Other’ are not overly alluded to because of his deliberate isolation. The film reimagines the role of the disabled character (or ‘underdog’, as Elliot prefers to call him), and places him at the centre of the narrat ive rather than on the outside, and this is significant to under stand ing audience accept ance. Fiedler claims that ‘members of mainstream society are fascin ated by people with genetic disorders’, claim ing that they are seen as ‘Others and mirrors of the self ’ (in Norden, 1994: 3–5). Kearney discusses the idea that strangers represent ‘other’ to each other, that as our own concept of self-identity shifts, so does our idea of what threatens this. Because we refuse to acknowledge that we can be ‘other’, we ‘simplify our existence by scapegoat ing others’ (2003: 4). Max’s difference becomes a visual sign through his behaviour, particu larly when he becomes distressed. The narrator tells us things we do not and cannot know; the biography allows us to under stand that Other can become familiar and, because Elliot does not sideline potentially serious themes within his cinema, difference is placed dead centre for us to view. The secondary characters within the narrat ive are also deemed as misfits through their phobias and disabil it ies (includ ing Mr Ravioli, Max’s imaginary friend, who dramat ically commits suicide). Within Elliot’s filmography, the act of ‘fitting’ is deemed as difference, whilst ‘mis’-fitting becomes instantly recognizable. For Max himself, ‘Other is disorder’ (Naficy and Gabriel, 1993: xi). Other becomes the letters that arrive in his mailbox from Mary and it can be seen to represent Mary herself, who is a cata lyst to Max’s suffer ing but also to his selfawareness. Her letters ask where babies come from, whether Max has ever been teased and whether he has ever ‘done sexing’, and these questions induce anxiety attacks at each reading. The letters are signi fiers for Max, forcing him to consider his own emotions. In a sense, he is reborn through Mary’s commu nication. Identity is malleable, moving through a series of conflicts, with individuals redefining

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themselves as they journey through life (Woodward, 2000: 29). Max is afraid of his own memor ies and, in being forced to confront them, he redefines himself. He begins to reply, offer ing shock ing information, ranging from the fact that his mother shot herself, that he was once a commun ist and a mental patient, to random facts such as ‘turtles breathe through their anuses’. ‘[D]ifference signifies. It “speaks” ’ (Hall, 1997: 230). Max’s language identifies itself as difference but rather than marking Max as a spectacle, it creates him as familiar. The injection of dark comedy does much to realize this; the audience finds relief in Max’s Jewish humour (‘my psychiatrist says you should never weigh more than your refrigerator’). His isolation in today’s societal climate, where fractur ization occurs regularly, places that isolation as familiar. Belonging does not evoke the same meaning as it once did. If self reflects society, as Stryker argues (Burke and Stets, 2009: 37), it must also reflect society’s breakdown and the sense of diaspora that typifies the twenty-first century, through migration and wander ing. Diaspora is character ized by its social consciousness to emphasize belong ing or exclusion, the states of mind of individuals and attitudes towards ‘self ’. Migrants are less ‘acted upon by the larger society’ today; many are able to contra dict stereotypes and generate ‘new and different images of them selves’ (Ong, cited in Agnew, 2005: 5). Memory becomes a crucial part of the puzzle of identity; we have discussed the idea of ‘ruins’ and the importance of place in shaping memory and identity earlier in this chapter. Agnew suggests that, for many cultures, ‘memor ies of exclusion shadow their lives’ (2005: 8), but that memory needs to be viewed as an act of creat ing meaning through remember ing, and one that leads to new under stand ings. An isolated Max remembers being bullied and beaten because of his difference; memory terri fies him and renders him socially paralysed, however, the trigger of remember ing builds his strength and enables him to better embrace his own personal identity. Mary and Max is a film of visual and verbal signs; language, revealed within the letters them selves, demonstrates the reversing of stigmas. Mary’s neighbour has no legs (Mary tells Max that they were eaten off by piranhas) and he suffers from agoraphobia. However, when Mary is a child she mistakenly thinks he suffers from homophobia. Elliot’s language play serves a useful purpose in lighten ing the weight of words whilst also demonstrat ing the power of stigma: Mary’s neighbour either has an aver sion to gay men or to outdoor space. The message is clear within the subtext: do not label others.

Bodies Bodies, as we have seen, are effect ive metaphors for control and its loss, as well as affirm ing ideas of self and other ness. To reiterate, the body is mapped, accord ing to what it can do; it is an instru ment, an object, a site, a sign. In identity polit ics, and particu larly in post modern theory, ‘the human body is not distinct from the self but rather deeply inter related to identity’ (Moore and Casper, 2015: 11). If difference speaks, it speaks largely through the body and its visual signs.

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In Harvie Krumpet, nudity is a theme that is represented as liber ation and truth. It reminds him of family and of home – identity and the body speak poignantly to us here. Harvie and his friend Hamish derobe regu larly at Pleasant Paddocks, reject ing conform ity. The body is a site for anarchy and play (Hamish is discovered, asleep, with a sock puppet over his penis after enter tain ing the guests). Nudity is deemed inappropriate and unacceptable, but links to Foucault’s idea of the body being ‘contested’ within society (Fox, 2012: 136). Whilst we would agree that the body in a social context makes us attent ive (Moore and Casper, 2015: 4), the institutional ized ‘self ’ – that is, Harvie and Hamish – fetishize over it and Harvie continues to embrace his own nudity until the very end of the film. Max reveals his psychiat rist’s view on food and eating – ‘a healthy body equals a healthy mind’ – but he continues to crave chocolate. Bodies have become synonymous with health in the twenty-first century: ‘our physical bodies are “social bodies” ’ (Woodward, 1997: 129), and we feel a desire to control them. Woodward makes the connection between identity and bodies: ‘The body is . . . the medium through which messages about identity are transmit ted’ (1997: 123).1 Our idea of ‘self ’ and our body has become central to identity: ‘people use the body as a site for the construction of identity’ (Woodward, 2000: 36). Bauman focuses on the body and consumption, claim ing that this is one of the most frighten ing ‘disorders’ (1995: 116), and this complements our earlier discussion on Ursula in Chapter 5, in that society dictates ‘the bad body . . . demonstrates a lazy and undisciplined self ’ (Woodward, 1997: 123). Bodies in anim ation are more closely aligned with identity because of their representation as malleable and exaggerated, and I discussed this in Chapter 3 with regards to Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny and their bodies’ relationships with violence, speed and place. In Chapter 5, Beryl demon strated how body and self are interlinked in Body Beautiful (Quinn, 1991); the body is at the centre of this work and reveals the character’s body, like her identity, being in flux, until it becomes ulti mately empower ing. In Chapter 8 I will be discussing WALL-E (Stanton, 2008), in which the body has overconsumed to the point of redundancy. The body is a site for identity, but more so for an identity in crisis, and this theme can clearly be applied to Elliot’s Mary and Max. Food is a coping mechan ism for Max. When Mary asks him if he has ever been teased, he immediately devours thirty-six hot dogs. He tells her, ‘I wish I could be in charge of all the chocolate.’ Max’s list of food sent to Mary includes Jewish meals; food is seen as being cultur ally signi ficant. In response, Mary sends food parcels to Max that reveal Australian culture. Food culture is a path of communication and also an answer to a social problem (when Max advises Mary to tell the school bully that her birth mark is made of chocolate, that she is in charge of all the chocolate and he will receive none, he runs away crying). Max defies society’s views on the body, for if he controls his weight, as society dictates, he will lose control of ‘self ’, because his coping mech an ism is food; thus he exists in a bubble of contradiction. His final commu nication to Mary announces that he has found the perfect job: ‘all I have to do is eat things and tick boxes’. Food is

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Max’s nirvana; his body consumes it to excess, it is necessary to his mental wellbeing but detrimental to his physical body. Max’s obesity aligns with Plato’s theory of the body as ‘a betrayal of and a prison for the soul, reason or mind’ (Grosz, 2005: 47). Mind and body exist uneasily here, rather than harmoniously, each intent on destroy ing the other. Difference marks Elliot’s films as signi ficant. Devoid of senti ment al ity, they are stark anim ated biograph ies of the ‘real’, despite the artificial ity of their form. Characters and their issues morph into one and venture into a bold arena of truth telling, that anim ation enables through its malleabil ity. In depict ing sensit ive themes and issues in this way, Elliot’s ‘underdogs’ fight and survive, reveal ing truth, through selves, to their audience. We make that vital connec tion, seeing these clay blobs as embod ied liveliness. Their messages are lively and signi ficant, conveyed through dark humour. Where Belton (1994) called comedy a necessary attack on society in Chapter 3, here its deft blow renders the audience momentar ily speech less, and into that moment passes a sense of knowing and acceptance of themes of difference. Otherness, disability, stigma . . . these words have become part of the language of difference; they are lodged in ‘spectacle’ and have always been understood to represent a distance from normal ity. This places Elliot’s work within the cinema of the attraction, shout ing, ‘Look at this!’ What Elliot then does is break down these words and chal lenge preconceptions. He reveals the spectacle of stigma through the eyes of the bully, choosing not to reveal this ‘normal’ antagon ist, only showing their effect on Harvie (in the playground) and on Max (in the alley way). Difference, thus centred, becomes a voice of signi ficance. It speaks. ‘Place’, we have seen thus far, is an important marker for identity polit ics, just as difference is. In Adam Elliot’s work, place is framed within wander ing and remains unsettled and unset tling. Our next chapter will explore the films and beliefs of Hayao Miyazaki through the use of place, within a cultural context to better under stand his cinema. Miyazaki uses recol lection within which to situate his filmography – nostalgia, girl hood and respect for traditional ism are all signs of his identity polit ics. Place becomes fantasy-led, but leads us back into the famil iar, where person hood is firmly established.

Note 1 Woodward charts the journey of the body through social history, showing how its health is of central concern, because of external forces and their effect on the unruly flesh.

References Abel, R. (2004) ‘The Cinema of Attractions in France, 1896–1904’, in L. Grieveson and P. Krämer (eds), The Silent Cinema Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 63–74

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Agnew, V. (2005) Memory and Identity – A Search for Home. Toronto, Buffalo and London: University of Toronto Press Appiah, A. (2007) The Ethics of Identity. [Ebook] Princeton: Princeton University Press Barnes, C., Mercer, G. and Shakespeare, T. (1999) Exploring Disability: A Sociological Introduction. Oxford: Polity Press Bauman, Z. (1995) Life in Fragments: Essays in Postmodern Morality. Oxford and Cambridge, M A: Blackwell Belton, J. (1994) American Cinema: American Culture. New York and London: McGrawHill Big Black Dog Communications Pty Ltd, et al. (2015) The Dreaming. Available at www.australia.gov.au/about-australia/australian- story/dream ing [Accessed 24 May 2016] Burke, P. and Stets, J. (2009) Identity Theory. New York: Oxford University Press Cohen, R. (2008) Global Diasporas: An Introduction. London: UCL Press Decoster, P. and Vansieleghem, N. (2014) ‘Cinema Education as an Exercise in “Thinking Through Not-Thinking” ’, Educational Philosophy & Theory, 46, 7, pp. 792–804 Fanon, F. (2003) ‘The Fact of Blackness’, in L. Alcoff and E. Mendieta (eds), Identities: Race, Class, Gender, And Nationality. Malden, M A and Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 62–74 Fox, N. J. (2012) The Body. Cambridge: Polity Press Grosz, E. (2005) ‘Refiguring Bodies’, in M. Fraser and M. Greco (eds), The Body: A Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 47–51 Gunning, T. (2004) ‘ “Now you See it, Now you Don’t”, the Temporality of Cinema Attractions’, in L. Grieveson and P. Kramer (eds), The Silent Cinema Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 41–50 Hall, S. (ed.) (1997) ‘The Spectacle of the “Other” ’, in S. Hall (ed.), Representations. Cultural Representations and Signifying Practices. London: SAGE/Open University, pp. 223–279 Kearney, R. (2003) Strangers, Gods and Monsters: Interpreting Otherness. London: Routledge Maker, W. (2007) ‘Identity, Difference and the Logic of Otherness’, in P. Grier (ed.), Identity and Difference: Studies in Hegel’s Logic, Philosophy of Spirit, and Politics. Albany: State University of New York Press, pp. 15–30 Mitchell, B. (2011) ‘A Conversation with Adam Elliot’, Skwigly Animation Magazine. Available at www.skwigly.co.uk/adam- elliot-interview/ [Accessed 2 June 2015] Moore, L. and Casper, M. (2015) The Body: Social and Cultural Dissections. London: Routledge Naficy, H. and Gabriel, T. (1993) Otherness and the Medi: The Ethnography of the Imagined and the Imaged. Chur: Harwood Academic Publishers Neville, H., Oyama, K., Odunewu, L. O. and Huggins, J. G. (2014) ‘Dimensions of Belonging as an Aspect of Racial-Ethnic-Cultural identity: An Exploration of Indigenous Australians’, Journal of Counseling Psychology, 61, 3, July, 414–426 Norden, M. (1994) Cinema of Isolation: A History of Physical Disability in the Movies. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press Oyserman, D., Elmore, K. and Smith, G. (2012) ‘Self, Self-Concept and Identity’, in M. Leary and J. Tangney (eds), Handbook of Self and Identity. New York: Guilford Press, pp. 69–104 Rapport, N. and Dawson, A. (1998) Migrants of Identity: Perceptions of Home in a World of Movement. Oxford: Berg The Scotsman (2010) ‘Interview: Adam Elliot, anim ator’, Scotland on Sunday, 29 October. Available at www.scotsman.com/news/inter view-adam-elliot-animator-1-826838# axzz3oXi4rem2 [Accessed 2 June 2015]

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Sherrington, G. (1980) Australia’s Immigrants 1788–1978. Sydney and London: Allen & Unwin Spark, A. (2015) ‘Who/What are/Will Represent/s the Myriad of Australian First People’s Animation’, Beyond the Frame, Society for Animation Conference, 13–15 July, Canterbury Sterbenz, C. (2013) ‘New York City Used to be a Terrifying Place’, Business Insider. Available at www.busi nessin sider.com/new-york-city-used-to-be-a-terrifying-placephotos-2013-7?op=1&IR=T [Accessed 2 June 2015] Woodward, K. (1997) Identity and Difference. London: SAGE/Open University Woodward, K. (2000) Questioning Identity: Gender, Class and Nation. London: Routledge/ Open University

Interview Elliot, A. (2015) Interview with the author, 7 July

Filmography Elliot, A. (dir.) (2003) Harvie Krumpet [DV D] Melodrama Pictures, Australian Film Commission, SBS Independent Elliot, A. (dir.) (2009) Mary and Max [DV D] Melodrama Pictures Luckey, B (dir.) (2004) Boundin’, Pixar Animation Studios Quinn, J. (dir.) (1991) Body Beautiful [DV D] Beryl Productions International, S4C, Channel 4 Television Rosicky, V. (dir.) (2015) Identity, YouTube, www.youtube.com/watch?v=atBXf P_siFY Stanton, A. (dir.) (2008) WALL-E (DV D] Walt Disney Pictures, Pixar Animation Studios

7 HAYAO MIYAZAKI Place, nostalgia and adolescence

Place and nostalgia, we have seen, signify identity and its loss. Betty Boop demonstrated this in her transition between pre- and post- censor ship of the American cartoon with the loss of the jazzy environ ments in which she thrived. Disney used place to point to nostalgia of nature as well as the danger of non-conform ity (and diaspora within Lilo and Stitch), whereas the Looney Tunes dissected place and created absence, whilst retain ing their sense of anarchy at establish ment. Place and nostalgia become important signi fiers in the cinema of Hayao Miyazaki, embedding identit ies and notions of person hood within them, and these in turn lead to vibrant representations of the adolescent in anim ation. Miyazaki has long been labelled the Disney of Japan, a term that doesn’t sit well with him. Anime theor ist Helen McCarthy argues that the label says more about our need to force creat ive talents into ways that we deem ‘acceptable’, and suggests that a more apt label, if we must apply one, would be ‘the Kurosawa of anim ation’ (McCarthy, 1999: 10). The drawing of paral lels between animation and live action is significant, because Miyazaki himself states that he makes ‘films, not anime’ (2008: 70). He sees limitations in manga’s representation of the ‘real’ but understands cinema, explaining: ‘the film casts its sign and it is the fate of the person receiv ing that sign as to what instance he or she meets up with it’ (2008: 125). The sign he casts is often one of nostalgia. This can also be seen in Bordwell’s discussion of the films of Ozu Yasujiro, which explore the transience of human life and characters’ past pleasures and the importance of recol lection, a theme that is popular within Japan’s poetic traditions (2008: 17). Miyazaki discards what he calls anime’s ‘disposability’ (1996: 100) and strives instead for narratives steeped in history and culture, which he finds within film. We are reminded of Nick Park’s passion and knowledge of cinema here and also of Disney’s; animation regularly transcends any boundar ies to embrace and apply cinematic conventions in its determ ination to represent the ‘real’.

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Miyazaki feels a certain responsibil ity to depict the world he lives in: ‘we mustn’t present the story without telling its ecological issues’ (2008: 27). Yet he refutes the claims that he is an ecologist, or that this is why he creates anim ation. At the conclusion of his autobiography, Turning Point (2008), he questions whether he has really revealed anything of himself at all. Many academ ics have written about his beliefs, apply ing themes of environ ment al ism, inter national ism, girlhood and nostalgia (notably McCarthy, 1999; Napier, 2001a, 2001b; Rifa-Vallis, 2011; Swale, 2015). Miyazaki presents contrasts of land and townscapes, dreams and real it ies, past and present, gods and men, and such contrasts compel us to think of duality, yet he dislikes this term and argues that life is far more complicated than simply tarnish ing one character good and another evil. This, he claims, is ‘hopeless’ (Scott, 2005). The worlds Miyazaki creates are complex, beauti ful and strange, and admittedly dualism seems not to be able to encompass them. From secret forests to ancient bath houses, from fierce battlefields to the nostalgic, poignant world of aviation history, Miyazaki ponders identity on many levels. Nostalgia, nature and child hood seem to particu larly under pin his films; a sense of self is ever-present, despite there often being an absence of family or a firm idea of place (themes that recur throughout this book). Identity is shaped by national culture that extends back beyond the hierarch ies of Japan’s history, to nature itself. This is where Miyazaki taps into his narrat ives, using nostalgia and setting as markers for selfhood. He depicts both the familiar and the other, his films contradict, question and enlighten us as we step through the forest into the cosmos of this otherworldly setting (see Figure 7.1).

FIGURE 7.1

The forest, Princess Mononoke

Source: Miyazaki (1997)

Hayao Miyazaki: place, nostalgia, adolescence 135

Japan The films of Miyazaki have been described as open and appreciat ive of other cultures; Napier sees his work as erasing the distinctions between ‘the Japanese Self and the Foreign (usually Western) Other’ (2001a: 473). His choice of setting is limit less; he imagines histor ies where the marginal members of society are given the stage (Princess Mononoke [1997]) and others where World War II didn’t ravage Europe (Kiki’s Delivery Service [1989]). Miyazaki addresses the past and present, often recall ing the former to inform the latter. His work is clearly identi fiable through its land scapes, still ness and spirits, in its depiction of nature and its lead prot agon ist, the shojo (meaning ‘young girl’). His message is one of loss and regret, but also of hope. Japan, itself, is also very much in evidence throughout his filmography. Miyazaki’s cinema does not reject Japan; his films are not ‘stateless’ as manga has sometimes been described (Napier, 2001a: 24). Japaneseness shapes the worlds of Chihiro, Satsuki and San. Culture may be fluid and permeable, as we have seen in our discussion of Elliot’s Australia and Park’s England, but wherever Miyazaki takes us, we always know where we are. This is exempli fied in the making of Princess Mononoke, wherein staff at Studio Ghibli questioned, ‘was this Japan?’, to which Miyazaki replied, ‘of course it’s Japan – the Japan you know came about after this time’ (Miyazaki, 2008: 55). Animation positions itself within the culture of a nation, despite its fond ness for ‘absence of place’. Betty Boop was an echo of 1920s liberation; Disney’s early features reflected the conser vat ism of 1930s and 1940s America; Looney Tunes attacked the American studio system and celebrated the self; Park’s films are stamped with Britishness; and Elliot’s, with ethnicity. Miyazaki’s films are defined by Japan, even with their rejection of its more contemporary culture. In order to fully under stand identity polit ics within Miyazaki’s cinema, we must approach this through Japan itself. By adopting a social, anthropological view (Hendry, 2003: 2), this allows us to under stand the culture and society of Japan without forming Western judgements. This is essential if we are to understand Miyazaki’s films and therefore this chapter will include a study of Japanese identity and briefly establish the importance of its past through war, family, women and culture, before explor ing Miyazaki’s cinema. Oscar Wilde once wrote that ‘the whole of Japan is pure invention’ (Tsutsui and Ito, 2006: 9). He was imply ing that the Japanese were projections, ‘shadows on the screen of the Western mind’. Years later, Steve Jobs commented that Japan was very interest ing, in its ability to study and reinvent (although, signi ficantly, Jobs’ own affin ity with Zen culture has been well docu mented by Nobuyuki [2011]). Further, in The Wind Rises (Miyazaki, 2013), the Nazis declare: ‘you Japanese copy everything’. It has become commonplace to apply Western sensibil it ies to the East, and what we know as famil iar we use to label other ness; the tag of Miyazaki as the Disney of Japan is testa ment to this. Many writers apply Western concepts of

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gender, culture and society to Japan, in order to attempt a sort of dissection of what appears strange and unfa mil iar, but the result is often unsat isfactory. Hendry discusses this: ‘for many foreigners . . . the Japanese people remain difficult to under stand . . . one of the problems is that we generally apply our own standards of judgement when we look at other countries’ (2003: 1). As we have seen, identity requires a logical involvement with difference in order to define itself, yet throughout our world, groups of people seek and affirm ‘sameness’ with each other in order to cast ‘other’ out (Grier, 2007: 1). This has been particu larly applied to Harvie Krumpet in Chapter 6 and to Park’s repre sent ation of both the narcissistic villain and Were-Rabbit in Chapter 4. Society requires belong ing in some sense, but a society only belongs to itself. Shinto, meaning ‘the way of the kami’, has always been closely associated with Japan’s national identity (Hendry, 2003: 28). Shinto included worship of gods and natural objects and locals would worship deities through their visits to shrines (ujigami). Shinto was part of the school curriculum until the end of World War II; however, the Allied Occupation dismantled this education and Japan found itself democrat ized by the Constitution of 1947 (Mackie, 2003: 8), reaf firm ing the idea of judgements imposed upon a society.

The past Hierarchy has always defined Japan, with its Imperial line thought to be unbroken to the present day. Histories are told in a top-down method (Hendry, 2003: 108) as shown in Figure 7.2.

FIGURE 7.2

Top-down method of Japanese history illustration

Source: author’s own

Hayao Miyazaki: place, nostalgia, adolescence 137

Identity and non-identity are formed within these hier arch ies. As we can see with this top- down analysis, nobil ity and warriors under pin status, but who were the Eta at the bottom of the chain? These were the people who were denied identity in Japan due to their occupation, burying the dead. They were thought to be polluted and their blood line was considered dangerous (2003: 108). Japan associated identity and a sense of belong ing with one’s role within society, and also, signi ficantly, this is linked to the idea of purity. The erasing of identit ies is poignant and is a marker of other ness, denying ‘self ’ to groups of people because of their societal roles. The top-down method is one wholly rejected by Miyazaki, who was inspired by the unwrit ten history of the Emishi people and wanted to represent the marginals of society for Princess Mononoke (1997). The film maker rejects the hierarch ical approach to history, linking to the notion of responsibil ity when construct ing narrat ives. Miyazaki seeks ‘truth’ within his fiction through his discard ing of the chain of command in favour of represent ing a village in order to create a personal cinema that connects more with its audience.

ie = family Rodriguez del Alisal, upon visit ing Studio Ghibli to view the screen ing process of applicants, claimed that the in-house train ing required true dedication ‘that was all part of the old train ing that came through the ie system’ (Hendry, 2003: 192). The ie defined family life prior to the war and was the home of the household. Kondo defines it as carry ing ‘the meaning of “hearth”, signi fy ing people who belong to the same domestic group’ (1990: 121). Hendry describes the ie as includ ing ‘all those who went before; the ancestors, now forgot ten, as individuals, the recently dead who are remembered; and the descend ants as yet unborn’ (2003: 26). The ie was central to a family’s identity. Respect and benevolence were at its heart, with gener ational and gender divisions clearly defined. Hendry argues that the ‘continu ing entity’ of the ie, or what it represents, is import ant and Buddhist altars today continue the ie tradition of respect ing the dead (203: 33). Kondo agrees, in terms of the identity that an ie offers: ‘in belong ing to an uchi (inside) and participat ing in an ie, people create selves’ (1990: 159). The ie not only represented the household but also the family busi ness, as we see above with Rodriguez del Alisal’s comment about Studio Ghibli, which seems to embrace tradition in this sense.

Place Kondo describes how a sound on the street would evoke a poignant memory of Japan for her: ‘Mornings I associate the cool, metal lic ring of a bicycle bell as it slices through the air, a signal that the sake shop’s delivery man is making his

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rounds’ (1990: 5). Memory of place is heightened by smells and sound. In Chapter 6, I explored land scapes and memory in relation to Elliot’s migrant figures that wander through time and space in search of belonging. Landscapes enable us to find our identity; we are forever connected to the past through ‘place’. Miyazaki recalls becom ing lost in Tokei Sanshodo as a child. He called it a site of ‘culture’ and ‘feeling’, its architecture drew him in and he savoured a moment of belong ing and yet not, as he stood staring at his surround ings (Miyazaki, 1996: 240). Place is often a division in forming identit ies, able to be recalled by a smell or a sound, yet offer ing illusions of self that we may no longer relate to. However, we always desire its memory. Kondo exper ienced a conflict within herself in Japan and began to lose her own sense of self. She glimpsed her reflection in a window and saw instead a Japanese woman shuffl ing along, intent on her task: ‘I became the “Other” in my own mind, where the identity I had known in another context simply collapsed’ (1990: 16). The allure of Japanese culture becomes over whelm ing for ‘outsiders’, and self makes way for other; as Jung states, ‘sometimes the Shadow is power ful because the urge of the Self is point ing in the same direction’ (1978: 183). Again we are drawn back to self hood and other ness together point ing to the truth of identity. The collapse of Western identity in favour of the East is interest ing in that it is a marker of the power of Japan’s culture.

Women Miyazaki empowers and celebrates woman hood and girl hood in his cinema. His films represent a femin ism that is seen as highly progressive in feature anim ation and his depiction of girl hood has been frequently documented.1 When we consider the history of women’s identity in Japanese society, Miyazaki’s represent ations become all the more strik ing. Whilst the ie established strong family hierarch ies, women ‘were subordinated to the patriarchal head of the household’ (Liddle and Nakajima, 2000: 51). Voices of dissonance were heard back in the 1800s, however, to chal lenge the establishment, and not all of them were from women. In 1870, Fukuzawa Yukichi, author and journal ist, publicly condemned the keeping of concubines and selling of daughters into brothels; conversely, he later agreed to sending women abroad to become prostitutes, emphasizing the contradictions of Japanese gender polit ics (Mackie, 2003: 18). In 1883, Kishida Toshiko was jailed for a week for her speech ‘Daughters in Boxes’ in which she attacked the family system and seclusion that took place in the home (Liddle and Nakajima, 2000: 13). In 1911, the Bluestockings femin ist movement questioned the lack of identity given to a woman if she had sex and children outside of marriage (2000: 14). Feminists gained a platform from their writ ings in journals such as Asian Women’s Liberation and Feminist, and the term ‘housewife femin ism’ was coined by Shiota Sakiko (2000: 10) to relate to the status of housewife as a profession in Japan. Full-time housewives became a

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necessity because of the lack of available childcare as well as hostil ity towards mothers who wanted to work (2000: 11). Miyazaki has spoken out about the status of women in Japan’s past, point ing to gender dispar it ies: ‘Japanese them selves thought from a long time ago that women in Japan were gentle. That is a lie’ (Miyazaki, 2008: 84). Hendry echoes this, arguing that the dominance of patriarchy was not always the case in traditional Japan: ‘apron- clad women were often called from the kitchen to clear up important public matters’ (2003: 40). Miyazaki celebrates the strength of young women, particu larly that of the shojo, a term that has gained signi ficant popular ity in Japanese society and within its anime. The shojo represents girl power today and an age group, cover ing preteens to teens, that domin ates the media. As Napier suggests, the shojo ‘occupies the site of play (asobi) in modern Japanese culture’ (2001b: 473) and Miyazaki’s shojos in particu lar have come to represent femin ism and a coming of age within the media of Japan.

Adolescence The development of personal identity in Japan, known as ‘privat ization’ and ‘selfdeterm in ism’ (Sugimura and Mizokami, 2012: 124) went through a transitional period during the 1990s, meaning that adolescents began to project their needs onto society rather than the other way around. Society, however, remains collectiv istic (in which individual and group goals remain synonymous) (2012: 124). Miyazaki’s prot agon ists merge tradition with a new yearn ing for self hood, and adapt to a certain environ ment, signi ficant for adolescents to ‘exper ience a sense of oneness’ or solid ar ity with others (2012: 130). Place becomes crucial to achiev ing the self-determ in ism of the adolescent. Sugimura goes on to develop theor ies of identity form ation with Hatano, Sugimura and Crocetti explain ing that Japan is a post modern society ‘where the transition to adulthood is post poned’ because of the length of the education system and timing of marriage (2016: 3). The find ings of this study also imply that a propor tion of Japanese youth find their identity form ations stag nated, as they internal ize problem behaviours. Identity studies in Japan are signi ficant as they emphasize that space between child and adult. The slow transition of the adolescent allows for the emergence of the shojo. Prindle explains that ‘the shojo nestle in a shallow lacuna between adulthood and child hood, power and powerlessness, awareness and innocence’ (Napier, 2001a: 149). Murakami, a prolific novel ist, high lights that in the twenty-first century the youth of Japan have lost confidence in them selves: ‘the young have become contam inated with it’ (2000: 7). The issues of society are addressed by Miyazaki’s cinema, particu larly through Chihiro in Spirited Away (to be discussed later in this chapter), whose apathy is a sign of her loss of self within the film, at that crucial stage between childhood and adolescence.

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Anime Miyazaki views anime as a ‘yearn ing for a lost world’ (1996: 18). It is for teenagers to consume, to enable a ‘private’ space to be created, emphasizing the significance of place and what it means to different people. Japanese manga are, in the clearest sense, the comics that anime are based on, and anime are the films created from manga. As mentioned, Miyazaki calls manga disposable (1996: 100), meaning that readers consume what they want and discard the remains. Manga and anime represent late twentieth- and early twentyfirst-century consumer society; their success lies in what Napier calls the ‘global hunger for fantasy’ (2001a: xi). There is a desire to escape realism, to embrace what could be, even though many manga and anime depict apoca lyptic futures. The trend for these products will argu ably continue to escalate with the hunger for dystopian cinema, fuelled by the polit ical unrest and terror attacks pervad ing this unsettled and unset tling century. The origins of manga can be seen in the woodblock prints and illustrated books of the Edo period, span ning 1600–1868, with their often grotesque, unusual imagery. Napier suggests that anime works on many levels because of its ‘high culture traditions’ (2001a: 4), thus giving rise to debates about the cultural integ rity of this art form. Miyazaki states that manga has come to represent ‘the originator of culture’ (2008: 131) because of the way in which it domin ates Japan. The Western audience, conversely, has often been bewildered by the adult themes within manga and anime and their unflinch ing view of the world.2 Brown calls anime ‘one of the most explosive forms of visual culture’ in recent decades (2006: 1). It now has a permanent presence in US culture, through its many conventions, fandom and fan- subbing, and this is discussed in detail by Levi in Brown’s Cinema Anime (2006). Napier, meanwhile, argues that Japanese anim ation essentially offers ‘its own distinct ive vision of the world’ (2001b: 470). It has, however, been called ‘stateless’ by Japanese commentators (2001b: 24), with anim ator Oshii Mainoru explain ing that this is because of the lack of presence of a furusato, or hometown, within the films (2001b: 25). Identity polit ics become contested here, but again the absence of place and a sense of belong ing are import ant to dissect ing notions of self hood through memory. Miyazaki regards manga as present ing something other than realism (Miyazaki, 2008: 70). In terms of juxtaposing past with present and recol lection, his films offer a type of realism that manga doesn’t. There is a responsibil ity to Miyazaki’s cinema, a depth that is absorbing and unset tling.

Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli It was the anime film Legend of the White Serpent (1956) that influenced Miyazaki to become an inbetweener at Toei Animation, as he fell in love with the heroine: ‘my soul was moved’ (McCarthy, 1999: 28). Miyazaki had studied Political Science and Economics at Gakushuin University in the 1960s, but his interests lay in animation (1999: 30). There appears, however,

Hayao Miyazaki: place, nostalgia, adolescence 141

a clear correlation between his anime films and his knowledge of the world and a need to tell stories in a distinctly ecological way. At Toei, Miyazaki met Isao Takahata and they began a lifelong working partner ship. In the 1970s, the two moved between animation studios in Japan, from A-Pro to Zuiyo, as they worked on various projects. In 1973, Miyazaki travelled over seas to sketch draw ings for Alpine Girl Heidi, thus begin ning his awareness and appreciation of other cultures. Takahata directed Miyazaki’s first short film, The Adventure of Panda and Friends (1972), and in 1978 Miyazaki directed Future Boy Conan for Nippon Animation (1999: 39), a cartoon featur ing an ecological awareness of the future. Miyazaki began working on a manga story, Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind (1984), which pushed these themes further, and this was to be his first feature (1999: 74). Miyazaki founded Studio Ghibli in 1985 in Koganei, Tokyo. The name ‘Ghibli’ is based on the Mediterranean wind, and the studio’s intention was to ‘blow a new wind through the Japanese anime industry’ (Telegraph, 2013). This bears a cultural signi ficance to his filmography and its ability to traverse continents, both real and imagined and Miyazaki harbours strong views about the industry and the responsibil ity of film makers: ‘I do endeavour to make films that express my own ideas about what is import ant and what is wrong with the world’ (Miyazaki, 1996: 173). Ghibli would prove to be a revolutionary studio in many ways. Previously, Japanese anim ators had existed on piecework, being paid for each project, but typically this might be half the average Japanese income. Studio Ghibli created a more permanent way of working, introducing contracts and monthly pay for staff (McCarthy, 1999: 44). Miyazaki’s attitude towards his staff reflected the ie discussed earlier; he condemned Disney for letting go of talented individuals because they didn’t fit the studio ethos and argued that employees should be nurtured (Miyazaki, 1996: 59). The creat ive process was carried out inhouse in its entirety, with the exception of sound, and this was highly unique in the industry (McCarthy, 1999: 46). Miyazaki, in Starting Point (1996), ponders where the moment of begin ning lies for animators. He believes that nostalgia is a good place to start and that animators need to reflect on the worlds they have already created inside their minds, ‘the many land scapes you have stored up, the thoughts and feel ings that seek expression’ (1996: 28). This taps once more into notions of place, memory and recol lection, which inform the identity polit ics of his own cinema; identit ies are formed from ‘the narrat ives of the past’, Hall suggests (cited in Alcoff, 2003: 3).

Harmony, absence and otherness in My Neighbor Totoro (1988) What we have forgot ten What we didn’t notice What we are convinced we have lost (Miyazaki, 1996: 255)

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These are the words Miyazaki penned for his proposal for My Neighbor Totoro (1988). He alludes to a forgotten world outside of Tokyo, where nature and the past wait to be embraced. Miyazaki explains that Totoro represents ‘frag ments of land scapes I had seen in Japan . . . or had seen in my child hood’ (Miyazaki, 1996: 350). His intention was not to make a film replete with personal nostalgia, but one that would revital ize children to connect once more with nature. Totoro was originally pitched as a lighthearted accompani ment to the poignant and disturbing Grave of the Fireflies (Takahata, 1988).3 Totoro was a surprise hit, with merchand ising follow ing suit and US demand for the film. Despite it being released in Japan in 1988 to great acclaim, however, it wasn’t until 1993 that Studio Ghibli agreed to an inter national release (McCarthy, 1999: 120), due to the drastic cutting by the United States that had taken place on Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind. The Japanese audience under stood these films and their contexts, but in the United States, anime was something of an enigma. When asked what his views were on the inter national market, Miyazaki responded: ‘we don’t have time to promote our films abroad’ (1996: 187). He made a strong point about Disney films, that they show a certain contempt for their audience (1996: 72). This alludes to the drip-feeding of American culture to society, who, within the Hollywood mainstream framework, may not be expected to think for themselves, and this evokes Adorno’s beliefs about the enslav ing nature of culture and how it had become a commod ity in the United States ( Jay, 1973: 9, 216). My Neighbor Totoro follows the exploits of two sisters, Satsuki and Mei, who are uprooted from their lives and move to the countryside with their father, to be near the hospital where their mother is sick. Certain elements of Miyazaki’s own childhood resonate here: his mother suffered from tubercu losis and was absent for long periods, and one of the dominant themes of the film is the fear of loss. Miyazaki wanted to focus on real-life traumas when ‘ordinary life just flies out the window’ (1996: 375) and it is here that animation as a form loses its arti fice and enters the realm of the ‘real’. Lilo and Stitch and Mary and Max demonstrated this in Chapters 2 and 6 through their representations of trauma, loss and difference. The still ness of the surround ings, the sound of crickets and the wind passing through trees allows the viewer to tumble down the proverbial rabbit hole with Mei, and here elements of Totoro mirror Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (Carroll, 2014) through other world liness, the young, disobedient child, and the creatures she encounters. However, Napier points out the differences in stories rather than the similar it ies: the fantasy world in Totoro represents ‘harmony and beauty’ (2001a: 159) and Miyazaki clearly sees this world as possessing healing powers that allow children to cope with reality. Fantasy offers serenity, whilst the ‘real’ threatens loss (see Figure 7.3). Satsuki, the central protagon ist, is at that age ‘when you become the main character in your own story’ (Miyazaki, 1996: 369). Satsuki is shojo in transition, at the edge of child hood but aware of the dangers around her (such as her mother’s illness). In her mother’s absence, she assumes a mater nal role, similar to Nani in

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FIGURE 7.3

Children empowered, My Neighbor Totoro

Source: Miyazaki (1988)

Lilo and Stitch. The loss of parent is a recur ring theme in Miyazaki’s work and points to Disney’s own represent ations of child hood, in which the mother is ‘erased’. In the space of missing mother, identit ies are formed, Delver told us in Chapter 2 (cited in Boxer, 2014: 98); children are able to create clearer ideas of self hood in her absence. However, in Miyazaki’s films, the absent parent leaves a void that remains open and empty. Within the space where the famil iar once lived, this void implies other ness. Kearney suggests that monsters are ‘tokens of fracture within the human psyche’ (2003: 4), speak ing to us of our consciousness and unconsciousness, evoking the split tings that occur within self. Within Totoro, absence creates the monster (this is not Totoro the forest spirit but the sick ness afflict ing the absent mother – monster denotes death). Satsuki’s sense of self is constantly threatened by this absence and what it denotes, whilst Mei, unable to cope with the ‘monster’, runs away to find her mother. The sisters only achieve harmony when they accept their ultimate fear of the ‘real’ – that is, of their mother’s illness – proving that ‘Otherness is a horizon of self hood’ (2003: 16). The famil iar and unfa mil iar merge uneasily and act as a rite of passage for Satsuki, teeter ing on the brink of adolescence, to cross over.

Nature and difference in Princess Mononoke (1997) With Princess Mononoke, Miyazaki turned away from the top-down histor ies of the Japanese Empire and chose instead to explore the natives, comment ing: ‘I

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don’t like a society that parades its righteousness’ (McCarthy, 1999: 185); here we learn something of his dissat isfaction with Japan and how he finds it at times repressive (Miyazaki, 1996: 147). Princess Mononoke represents Japan at what Napier describes as a ‘crossroads of history’ (2001a: 232). It is set during the Muromachi era, at the end of the medieval period. Miyazaki explains how the film also reflects ‘the upheavals of our era as we head into the twenty-first century’ (1996: 272). It is a film of extremes: love and hatred, nature and industry, war and peace, but, as discussed earlier, Miyazaki stresses that dualism will not suffice. Although hatred is depicted in the film, he explains that its purpose is to show ultimately that there is something ‘more valuable’ in life (1996: 274). The benshi (Richie, 1990: 3), or voice of the narrator, used in the film is an echo of early Japanese cinema. We are led into the past, ‘those were the days of gods and of demons’, to a world Miyazaki has created independently. Directors of postwar Japan, includ ing Kurosawa and Ichikawa, became successful in their own right, through their ability to evoke a new individual ity within cinema. Richie explains that these directors ‘began making films which depicted Japanese life not as it should have been, but as they saw it’ (1990: 45) and this is evoc at ive of Miyazaki’s cinema, as he real izes his own version of events, a recall ing of history into what he views as the ‘real’ (see Figure 7.4). Princess Mononoke is uncomprom ising in its depiction of war, and its title character, San, is signi ficantly ‘constructed in other ness’ (Rifa-Vallis, 2011: 94). She is represented as warrior, attack ing iron town, and at other times her face is smeared with blood as she sucks poison from a wound. Whereas we identify with main protagon ist Ashitaka’s human nature, San remains distanced from us. The fiercest shojo of all Miyazaki’s films, she rejects humanity for the forest creatures and

FIGURE 7.4

Princess Mononoke

Source: Miyazaki (1997)

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represents nature and its savagery; Miyazaki must have intended for his audience to be quite in awe of her. Self hood is created through its connec tion with nature, which is an important theme in this film, and the identity of San retains an air of mystique, which could be viewed as a mirror to Japan itself, from an outsider’s perspect ive. The self is permeable and constantly shift ing (Liddle and Nakajima, 2000: 279), for San’s char acter is opaque and difficult to read, and self remains camou flaged within Miyazaki’s forested land scapes. It belongs to place and its identity is constructed within nature, as Featherstone has stated, in previous chapters, ‘to know who you are means to know where you are’ (Featherstone, 2003: 342). Nature, itself, is signi ficant. The still ness of the land scapes contrast with the violence of the battle scenes and nature is often used to create a sense of forebod ing. It becomes a prequel to moments of happening (for example, the quiet ness of Ashitaka resting his arm in the pool of water just before the forest god appears). There are correlations between Miyazaki’s attitude and Disney’s in their respect for nature. It is a power ful force and a recur ring theme, as well as a being, in both cinemas, and serves to rein force ideas of identity. Nature, for Miyazaki, equals harmony: ‘For me the deep forest is connected in some way to the dark ness deep in my heart. I feel that if it is erased, then the dark ness inside my heart would also disappear, and my existence would grow shallow’ (1996: 360). He remarks that the Evergreen Oak forest is linked to human ity’s origins (1996: 140). For Miyazaki, the forests of Japan are part of his culture, and identity, for him, lies here: ‘If you opened a map of Japan and asked me where was the forest of the Shishigami that Ashitaka went to, I couldn’t tell you’, said Miyazaki, ‘but I do believe that somehow traces of that kind of place still exist in one’s soul’ (Napier, 2001b: 467).

Consumption, purity and the body in Spirited Away (2001) The main themes of Spirited Away (2001) are greed, purity and loss of self, set within a nostalgic past. Miyazaki’s frustration with the apathetic present is visible within this work and, as in Princess Mononoke, he establishes identity through a rejection of the here and now. Recollection enforces the importance of the past and its traditions. Napier calls the past ‘allur ing’ and the present ‘disappoint ing’ within this film (2001a: xvi); the recall ing of history serves as a moral lesson to be heeded by the young audience. Miyazaki explained that his decision to make the film was to reach out to the disparate 10-year-olds of Japan, the girls who had become consumed with apathy for their lives and surround ings: ‘Only the imagination, filtered through traditional Japanese customs and ethics, can offer any possibil ity of cultural recovery and personal redemption to a human ity trapped in the wasteland of the real’ (2001a: 183). Spirited Away is an attack on our apathy and overconsumption. Chihiro is sent spiralling into an alternat ive world, one set in traditional Japan, where she must learn to value life and culture. She is chosen as Miyazaki’s heroine simply because

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‘she’s strong enough to avoid being eaten’ (Miyazaki, 2008: 198). Chihiro is more flawed than Satsuki: she avoids responsibil ity in favour of an apathetic postmodern ity and is represented as a more complex and angst-ridden character than her predecessors. Studies of cultural values in Japan point to the conflict that exists between ‘individual desires and loyalty to groups’ (Sugimura and Mizokami, 2012: 131), as discussed on page 139. Individuals exper iencing conflict between these relationships are more likely to undergo an identity crisis (2012: 131). Miyazaki represents such concerns in his cinema; Chihiro’s self hood is threatened with erasure because she appears ghost like within her environ ment. She exclaims ‘I’m see-through!’ and only regains self through consum ing food from the world she has entered, demonstrat ing her accept ance of and respect for her environ ment. Nature is reimagined as a ghostly presence, and as Chihiro’s father speeds through the forest to their new home, statues can be spied through the trees, glimpses of a forgot ten time and place. The discarded theme park in the forest represents the collapse of the economy, Napier suggests; it is the dissolv ing world and the moral lessons to be learned that create the ‘darkest subtext’ (Napier, 2001a: 180–182). Chihiro must show that she understands how to solve the problem of today’s wasteland, through the subtext of tradition. This heroine avoids eating (as she avoids being eaten by others), careful to control her own consumption. She eats traditional rice balls, reflecting the culture of the past, and Miyazaki demonstrates how this is prefer able to the pigs (her parents under a spell) at their trough. Consumption must be managed and respected, as it points to culture and control of self. When No-Face offers Chihiro soap bars, she tells him that she only needs one and later refuses the gold he offers. Chihiro’s lack of greed entitles her to the role of heroine. No-Face’s own purpose seems to be to follow Chihiro and offer her temptations. His identity is a mask, for he suffers from ‘denial of char acter’ (Swale, 2015: 425), and yet paradox ically he ‘is imbued with a persona’. Swale suggests that No-Face might be ‘a caricature of the logic of the “market” ’ (2015: 426). The spirit gorges himself until he is so full that he regurgit ates all he has devoured, and this can be read as a mirror to our own mass consumptive society. The body, as we have seen, is hugely significant in shaping identity polit ics and point ing to representations of self hood. Within Miyazaki’s cinema, it again affirms the idea of control and its loss, but also attests to a liberation of self. No-Face’s gluttony represents overconsumption and his bloated figure is grotesque as it rejects its more human form. The Stink Spirit, simil arly, is allconsum ing. Regurgitation and slimy bathwater accentuate these unsavoury bodies and how they discard what they have devoured. As Bakhtin states, ‘the grotesque body . . . is a body in the act of becom ing . . . the body swal lows the world’ (2005: 92). Rather than demonstrat ing lack of control, these bodies are bodies in transition, shedding an idea of self that is not whole; the Stink Spirit is a polluted, diseased river, weighed down by objects such as bicycles that have been, themselves, discarded. Monster subsequently reverts back to river – Miyazaki

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high lights the overconsumption that plagues the twenty-first century and asks us to recall a nature more perfect and untainted. Purification is another import ant theme in the film and within Japanese identity itself. It is linked to Shinto, when individuals, such as menstruat ing women, are viewed as being polluted and will avoid visit ing shrines (Hendry, 2003: 129). We are drawn back to the idea of the ie here and its uchi (clean inside) versus its soto (dirty outside). The bath house represents purity but becomes polluted. Miyazaki explains that the spirits come ‘in a group, sort of like company employees who go on retreats together’ (2008: 219). As Kondo states, the ritual of Misogi, ablution with cold water, enjoys a long history in Japan: ‘one is divested of one’s social identity and can interact with others as an equal’ (1990: 88–89). Cultural tradition signi fies a collect ive society and a sense of belong ing. Place, through the idea of the furusato (home village), is another signi fier of identity. No-Face commu nicates to Chihiro that he is lonely and she allows him to journey with her to Swamp Bottom, where he finds solace with Yubaba’s sister – represent ing a return to the furusato, where life is preferable to the chaos of the bath house. Nature, again, equals harmony. Swale comments on the precariousness of identity within the film, which is caught between kokusaita (inter national ism) and furusato, and Lamarre believes that, although the film takes a voyage into the past, the past is ‘not firmly locat able’ (in Swale, 2007: 420). Indeed, the ‘other’ world Chihiro finds herself inhabit ing offers dreamscapes and realism in equal measure: from the paper birds that attack Haku to the very real wounds he suffers; from his human self to the Kalaku river (his real identity); from the Yubaba bird to nanny; from parents to pigs. Identities reveal truths and fictions that become transferable and interchangeable; self and other remain fluid, and each represents liberation within Miyazaki’s dreamscape.

Recollection in The Wind Rises (2013) The Wind Rises, released in 2013, was Miyazaki’s final film before he retired and follows the story of Jiro Horikoshi, the designer of the Zero fighter plane, which was used during World War II. The title is trans lated from ‘Le vent se lève . . . il faut tenter de vivre’ and means ‘The wind rises . . . we must try to live’ (Corliss, 2014). Miyazaki had previously published the story as a manga series in Model Graphics and had been inspired to adapt the story into a film after he heard that Horikoshi said ‘all I wanted to do was to make something beauti ful’ (2014). Ehrlich cites The Wind Rises as possibly the greatest anim ated film ever made: ‘Miyazaki’s films are often preoccupied with absence, the value of things left behind and how the ghosts of beauti ful things are traced onto our memor ies like the shadows of objects outlined by a nuclear flash’ (2013). Nature again serves a greater purpose than merely as a back ground device; the wind is a constant presence through the grass and trees, displacing hats and paper planes. It drives the narrat ive forwards, deliver ing Jiro’s paper plane to Nahoko’s

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FIGURE 7.5

Nahoko, The Wind Rises

Source: Miyazaki (2013)

balcony and sending his hat flying so that she may catch it. The Great Tokyo Earthquake that occurs during the early part of the film is like a creature sighing and moaning, judder ing and jarring; nature is vibrant and alive, but punish ing (see Figure 7.5). The film’s identity lies in its recol lection of memor ies and it becomes auto biograph ical to a certain degree. Jiro, the main prot agon ist, is obsessed with planes and dreams of the Italian Designer Count Caproni, who regu larly shares his unconscious space and reveals his world to the child. Jiro’s life reflects Miyazaki’s at points, represented within the long working hours and dedication to a craft (evident within the film maker’s autobiograph ies) – for example, at one point we see Jiro’s skilled artist’s hand drawing an aircraft and shading it in. Caproni tells Jiro, ‘airplanes are not tools for War; airplanes are beauti ful dreams’. Rather than exist ing as a histor ical propaganda docu ment, The Wind Rises places its emphasis on the dream scapes that Jiro inhabits, with the message to live and to embrace one’s own identity. Recollection situates Miyazaki’s cinema within the realm of the nostalgic, and his dream scapes point to a version of the ‘real’ that is more desirable. Here, selfhood is established through strong representations of adolescents who under stand their environ ment and the threat that exists to the individual. Place is a marker for identity. Within the anim ated dream scapes that Miyazaki creates, the identity of his prot agon ists is allowed to flour ish. The director’s worlds are hand made and ‘surpassingly quiet’ (Scott, 2005). During the 1990s, Lasseter explained that he used scenes from Totoro to teach his anim ators about pacing, observing that ‘things don’t need to be faster all the time’ (cited in Miyazaki, 1996: 11). This is Miyazaki’s gift to his audience: amid the

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noise and frenzy that categor ize much of Western animation, his cinema pauses to listen; it moves through the forest into shadows and silence, revealing its carefully crafted self. Place, recol lection and self hood, we have seen, are valid signs of identity polit ics within Miyazaki’s cinema. They continue into our final chapter, wherein we will establish the importance of CG to our story of identity in anim ation and question whether it has the ability to create ‘selves’ from objects, as well as to recall and embrace its own origins, as Miyazaki does. Our focus turns now to the question of whether CG can create a ‘soul’ out of science.

Notes 1 2 3

Notably by authors such as Napier (2001a, 2001b), Swale (2015) and McCarthy (1999). Anime’s popular ity began to grow in the 1960s as it real ized that television was its ideal plat form and, subsequently, Tezuka’s Astro Boy was released in 1963. The film follows a brother and sister’s journey through a post-apoca lyptic land scape and sits firmly within dystopian cinema because of its themes.

References Alcoff, L. (2003) ‘Introduction: Identities Modern and Postmodern’, in L. M. Alcoff and E. Mendieta (eds), Identities: Race, Class, Gender, and Nationality. Malden, M A and Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 1–8 Bakhtin, M. (2005) ‘The Grotesque Image of the Body and its Sources’, in M. Fraser and M. Greco (eds), The Body: A Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 92–95 Bordwell, D. (2008) The Poetics of Cinema. New York and London: Routledge Boxer, S. (2014) ‘Why Are All the Cartoon Mothers Dead?’ Atlantic, 313, 6, pp. 96–106 Brown, S. (2006) Cinema Anime. London: Palgrave Macmillan Carroll, L. (2014) Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. London: Pan Macmillan Corliss, R. (2014) The Wind Rises: An Animation Master’s Last Flight? Available at http:// enter tain ment.time.com/2014/02/20/the- wind-rises- review-hayao- miyazaki/ [Accessed 15 June 2016] Ehrlich, D. (2013) Review of ‘The Wind Rises’, 21 October. Available at www.film. com/movies/the-wind-rises-review [Accessed 21 August 2015] Featherstone, M. (2003) ‘Localism, Globalism and Cultural Identity’, in L. M. Alcoff and E. Mendieta (eds), Identities: Race, Class, Gender, and Nationality. Malden, M A and Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 342–359 Grier, P. (ed.) (2007) Identities and Difference. Studies in Hegel’s Logic, Philosophy of Spirit and Politics. Albany: State University of New York Press Hatano, K., Sugimura, K. and Crocetti, E. (2016) ‘Looking at the Dark and Bright Sides of Identity Formation: New Insights from Adolescents and Emerging Adults in Japan’, Journal of Adolescence, 47, pp. 1–13 Hendry, J. (2003) Understanding Japanese Society, 3rd edition. London: Routledge Curzon Jay, M. (1973) The Dialectical Imagination: A History of the Frankfurt School and the Institute of Social Research. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press Jung, C. G. (1978) Man and His Symbols. London: Pan Books Kearney, R. (2003) Strangers, Gods and Monsters. Abingdon: Routledge

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Kondo, D. (1990) Crafting Selves: Power, Gender and Discourses of Identity in a Japanese Workplace. University of Chicago Press Liddle, J. and Nakajima, S. (2000) Rising Suns, Rising Daughters. London: Zed Books McCarthy, H. (1999) Hayao Miyazaki Master of Japanese Animation: Films, Themes, Artistry. Berkeley, CA: Stone Bridge Press Mackie, V. (2003) Feminism in Modern Japan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press Miyazaki, H. (1996) Starting Point. California: VIZ Media Miyazaki, H. (2008) Turning Point 1997–2008. San Francisco: VIZ Media Murakami, R. (2000) ‘For Japan’s Perplexed Teenagers, the End of an Era’, UNESCO Courier, 53, 1, pp. 3–8 Napier, S. (2001a) Anime from Akira to Howl’s Moving Castle. London: Palgrave Macmillan Napier, S. J. (2001b) ‘Confronting Master Narratives: History as Vision in Miyazaki Hayao’s Cinema of De-assurance’, Positions, 9, 2, pp. 467–493 Nobuyuki, H. (2011) Steve Jobs and Japan. Available at www.nippon.com/en/currents/ d00010/ [Accessed 1 August 2015] Richie, D. (1990) Japanese Cinema – An Introduction. Oxford: Oxford University Press Rifa-Valls, M. (2011) ‘Postwar Princesses, Young Apprentices, and a Little Fish-Girl: Reading Subjectivities in Hayao Miyazaki’s Tales of Fantasy’, Visual Arts Research, 37, 2, pp. 88–100 Scott, A. O. (2005) ‘Where The Wild Things Are: The Miyazaki Menagerie’, New York Times. Available at www.nytimes.com/2005/06/12/movies/where- the-wild-thingsare-the-miyazaki-menagerie.html?_r=0 [Accessed 20 August 2015] Sugimura, K. and Mizokami, S. (2012) ‘Personal Identity in Japan’, New Directions for Child & Adolescent Development, 138, pp. 123–143 Swale, A. (2015) ‘Miyazaki Hayao and the Aesthetics of Imagination: Nostalgia and Memory in Spirited Away’, Asian Studies Review, 39, 3, pp. 413–429 Telegraph (2013) The Wind Rises: 20 Facts about Studio Ghibli. Available at www.telegraph. co.uk/culture/culturepic turegal ler ies/10216426/The-Wind-Rises-20-facts- aboutStudio-Ghibli.html [Accessed 21 August 2015] Tsutsui, W. and Ito, M. (2006) In Godzilla’s Footsteps. London: Palgrave Macmillan

Filmography Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (1978) Future Boy Conan [DV D] Nippon Animation Co. Ltd Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (1984) Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind [DV D] Nibariki, Tokua Shoten, Hakuhodo Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (1988) My Neighbor Totoro [DV D] Tokuma Japan Communications, Studio Ghibli Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (1989) Kiki’s Delivery Service [DV D] Nibariki, NTV, Studio Ghibli Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (1997) Princess Mononoke [DV D] DENTSU Music and Entertainment, Nibariki, NTV, Studio Ghibli, TNDF, Tokuma Shoten Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (2001) Spirited Away [DV D] Tokua Shotun, Studio Ghibli, Nippon Television Network (NTV) Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (2013) The Wind Rises [DV D] Studio Ghibli, Buena Vista Home Entertainment Takahata, I. (dir.) (1972) The Adventure of Panda and Friends [DV D] TMS Entertainment Takahata, I. (dir.) (1988) Grave of the Fireflies [DV D] Shinchosa Company, Studio Ghibli Tezuka, O. (dir.) (1963) Astro Boy [DV D] Mushi Productions

8 THE ‘THINGNESS’ OF CG AND THE LIFE OF THE OBJECT

Throughout this book, we have studied how identity polit ics move through anim ation and how connections are made, specifically with regard to self, difference, gender and the body. The fluid ity of identity complements the malleabil ity of anim ation. Characters transcend gender binar ies and bound ar ies, self and other form an uneasy connection, and the body moulds itself around the able and the disabled to offer notions of becom ing – anim ation reflects identity polit ics in transition and chal lenges ideas of self. For this final chapter we journey into CGI to ask if identit ies achieve the same level of connection that we have seen in previous chapters and if this medium can demonstrate the same sort of recol lection and nostalgia of Miyazaki (see previous chapter). I will also be explor ing the ‘thing ness’ of CG. Ackerman claims that ‘digital characters are more “thing-like” than Bugs Bunny or Betty Boop’ (2011: 118), allud ing to a different sense of reality. Does ‘thing-like’ mean more real? If so, how is this achieved within a process that increasingly implies science? I want to explore whether the computer emphasizes or inhibits notions of self hood and if it achieves a representation of the ‘real’ to form identit ies that are anchored by similar issues as those already discussed. Within this chapter, I will also gain views from anim ators and directors working within today’s CG global anim ation industry on how identity is created within their own work. Interviews include Nedy Acet from DreamWorks Animation, Chris Page from Weta Digital and Guillermo Garcia Carsio, creator and director of Pocoyo. I have chosen Pixar as a case study because of its approach to the inan im ate object in order to create vital, lively subjects. Pixar is a mirror to the early pioneers of anim ation; it embraces the revolutionary impulse in order for a new medium to emerge, and its canon of films represents individual ity and belong ing, within an emotionally driven framework. This framework is its identity. Pixar is

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FIGURE 8.1

Lone robot, WALL-E

Source: Stanton (2008)

concerned with the liveliness of things and, through this liveliness, how to create a ‘soul’. WALL-E, the studio’s eighth output, arguably demonstrates more effectively than any other film how Pixar strives to be future thinking, yet reflective at the same time (see Figure 8.1). WALL-E, despite being a model of mass production, manages to retain a unique individuality (Mattie, 2014: 14). As Clarke states, ‘WALL-E asks the fundamental question: “what is it to be human?” ’ (2013: 133). It is this that draws me to this particular film as a study for identity politics; the inanimate embodies liveliness to tackle the most fundamentally important issue of humanity. This, in turn, poses the question, ‘How does an object achieve self hood?’

Revolution Director/producer Chris Wedge notes: ‘I’ve always thought that if Walt Disney had still been alive, there never would’ve been a Pixar. Because Walt Disney would’ve had the first CG animation studio in the world: he would have understood that CG was an innovation’ (in Paik and Iwerks, 2007: 41). Hollywood in the late 1970s to early 1980s was largely technophobic. Only George Lucas, working on his Star Wars (1977; Kershner, 1980; Marquand, 1983) trilogy, had his finger on the pulse of computer technology and what it might represent, and it was with his impetus that the CGI revolution sparked to life. Catmull reflects: ‘in all of Hollywood, George was the only person to actu ally invest in filmmaking technology . . . George understood the value of technical change’ (2007: 19). This awareness led Lucas to the New York Institute of Technology (NYIT), where Ed Catmull and Alvy Smith were working to advance the medium, and Lucas began poaching staff for Lucasfilm’s Graphics Group (Sito, 2013: 137). Meanwhile, John Lasseter had been enrolled onto Disney’s CalArts programme, where Selick, Bird, Burton and Keane had been or were currently students. Lasseter reminisces about his time at Disney, and his excitement at being mentored by

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legendary animators Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnston: ‘there was that moment of contact, when the masters touched the students’ and influenced their work (2013: 34). Nostalgia for Disney’s iconic past shaped the young protégés; but Lasseter’s enthusiasm was to wear thin, as he exper ienced the restrictive author ity of Disney’s management and felt his creativ ity dampened (2013: 35). His time working at Disney was cut short when he pitched his idea for a film, The Brave Little Toaster, which incor porated CG, and found the reception to be lukewarm. On return ing to his office, he received a phone call to say he was being fired. Disney’s decision sealed Lasseter’s fate, but not in the way he expected. At a Siggraph event, he bumped into Ed Catmull, who, having heard he had been released, lured him to Lucasfilm’s Graphics Division. Lasseter later reflected on employabil ity in California: ‘Hollywood is a place where, typically, if something doesn’t work you lose your job . . . whereas at Pixar we don’t just have a net, we have down comforters and air bags’ (in Capodagli and Jackson, 2010: 10). His early brush with Disney was to prove signi ficant in Pixar’s later ethos of its employees, and its rejection of the hierarchical beliefs of Disney. Jobs, like Lucas, sensed a CGI revolution. He had visited Xerox PARC in the 1970s and watched and listened to the computer wizards working on innovat ive projects such as SUPERPAINT (Sito, 2013: 85–88). Jobs knew that Lucas was keen to sell off his graph ics division of Lucasfilm and he finally purchased it in 1986 (Paik and iwerks, 2007: 9). The little garage company was called Pixar, and Jobs, ever the entrepreneur, announced, ‘let’s make a dent in the universe’ (Capodagli and Jackson, 2010: 125).

From ‘things’ to selves Pixar’s journey to global powerhouse was not a smooth one. During the early years, Jobs attempted to sell the company a number of times, once to Microsoft, as it stead ily lost him money. The CGI revolution was slow to ignite. Jobs, however, under stood the import ance of Pixar’s hardware capabil it ies and the company began support ing Disney with its CAPS (computer anim ation production system) initiat ive. Indeed, Lasseter and the other creat ive staff were a sideline to the company’s hardware support. Catmull wanted to retain Pixar’s identity within anim ation and so suggested they create a film for Siggraph. Luxo Jr (Lasseter, 1986) was the result – a short, unlikely anim ation about the relationship between a parent and child lamp, which received a stand ing ovation at the conference. Standing at the forefront of an anim ation revolution, Pixar needed to sustain a strong identity. Lasseter has often commented on the importance of story over tech nology (in Chapter 7 we noted how he was influenced by Miyazaki). In the ensuing years, other CG compan ies would come and go, all would look to Pixar and many would try to emulate them. The line between technology and the emotional connection is a roughly hewn one, with many argu ments being sustained about lack of story in

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CG cinema. Pixar, in creat ing Luxo Jr, demonstrated, above all else, that an audience could feel empathy for an inan im ate object. As Clarke explains, ‘no matter how much tech nological wonder is applied it’s the way in which the human soul is being expressed that we’re really connect ing with’ (2013: 14). Pixar’s identity lay within the liveliness of ‘things’. CG lends itself to bright, shiny, inan imate objects and Pixar showed, at the dawn of the revolution, that, as incongruous as it seemed, these, too, could achieve self hood. As mentioned previously, self can be a subject, an ‘I’, but that it is also an object, an exper iencing ‘thing’ (Leary and Tangney, 2012: 5). In Chapter 4, we discussed how stop motion achieves a sense of the ‘real’. Kant defines it as something concrete and fixed, whilst Ronen suggests that the human psyche is central to finding truth and meaning in an object (see page 69). Truth in the anim ated object, I suggested, is located next to presence, or the thing ness of CG, and that this allows self to flour ish. I have discussed the notion of self being something that we ‘have’ rather than something we ‘are’ in Chapters 2 and 3 and this, too, lends itself to the object. In Ackerman’s book Seeing Things: From Shakespeare to Pixar, he explores Samuel Beckett’s prose of the 1960s, and the association made between ‘flatness with death’ (2011: 86). Beckett’s interests during this period lay within art criticism, theatre and film, and Ackerman’s chapter is an interesting read. Flatness and death can be applied to the argument of CG representing a new liveliness in film; certainly Ackerman’s idea of characters becoming more ‘thing-like’ complements this approach. By refuting flatness, CG create a closer illusion of life than previously seen; however, this has typically been achieved through breathing life into inanimate objects or creatures. When CGI has chosen to tackle humans, the effect veers towards the uncanny valley, and imitations can be unsettling. Ackerman states: ‘I know that the screen and canvas are two-dimensional, that depth like the soul, is a figment of the imagination. There is no there in digital animation.’ However, he continues, ‘I want to believe . . . that Pixar’s pixelated toys break and repair’ (2011: 3). Lasseter explains that the breath ing of life into the inan im ate has become part of the company’s ‘culture’ (Capodagli and Jackson, 2010: 132), whilst Maltin argues that Luxo Jr had the same import ance for Pixar as Steamboat Willie (1928) did for Disney, some fifty- eight years earlier (Sito, 2013: 247). Imbuing the inan im ate object with a soul defines Pixar’s first feature. Toy Story’s (Lasseter, 1995) concept focused on the question, ‘If a toy were alive, what would it want?’ (Paik and Iwerks, 2007: 85). Identity polit ics become a soph isticated driver for Pixar’s cinema, and indeed the identity of Woody under went a crisis within production, with Katzenberg pushing for a more edgy prot agon ist and Lasseter’s team losing sight of their hero’s motivation (2007: 90), before reclaim ing owner ship of him (see Figure 8.2). Woody’s crisis reveals itself in an interest ing way, as he undergoes a revision of masculin ity, at first represent ing the hero archetype (as author ity figure and respected leader) before being subjected to an unravel ling of his ego (displaced by Buzz) and a reimagin ing of his role. Woody is complex, tormented and flawed. Self is inter per sonal, making decisions that affect others, or initiat ing action, and

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FIGURE 8.2

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Woody and Buzz, Toy Story

Source: Lasseter (1995)

Woody is defined by these traits. However, ‘self is at once an utterly familiar and surprisingly elusive thing’ (Baumeister, 2011: 48). Self-identity is formed on the move, as we have seen in previous chapters (particu larly within Chapter 6). Place may be reaf firm ing, cement ing identity, but in anim ation it is often absent or untrust worthy, as Bugs and Daffy demonstrated in Chapter 3 (Daffy has a psychological fear for its loss, whereas Bugs obliterates it). Place is a marker for identity polit ics, but often its absence is more reveal ing than its presence. Woody’s selfidentity is certainly formed on the move, as he enters a more night mar ish version of place, Sid’s domain being the dark mirror of Andy’s room.

Culture and audience Animated features become consumer- driven products that can be cast aside when we are finished with them. US anim ation, as a mirror to pop culture, tends to be more consumer- centric than anim ation from other parts of the world (such as Elliot’s [2009] Mary and Max or Miyazaki’s [2013] The Wind Rises). Quart and Auster, discussing American cinema, explain that ‘the movie industry spends a great deal of time and money trying to divine popular values and trends, often succeed ing in attract ing an audience by knowing just how to package those concerns’ (2011: 3). Clarke argues that Pixar’s world is an ‘extens ive and famil iar story world’, with ‘quiet fleeting moments’ (2013: 14), whilst other CG anim ated films move at a faster pace. Weinman calls DreamWorks’ and Blue Sky’s outputs ‘fast, topical and disposable’ (2008: 77–79). Pixar acknowledges US culture and its audience. As McCracken explains, ‘respect for the audience’s intel ligence is one of their defin ing character ist ics’ (Weinman, 2008: 77–79). Pixar’s audience is a mixed demographic, however, whereas DreamWorks tends to engage through adult- centric gags (Shrek [Anderson and Jenson, 2001] is valid example of this), Pixar, ‘as corporate auteur,

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has developed a soph ist icated mode of address to adult viewers, broach ing dark existential themes without raising censorship issues’ (Scott, 2014: 151). This can be seen in the psychological Inside Out (Docter and Del Carmen, 2015) but it is present in all of Pixar’s cinema, from Woody’s loss of place, to Melvin’s loss of child, to WALL-E’s all-consum ing loneli ness – anim ation here undergoes a transform ation from kid culture to adult engagement and points to Pixar’s importance within the Western anim ation canon. Clarke argues that Pixar’s cinema is steeped in ‘American romanticism’ (2013: 14), through the self- development of the individual, just as Disney’s cinema was in the classic era. Identity is sophist icated within Pixar; characters demonstrate a complex web of traits where self is a marker for culture; it is positioned within the social system and it is pivotal to identity polit ics – as we have seen. Within animation, culture is absorbed, dissec ted, contested and reima gined.

The consumer ‘self’, loneliness and empathy in WALL-E (2008) WALL-E’s magnet ism for crit ical debate centres largely on its premise of runaway consumer ism, throwaway culture and its implications for the future. The film has been labelled the most ‘adult- centric’ of all Pixar’s outputs because of its themes (Price, 2009: 262). Yet WALL-E has also been tagged as contradictory, in its obsession with consumption yet also with nostalgia (Anderson, 2012: 267). Stanton denies that he wanted to make a film with an over rid ing social message (or, rather, warning) and the premise for WALL-E floated around Pixar’s subconscious for years before the director real ized it for the screen. He explains it thus: ‘the last robot on earth . . . It was just the loneliest scenario I’d ever heard’ (in Clarke, 2013: 139). At WALL-E’s heart is a film about personal identity rather than human ity’s greed. It is in essence a simple idea, a small thing, recall ing the theme of American romanticism and a character’s personal development, set against a backdrop of a sprawl ing, dead dystopian future (see Figure 8.3).

FIGURE 8.3

WALL-E

Source: Stanton (2008)

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WALL-E, alone in the wilder ness, self-reliant, waiting and hoping (perhaps) for something to stir out there, reminds one of Pixar at the dawn of the CGI revolution. WALL-E’s fixation with the past could be seen as mirror ing the studio’s sense of reflection and acknowledgement of Disney’s romanticism. WALL-E’s journey for identity and recog nition (from EVE, more so than the Axiom crew) seems to echo Pixar’s struggle to be heard in its early years. Certainly the reminder of the studio’s disposable products is senti mental (within WALL-E’s own collection) and heightens our awareness of Pixar itself within its own cinema. Pixar is a nostalgic presence within WALL-E’s day-to-day life. WALL-E is tasked with disposing of planet Earth’s rubbish, unaware that the direct ive from Buy-n-Large is no longer active. As Mattie states, WALL-E manages to retain his individual ity despite having originally been mass-produced (2014: 14). In Western culture, Anderson argues, personal identity is something that is ‘inter twined with capital ist values’ (2012: 277). The erosion of individual ity and independence under corporation within WALL-E mirrors the twenty-first century and it is here that we find Pixar’s products, strewn among the rubbish (2012: 272). We consume and we throw away (just as Miyazaki [2011] demonstrates in Spirited Away). This is a contradictory message from Pixar. The studio tells us that their products will not survive the crush ing weight of overconsumer ism, yet WALL-E (a Pixar product) does. Pixar’s warning is that our identity is bound to the products we buy. Consumerism is omnipresent and all-pervasive, yet it is simultaneously tran sient and imper manent. What we value today we will discard tomor row, driven by our own consumption of media. Baudrillard (1998: 29–86) discusses the ‘real’ and the signs of the real, claim ing that consumer ism ‘conjures away’ the former and replaces it with the latter. What we see is not reality but an illu sion of it. He suggests that objects are present only through their absence and that consumers lack a consciousness. We can apply this to the humans in WALL-E, plugged into corporate power, seem ingly without free will (or personal identity). Media advert ising has become the omnipresence; it is the junket of dystopia that offers no alternat ive. American identity has long been associated with the particu lar need to consume in order to define oneself. In the 1950s, Jancovich related identity to consumption, as the influx of goods expanded people’s lives (2000: 17). It is this that Pixar taps into in WALL-E to present an unsettling account of a dead earth and obese, sedent ary human beings. Contrasting with the void of a silent, lifeless planet, a solit ary robot possesses the will to collect, to reflect and to learn.

Objects and empathy Scott suggests that we can apply Brecht’s theory of ‘other’ in the use of inan imate objects in cinema. The audience observes ‘object surrogates’ as being alien and therefore the viewer removes him or herself from events onscreen, allow ing a remoteness of events to occur (2014: 152). The ‘thing ness’ of objects discussed

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earlier comes into play once more here. Can WALL-E be said to create a remoteness of events, a removal of connectedness? WALL-E is an object like Buzz and Woody, and he has ‘eyes as expressive as any of his fellow Pixar heroes’ (Clarke, 2013: 136). Pixar’s inan imate objects, infused with life and complex identities, seem to possess souls. McNaughton prefers to chart WALL-E’s identity through the way in which he consumes: because he has an individual taste for objects, collecting and discard ing certain items, he becomes ‘person’ enough to be the hero (2012: 762). Chris Page of Weta Digital believes the child like qual ities of WALL-E create an essential sense of wonder in the film (for full inter view, see page 164). Douglas Trumbull’s 1972 film Silent Running is a signi ficant example of how objects can evoke empathy in an audience, and its similar it ies to WALL-E are worth document ing. Freeman Lowell, a botan ist who nurtures forest land from planet Earth in the future, jettisons into space to preserve this nature, ignor ing the direct ive to destroy it. Lowell finally instructs Dewey, his last remain ing robot, to take care of it alone; thus Dewey becomes an isolated, perpetual galactic gardener. In the same way that we empathize with Dewey’s predica ment, so do we empath ize with WALL-E. It is the thought of a robot’s loneliness that disturbed Stanton enough to create his post-apoca lyptic feature. Nostalgia connects to empathy. Nostalgia, Anderson notes, is for ‘things’, for consumer goods and the past (2012: 267). WALL-E collects items that he deems valuable and places them around him to stave off the loneli ness that (we imagine) consumes him. As we perceive Dewey to be alone and to suffer in Silent Running, so do we apply the same very human concept to WALL-E. Ben Lazare Mijuskovic suggests that ‘all human beings are lonely, and the desire to avoid isol ation constitutes the ulti mate motivational drive in human passion, thought, and conduct’ (2012: 190). The avoid ance of loneliness is an over whelm ing desire in the human condition, and it is applied just as readily to objects (Chuck Noland demonstrates this in Cast Away [Zemeckis, 2000] when he loses his beloved volleyball Wilson – the inan im ate object is imbued with a persona that readily creates an empathy within us, because of our desire to avoid isolation in any form). The liveliness of WALL-E is accentuated by the dead ness of Earth; the only other ‘life’ emanates from Hello, Dolly! (Kelly, 1969) on a television monitor. WALL-E links directly with history and with cinema; his ‘nostalgia is for mater ial objects, but also for Hollywood’ (Scott, 2014: 153). In pining for 1960s musical cinema, WALL-E creates an identity for himself as a romantic. Hello, Dolly! serves to ‘anchor the audiences of WALL-E in the classic and famil iar’ (Price, 2009: 263). Like WALL-E, we yearn for the past. Wildschut claims: ‘Nostalgia compensates for uncom fortable states, for example, people with feel ings of mean ing lessness or a discontinu ity between past and present . . . nostalgia spontaneously rushes in and counteracts those things’ (in Adams, 2014). Anderson suggests that nostalgia in WALL-E is propelled by a ‘concom it ant dissat isfaction with the present’ (2012: 270). The present is established by the disquiet ing aerial shots of planet Earth, and represents dystopia. WALL-E

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connects to a past that is an image; he absorbs the non-reality of musical Hollywood but, because this is the only liveliness he can see, we wonder if he believes this is real. As Baudrillard posits, ‘TV images present them selves as the metalanguage of an absent world’ (1998: 123). We believe that WALL-E under stands that he is consum ing media because he collects the film as an item of nostalgia, along with the other objects he chooses to ‘save’. Media is nostalgic yet part of consumption; the film Hello, Dolly! is identi fied as a favour ite ‘product’. An image becomes a dominant form of identity because, in the absence of life, the image is all we have. Ackerman suggests that Pixar films contain ‘the recog nition that the self is a heap of broken images’ and that these lead to ‘resur rection and renewal’ (2011: 119).1 To some extent this supports Scott’s view of object surrog ates and the abstract, but Ackerman wants to believe in Pixar’s pixel lated toys/robots and this points to redemption. Resurrection delivers WALL-E from dystopia and restores liveliness in a dead world. Scott makes a valid point that objects in Pixar’s cinema become human and humans become objects (2014: 155). In WALL-E, as in other films, life turns to dead ness and dead ness turns to life. This can be applied clearly to Toy Story, in the anim ation of the inan im ate object and the rather lacklustre child hood of Andy, who seems often to be confined to the house (compared to Sid, who plays in the yard, but who is obsessed with the dead ness of objects). Life and death emerge as signi fiers, with the ‘real’ often being applied to the object. In WALL-E, this is particu larly emphasized.

Chaplin Gurevitch refers to WALL-E as ‘an anarchic Charlie Chaplin figure’ (2015: 460). The link between Chaplin and WALL-E is explicit and pertinent. Writing a note about his film Modern Times (1936), Chaplin referred to the tramp and the waif as ‘the only two life spirits in a world of automatons. They really live’ (Ackerman, 2011: 83). Modern Times was the tramp’s final outing and is an import ant film that high lights the class divide within America’s Great Depression. It was made in 1936, but it is a work of nostalgia, a yearn ing for the days of silent cinema, as well as a warning about the automata of the future. Austerlitz comments that Chaplin’s apprehensions were commu nicated ‘from a lone film maker to all of human ity: it is the machine that is mankind’s true opponent, deaden ing the senses and twist ing flesh into steel’ (2010). In placing WALL-E as lone protagon ist for a significant portion of the film, Pixar not only links him with the past, through his Chaplin-esque actions and manner isms, but also suggests WALL-E’s importance to cinema, nostalgia and society. As Rosenbaum argues, ‘one can’t even begin to grasp Chaplin’s importance without processing sizable chunks of the twentieth century’ (2004: 52). He recalls an anecdote about Chaplin in which an assistant pointed out the visible rail tracks of a camera set up and his response was, ‘It doesn’t matter. Whenever I’m onscreen, the public won’t be looking at anything else’ (2004: 53). The placing

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of a lone WALL-E onto the cinema screen is signi ficant. Not only are we invited to identify with his wist ful ness, but, where Chaplin represents a bygone era, WALL-E recalls it. Chaplin longs for silence, WALL-E yearns for song and dance; however, nostalgia for that which has been lost binds them together. The past is vibrant, WALL-E tells us, whilst the present is dead. WALL-E and EVE may well represent Chapin and his waif from Modern Times, fight ing the system and falling in love. Within a dystopian world, WALL-E has to learn what love is from the ever-looping Hello, Dolly! Neighbors and Rankin suggest that Pixar shows that romance is ‘not inherent, it is learned’ and that gender itself is a performance (2011: 54–56), echoing Butler’s theory, discussed in Chapter 5. Herhuth writes that WALL-E himself has developed ‘into a sentient, intel ligent being’ (2014: 55) and echoes Gurevitch in his belief that the robot is inspired by Chaplin. Nostalgia is a familiar theme within animation; we have seen Miyazaki’s recalling of events and worlds to reflect national culture, Gromit’s mimick ing of Keaton to engage with the audience and reveal Park’s passion for the past, and Betty Boop’s playful mirror ing of 1920s American society. Animation recalls the past to remind us of its ability to reconnect with its own origins, as well as those of film. Chaplin, embod ied within WALL-E, evokes the power of the individual who is caught between belong ing and alienation – intrinsic markers of self and difference.

Bodies The body is a recur rent theme in anim ation, as we have seen throughout this book. In Adam Elliot’s work it represents control and loss, and is a site for freedom or entrapment. Gender shows us how the body in anim ation can be malleable, how it can present us with gendered perform ance, yet, within Disney, might be a prison. Looney Tunes has revealed the body as transform at ive, as a site for punish ment and torture, as well as an identi fier of self. Bodies in WALL-E separate liveliness from still ness and point to the abled and dis-abled self. The human species has become ‘wholly estranged from struggle, hunger, desire’, suggests McNaughton; they are ‘giant babies’ (2012: 754). Scott discusses humans as ‘floating objects’ with ‘mounds of flesh’ (2014: 155). The future has led to inactiv ity; gross consumer ism has caused obesity and society is ‘dead’. The animate becomes inan im ate, further illu minat ing the liveliness of WALL-E. Stanton, himself, claims that human ity does not live in the film, that WALL-E himself is the only living thing (in Tranter and Sharpe, 2012: 38). Herhuth argues that WALL-E’s role is to restore liveliness to the humans (2014: 64) and Tranter and Sharpe agree that the robot’s curiosity towards other ‘beings’ is ‘founded on the desire to increase their capacity to act’ (2012: 38). WALL-E is often playful, a key scene being his meeting with M-O, the robot who becomes obsessed with erasing the dirt that WALL-E creates. His liveliness on board the Axiom enables other characters to emerge from their

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catatonic states and begin to think consciously for them selves, for the dis-abled body to become abled. Revolution within the robot ignites the crew, rendering them animate once more. WALL-E, as an individual, represents Pixar’s freethink ing, pioneer ing status. His actions are a cata lyst to the future. He can be seen absolutely to represent Pixar, at the head of the frontier movement of computer-generated animation, longing to restore liveliness through a reboot of human ity. There is no there in digital anim ation, Ackerman (2011) has suggested. Depth is illusionary; it is sought out and represented as a version of a truth, leading us away from flat ness. Clarke has argued that the camera in WALL-E is evocat ive of cinéma-vérité in its quality (2013: 136). Pixar’s virtual crane achieved a mimicry of the NASA launch, whilst Toy Story strove for virtual camera shots that removed anim ation from its cartoony origins (2013: 54). The object has always lived within an illusionary world of depth; Disney’s multi-plane camera achieved this in the 1930s, and became a soph ist icated device to enable realism within the anim ation medium; before this the Fleischers introduced a sense of depth with their 3D set back camera, enrich ing the environ ments for their characters to perform within. Within CG, and stop motion, the object itself achieves a representation of ‘there’. The illu sion of life is moving more into the realm of science to seek out new levels of the ‘real’. Pixar set the bench mark for the advancement of CG animation, and their insistence that a soul is more valuable than the tools that created it has become an important argu ment. The soul is imaginary but evocat ive. When we imagine Toy Story, we can hear the sounds the toys make as they clunk together in a child’s hands. They are solid, mater ial things, at once inan im ate and yet imbued with life. Their identity as toys is chal lenged but never lost (once it is real ized). Their thing ness is a marker of identity. WALL-E’s sense of self is uncomplicated, until his world is inter rupted by EVE, after which he becomes a revolutionary hero. Identity and self are clearly signposted within Pixar’s cinema, driven by nostalgia, culture and American romanticism.

DreamWorks Animation Competition within the CGI anim ation feature industry has grown significantly since 1995, when Toy Story was released. Importantly, this has also led to compan ies striv ing for their own identity in the market place. Disney’s acquisition of Pixar in 2006 provided an interest ing example, with Ed Catmull claim ing that Pixar was adamant that the two studios retain their own identit ies: ‘local ownership is really import ant. We put in place mechan isms to keep each studio’s culture unique’ (Price, 2014). DreamWorks purchased PDI (Pacific Data Images) in 2000) and Katzenberg, Spielberg and Geffen have certainly made their own dent in the CGI market. Initially, Katzenberg was driven by a desire to attain oneupmanship over Disney, claims Sito (2013: 234). PDI’s Antz (Darnell and

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Johnson, 1998) and Pixar’s A Bug’s Life (Lasseter and Stanton, 1998) led to a crossfire between DreamWorks and Pixar in 1998, borne along by the rivalry between chief execut ive Eisner and Katzenberg. DreamWorks have proved themselves a significant rival to Pixar, with characters such as Shrek, Hiccup and Toothless paving the way for strong identity in anim ation and Shrek, notably, receiv ing the first Oscar for a CGI feature animation. Katzenberg famously stated that ‘traditional animation is a thing of the past’ (Sito, 2013: 265). The compet ition between him and Lasseter over A Bug’s Life and Antz changed computer anim ation from a close-knit community to an industry (Paik and Iwerks, 2007: 134). Ideas that had previously been shared between animators, artists and directors were to become closely guarded secrets (drawing clear paral lels between anim ation and live action cinema through the mimicry that seems to occur within the Hollywood system when the same script passes between studios). The DreamWorks canon tends to reflect American consumer ism and culture in a much more immediate way than Pixar. Its humour is more adult- oriented and current, and this can be seen to have a twofold effect: to reach a wider audience demographic, but simultaneously to create a more dispos able product. The ‘boom and bust cycle’ of CG animation filmmaking has been cited as a major problem for companies competing within the market, with each output taking a number of years to complete. DreamWorks’ Paul Carmen DiLorenzo explains the production process of a CG animated film, highlighting how complicated and time-consuming it is: ‘Each generally takes about five years to develop as a result of the planning and production of all the layers and assets that go into making a film.’ From storyboards, the team works on the visual development to plan the way the film will look, including its tones and style for every sequence. Then follows modelling and rigging, to ‘determ ine how the character must move’. The process of character animation is described as articulating ‘the thousands of controls that were created during the character-rigging phase’ (DiLorenzo, 2015: 14–21). DreamWorks Animation has also made the transition into television with its Awesomeness TV division, creat ing content with YouTube stars; and, in March 2015, it partnered up with Verizon to create a mobile video service. These steps were in an effort to provide diversity to the audience and equally provide more financial stabil ity in an industry that is constantly shift ing (Barnes, 2015). In April 2016, DreamWorks Animation was bought by Comcast to boost its presence in the on- demand market place, which is dominated by Netflix and Amazon (Reinhardt, 2016).

Industry voices Nedy Acet I inter viewed Nedy Acet, a char acter anim ator with DreamWorks Animation, who has been with the company since 2010, and was previously based in Paris.

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Acet’s first project was Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted (Darnell, McGrath and Vernon, 2012) and he has subsequently anim ated on Home ( Johnson, 2015), Penguins of Madagascar (Darnell and Smith, 2014), Kung Fu Panda 3 (Yuh Nelson and Carloni, 2016) and Boss Baby (McGrath, 2017). I asked him about his role at the studio and how the animator shapes a character: My role as a Character Animator is to bring characters to life, to have them communicate, and express deep and complex emotions or actions in a believable and relatable way on screen. The anim ator can and will bring something new and fun . . . it can be as small as a new pose or gesture to completely changing an attitude or emotion, doubling the original shot length and making the scene even better. That’s also part of an animator’s job. As an anim ator you always try to push things to the limit, always try to make the most out of a shot, even if it’s just a short, surprise reaction shot. The styles and tone of those movies are all different. As a Character Animator you need to be able to animate different characters in different styles. This is one of the hardest things to do, in my opinion. (Acet, 2015) I mentioned DiLorenzo’s description of the process CG and asked Acet how 3D compares to 2D, and he discussed the importance of depth and the ease of refin ing anim ation within CG: I learned anim ation on 2D paper in an art school in France. I switched to 3D for my first job seventeen years ago, working in the videogame industry. It’s true that the process of 3D anim ation is complicated and timeconsum ing, especially when you try to animate in a cartoony way. In 2D you can deform the character on any frame, in any way, and don’t have to worry about depth. In 3D you must have a rig control created to do what you need. That’s why there are usually so many controls on 3D rigs. I personally like 3D anim ation because you can refine your anim ation so easily. (Acet, 2015) Acet echoes a point that Paik makes about computer animation, in that it creates ‘perfect things’ (‘the computer likes the geomet ric, the perfect; the spare and clean’ [Paik and Iwerks, 2007: 244]). He believes that today’s CG films try to emulate the real as much as possible, shrug ging off perfection for imper fection. We are reminded of Park’s beliefs about Claymation in Chapter 4, wherein the finger prints on models embrace their flaws and create a more ‘real’ and tactile world. The science that defines CG is often contested in terms of how it creates art (and connection), but industry special ists such as Acet believe that this form strives for the real through its awareness of the importance of imper fection.

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Chris Page Chris Page (now senior animator at Cinesite) was previously employed as a character anim ator at Weta Digital. Projects that he was involved in for Weta included The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies ( Jackson, 2014), Furious 7 (Wan, 2015) and Alvin and the Chipmunks: Road Chip (Becker, 2015). I asked Page about the funda mental differences between animat ing in 2D and 3D: I have only professionally worked in 3D and personally in 2D. From my exper ience there are pluses and minuses to both. In 3D you have the extra depth to work with, but have to remember that in film it becomes 2D again. Animation in 3D has the option of motion captur ing real human or animal acting/motion, but it doesn’t always feel like it has enough weight and sometimes needs heavy amounts of clean-up from an anim ator to get the perform ance to work correctly. Animating in 3D leaves endless options for re-timing, posing and spacing, which is great on one hand but can lead to endless tweak ing on the other. In traditional hand- drawn anim ation you don’t have luxury of the computer filling in all the inbetweens, so every drawing has to be made by you. For me one of the biggest issues is maintain ing volume and keeping a check on the spacing. Knowing that you had to draw every frame and seeing something move on paper is a great feeling. (Page, 2015) As a character anim ator, Page under stands the import ance of identi fy ing with what he is trying to create, before he engages in the process itself: ‘It is really important to know your char acter very well before attempt ing an animation. Similar to an actor conduct ing some research before you can approach a performance, it can open up ideas and movements you may have not thought about before’ (2015). Both Acet and Page make the point about depth being more easily achievable in CG; this complements the notion of the object being more thing-like and more ‘real’ in a sense, as discussed earlier. However, both allude to the importance of character identity and the limit lessness of animation; the tool of CG remains a tool to work with. It is the animation, the ‘soul’ being created onscreen, that the anim ator and the audience connect with.

Guillermo García Carsí I inter viewed Guillermo García Carsí, Spanish creator and director of the awardwinning children’s anim ation series Pocoyo (García Carsí, cantolla and Gallego, 2005) (see Figure 8.4), about character creation, identity and environ ments within a 3D space:

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Pocoyo and Pato are the classic comical couple of opposite personal it ies. All the characters have a classic cartoon approach. That is the base and from there my intention was, in terms of personal ity, to make a real istic represent ation of kids: spontaneous, authentic, wild, and also cute but without being conscious of it. I really wanted to avoid ideal izations or to be patronizing. I also wanted them to feel real, that they have a life. Each char acter has to have their own space and vision. I have always loved the simplicity of Pink Panther and a clay animation called Plonsters, which had a white background. That was the idea to create a very clean, easy-to-read style avoid ing secondary things and focus on characters and their conflicts, which is what I am better at and enjoy the most. Apart from the simplicity and clear ness, I love the white background because it places you in an unreal environ ment, which isn’t a ‘magical world’ or ‘alien world’. I think it is actually a non-place. You get the biggest contrast between background and char acters, but have to make your characters do something interest ing because there is nothing else to see. (García Carsí, 2015) García Carsí emphasizes the importance of place in the anim ated world, connect ing back to our earlier discussions of how place is an important marker of identity polit ics and often alludes to ‘absence’ (see Chapter 3). He stresses that char acter identity is the ‘key’ to good anim ation. ‘It is where we really animate (give soul to) a character using our own influences, values, exper iences. The right combination between look and personal ity is what will create empathy.’ In Pocoyo, García Carsí explains, the audience has nothing else to look at. Identities and conflicts are at the heart of this work. I asked the director about national identity of the show, but he maintains that it’s about a univer sal humour and common exper iences. He also, signi ficantly, mentioned the influence of Chaplin on his work, with ‘Chaplin for kids’ being a tagline with which

FIGURE 8.4

Pocoyo and friends, Pocoyo

Source: García, Cantolla and Gallego (2005)

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to sell the series. García Carsí defines this as ‘a non-verbal language and universal humour that can appeal to anyone, anywhere’ (2015). CG animation embraces a more scientific approach today, far removed from its origins of hand draw ings on flur ries of paper to create the illusion of life. Critics claim ing that the beauty and creativ ity of the medium is comprom ised by CG have been well documented over the years. Ironically, however, it was Catmull who recently saved the hand- drawn depart ment of the California Institute of the Arts from closure. Catmull and Lasseter had also previously reversed the decision in 2004 to shut Disney’s 2D animation depart ments. ‘John and I thought this was tragic’, he explains; ‘we felt the decline of hand-drawn anim ation was not attribut able to the appeal of 3D but simply to lacklustre storytelling. We wanted Disney anim ation to return to what had made them great’ (Catmull, 2014: 267). Lasseter discusses the divide between CG and 2D anim ation, in relation to Disney’s forthcom ing film Moana: ‘The way this computer animation is created is much more like hand- drawn anim ation than ever before, and in motion it has that unique feel that hand- drawn Disney anim ation should . . . But it’s tech nically considered a CG film. We are merging worlds’ (in Collin, 2015).

Note 1 Ackerman stresses the significant of the image, ‘four hundred years from Descartes, images upon images are what we have become and all that we can hope to be’ (2011: 119).

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Catmull, E. (2014) Creativity, Inc.: Overcoming the Unseen Forces That Stand in the Way of True Inspiration. London: Bantam Press/Transworld Publishers Clarke, J. (2013) The Films of Pixar Animation Studio. Harpenden, Hertfordshire: Kamera Books Collin, R. (2015) John Lasseter: ‘Hollywood had become too cynical’. Available at www. telegraph.co.uk/film/big-hero-6/disney-john-lasseter-inter view/ [Accessed April 2016] DiLorenzo, P. C. (2015) ‘Premo: DreamWorks Animation’s New Approach to Animation’, IEEE Computer Graphics & Applications, 35, 4, pp. 14–21 Graser, M. (2015) End of an Era for PDI as DreamWorks Animation Closes Studio, 22 January. Available at http://variety.com/2015/film/news/end-of-an-era-for-pdi-as-dreamworksanimation-closes-studio-1201412629/ [Accessed 7 June 2016] Gurevitch, L. (2015) ‘From Edison to Pixar: The Spectacular Screen and the Attention Economy from Celluloid to CG’, Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies, 29, 3, pp. 445–465 Herhuth, E. (2014) ‘Life, Love, and Programming: The Culture and Politics of WA LL-E and Pixar Computer Animation’, Cinema Journal, 53, 4, pp. 53–75 Jancovich, M. (2000) ‘Othering Conformity in Postwar America: Intellectuals, New Middle Classes and the Problem of Cultural Distinctions’, in N. Abrams and J. Hughes (eds), Containing America: Cultural Production and Consumption in Fifties America. Birmingham: University of Birmingham Press, pp. 12–28 Leary, M. and Tangney, J. (2012) ‘The Self as an Organizing Construct in the Behavioral and Social Sciences’, in M. Leary and J. Tangney (eds), Handbook of Self and Identity, 2nd edition. New York: Guilford Press, pp. 3–14 McNaughton, H. (2012) ‘Distinctive Consumption and Popular Anti-Consumerism: The Case of Wall*E’, Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies, 26, 5, pp. 753–766 Mattie, S. (2014) ‘WALL·E on the Problem of Technology’, Perspectives on Political Science, 43, 1, pp. 12–20 Mijuskovic, B. L. (2012) Loneliness in Philosophy, Psychology and Literature. Bloomington, IN: iUniverse Neighbors, R. C. and Rankin, S. (2011) The Galaxy is Rated G. Jefferson, NC: McFarland Paik, K. and Iwerks, L. (2007) To Infinity and Beyond! The Story of Pixar Animation Studios. London: Virgin Books Ltd Price, D. A. (2009) The Pixar Touch: The Making of A Company. New York: Vintage Price, D. A. (2014) Managing Creativity: Lessons from Pixar and Disney Animation. Available at https://hbr.org/2014/04/managing- creativity-lessons-from-pixar-and-disneyanim ation [Accessed 7 June 2016] Quart, L. and Auster, A. (2011) American Film and Society since 1945, 4th edition. California: A BC-CLIO, LLC Reinhardt, K. (2016) ‘Comcast Buys DreamWorks, Content Provider To Netflix, Amazon’, Investors Business Daily, 28 April Rosenbaum, J. (2004) ‘Rediscovering Charlie Chaplin’, Cineaste, 29, 4, pp. 52–56 Scott, E. (2014) ‘Agony and Avoidance: Pixar, Deniability, and the Adult Spectator’, Journal of Popular Film & Television, 42, 3, pp. 150–162 Sito, T. (2013) Moving Innovation: A History of Computer Animation. Cambridge, M A and London: MIT Press Tranter, P. and Sharpe, S. (2012) ‘Disney-Pixar to the Rescue: Harnessing Positive Affect for Enhancing Children’s Active Mobility’, Journal of Transport Geography, 20, Special Section on Child & Youth Mobility, pp. 34–40 Weinman, J. J. (2008) ‘The Problem with Pixar’, Maclean’s, 121, 26–27, pp. 76–78

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Interviews Acet, N. (2015) Interview with the author, 22 October García Carsí, G. (2015) Interview with the author, 22 October Page, C. (2015) Interview with the author, 3 November

Filmography Adamson, A. and Jenson, V. (dir.) (2001) Shrek [DV D] DreamWorks Animation, DreamWorks SKG, Pacific Data Images Becker, W. (dir.) (2015) Alvin and the Chipmunks: Road Chip [DV D] Fox 2000 Pictures, Regency Enterprises, Bagdasarian Productions Chaplin, C. (dir.) (1936) Modern Times [DV D] Charles Chaplin Productions Darnell, E. and Johnson, T. (dir.) (1998) Antz [DV D] DreamWorks SKG, Pacific Data Images, DreamWorks Animation Darnell, E., McGrath, T. and Vernon, C. (dir.) (2012) Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted [DV D] DreamWorks Animation, Pacific Data Images Darnell, E. and Smith, S. (dir.) (2014) Penguins of Madagascar [DV D] DreamWorks Animation, Pacific Data Images Docter, P. and Del Carmen, R. (dir.) (2015) Inside Out [DV D] Walt Disney Picture, Pixar Animation Studios Elliot, A. (dir.) (2009) Mary and Max [DV D] Melodrama Pictures García Carsí, G., Cantolla, D. and Gallego, L. (creators) (2005) Pocoyo [DV D] Granada International, Zinkia Entertainment Iwerks, U. and Disney, W. (dir.) (1928) Steamboat Willie [DV D] Walt Disney Productions Jackson, P. (dir.) (2014) The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies [DV D] New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM), WingNut Films Johnson, T. (dir.) (2015) Home [DV D] DreamWorks Animation Kelly, G. (dir.) (1969) Hello, Dolly! [DV D] Chenault Productions, Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation Kershner, I. (dir.) (1980) Star Wars Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back [DV D] Lucasfilm Lasseter, J. (dir.) (1986) Luxo Jr [DV D] Pixar Animation Studios Lasseter, J. (dir.) (1995) Toy Story [DV D] Pixar Animation Studios, Walt Disney Pictures Lasseter, J. and Stanton, A. (dir.) (1998) A Bug’s Life [DV D] Pixar Animation Studios, Walt Disney Pictures Lucas, G. (dir.) (1977) Star Wars [DV D] Lucasfilm, Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation McGrath, T. (dir.) (2017) Boss Baby, DreamWorks Animation Marquand, R. (dir.) (1980) Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi [DV D] Lucasfilm Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (2001) Spirited Away [DV D] Tokuma Shoten, Studio Ghibli, NTV Miyazaki, H. (dir.) (2013) The Wind Rises [DV D] Studio Ghibli, Buena Vista Home Entertainment Stanton, A. (dir.) (2008) WALL-E [DVD] Walt Disney Pictures, Pixar Animation Studios Trumbull, D. (dir.) (1972) Silent Running [DV D] Universal Pictures, Trumbull/Gruskoff Productions Wan, J. (dir.) (2015) Furious 7 [DV D] Universal Pictures, MRC, China Film Co. Yuh Nelson, J. and Carloni, A. (dir.) (2016) Kung Fu Panda 3 [DV D] DreamWorks Animation, Oriental DreamWorks Zemeckis, R. (dir.) (2000) Cast Away [DVD] Twentieth Century Fox, DreamWorks SKG

CONCLUSION

Identity polit ics and its relationship to animation is vital, we have seen, on its journey through this book. The inner life of the anim ated form, its psychological makeup, relates directly to its behaviour and connec tion with the audience. Personal identity enables a distancing from dead ness. The animator’s hand is physically connected to the liveliness of the form, yet we forget the trick. Whilst we are aware that this is essentially a medium of arti fice, in that we are not watch ing a real-time imbuing of identity or action, anim ation enables suspension of disbelief and creates a connection with its audience through its world-making and identity structures. The ‘real’ remains contestable within this debate; Kant sees it as fixed and concrete (Ronen, 2002: 11), yet Ronen seeks out ‘truth’ within an object and connects it to the human psyche. The directors we have explored in this book are all purveyors of truth in this sense; Chuck Jones, notably, applied a psychological approach to his characters in order for them to embrace truth of self and an awareness of their environ ment (and its limit ations) and this echoes through the work of Nick Park, Adam Elliot, Joanna Quinn and others. Chapter 1 of this book charted the journey of Betty Boop within a framework of national culture (notably America as a performat ive nation). Betty’s body becomes a signi ficant marker of her identity, and its neotenous features point to the idea of the permanent child, creat ing a paradox to her sexu al ity. Flapperdom, the chase and capture were discussed in relation to Betty’s self hood, as well as power being achieved through sexual ity. Otherness was present here, through the ring master’s gaze, and we applied Bakhtin’s theory that the body is an act of becom ing, and that it ‘swal lows the world’ (2005: 92). We also introduced the idea of the monster on the prowl (Kearney, 2003: 3) in represent ing difference in Betty Boop’s cinema. Disney’s representation of self in Chapter 2 proved contentious in how it was influenced by patriarchy and a seeking-out of a collect ive identity. The body

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became an important theme once more, becom ing a site for debate in the 1930s wherein the hard body of the working- class male reaf firmed patriarchy and Snow White’s body suggested punish ment and death. We explored the erasure of the femin ine and the missing mothers of Disney, leading us to dissect self hood: ‘the self must be taken out, taken in, led astray and led back’ (Leslie, 2002: 237). We discussed place and diaspora in relation to Lilo and Stitch and how the film becomes a fascinat ing contradiction of identity polit ics and addresses import ant issues of belong ing in today’s society. Conflict and connection defined Looney Tunes’ identity polit ics, discussed in Chapter 3, wherein we discovered how migration and loss of place affected the anim ation industry and how it pervaded its cinema, pointing repeatedly to absence rather than presence. We explored Bugs’ sense of self-awareness and his perform ativ ity, and how connection blurs the line between arti fice and real. The body was a site for torture, play and labour; it proved ever-evolving and identi fied self (Baumeister, 2011: 48). We related American identity as a fluid rather than stable ideal to the struggle between self and community and how this impacted on comedy and conflict. Within the fourth chapter, Nick Park’s Claymation worlds revealed a sense of truth in the object being located next to presence, to achieve self. We studied the gaze of the other offered up through Lacan’s mirror theory and found its presence in Park’s work, where it aligned with difference, and we explored the narcissism of Park’s villains, through their notion of being ‘exclusively formed’ (Andreescu and Shapiro, 2014: 47). We found the body, as a passive statue and then as a Claymation form, to be an important signi fier of identity polit ics and discussed the relationship between Gromit, Keaton and slapstick. Family and nation hood were also markers of identity within Park’s cinema, and we referenced the ‘peculiar it ies of the English’ (Kumar, 2010: 472) in order to relate ideas of self hood and belong ing within national culture. Gender, we saw, was a weapon in animation, particu larly for cross- dressing heroes. It was contest able, a distor ted mirror to truth, and offered liber ation and post modern ism, rather than the ‘trap’, discussed in Chapter 5. This medium destabil ized gender, and flouted binary codes. What is gender, after all? This was of course contradictory when we considered the fixed and frozen princesses in the classic era, who acted as symbols of society. However, the beauty of Disney lies in its contradictory, complex nature as much as in its storytelling. Women are always viewed paradox ically, and debates about their identity will continue. Difference was seen in Chapter 6 as both strange and familiar; it encompassed heroes and villains, it marked self and difference and pointed to both (as each was a polar opposite of the other and neither could not be whole without the other). Within the work of Adam Elliot, in partic u lar, anim ation allowed difference to flour ish, simultaneously point ing to the medium as a conveyor of serious mental health issues as well as ideas of migration and lack of belong ing in today’s fractured societ ies. Difference became a fascinat ing theme of identity polit ics and a driver within animation for addressing and dissect ing the audience’s fears, but, as

Conclusion

171

this chapter revealed, other was not very other after all. Vik Rosicky’s film Identity demonstrated the fractur ing of self and what comprises our idea of person hood, using the abled and dis-abled body as a marker of change. In Chapter 7, place and nostalgia defined Miyazaki’s dream scape worlds and the messages he impar ted to his audience. Girlhood, tradition and national culture enabled identity polit ics within his cinema and revealed that its heart lay not within anime but within film, embracing a more vital version of the ‘real’. Miyazaki’s method of recall ing the past and culture created a carefully considered filmography that addressed self hood and placed it within relevant contexts that, whilst appear ing to occupy other worlds, were really very famil iar to us all. Within Pixar’s universe, in Chapter 8, we found that science could create a soul. WALL-E represented the CG medium teeter ing on the brink of discovery and demonstrated how objects could achieve empathy, how they could evoke nostalgia, identify their own origins and have a self. The medium used, whether it is 2D, stop motion or 3D, is irrelevant; it remains part of the process. Worlds can be merged, Lasseter claims (in Collin, 2015). Animation directors and animators imbue their characters with life, and often with a surprisingly soph ist icated level of self-awareness that leads to a question ing of self, other ness and place. The medium is playful, anarchic and liber at ing. Its limit lessness allows a malleabil ity of the form that live action does not; the Toon might play at princess, at sailor, at cross-dresser or bunny. His/her/its actions are defined by identity polit ics, which is itself formed by either a need to belong or to escape. Society is ever present and is often a nostal gic setting to convey meaning and demon strate belong ing (and also to recall the origins of cinema and anim ation). Identities are formed on the go, within both contem porary and histor ical contexts, shaped by events that are real and that matter. The medium itself creates a more ‘truth ful’ truth through its exaggerated worlds and char acters, in which important issues of self, difference and sexual ity reveal them selves. Boundaries are crossed, barriers broken down, worlds and lives contested in endless, hungry quests for identit ies. ‘Self ’ is crucial for the Toon. Animation is an important medium; it chal lenges conser vat ism, plays with tropes, reflects change and plat forms revolution. Malleable, post modern and brave, it holds up a looking glass to the past while it addresses (and often attacks) the present, driven by self-awareness and a know ing ness that remains allpervasive. Identity polit ics, we have seen, becomes a fascin at ing marker within the animated universe and is addressed in dynamic ways, involving exper i mentation, dissection and reimagination.

References Andreescu, F. and Shapiro, M. (2014) ‘Narcissism and Abject Aesthetics’, Journal for Cultural Research, 18, 1, pp. 44–59 Baumeister, R. F. (2011) ‘Self and Identity: A Brief Overview of What They Are, What They Do, and How They Work’, Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences, 1234, 1, pp. 48–55

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Bakhtin, M. (2005) ‘The Grotesque Image of the Body and its Sources’, in M. Fraser and M. Greco (eds), The Body: A Reader. London: Routledge, pp. 92–95 Collin, R. (2015) John Lasseter: ‘Hollywood had become too cynical’. Available at www. telegraph.co.uk/film/big-hero-6/disney-john-lasseter-inter view/ [Accessed April 2016] Kearney, R. (2003) Strangers, Gods and Monsters. Abingdon: Routledge Kumar, K. (2010) ‘Negotiating English Identity: Englishness, Britishness and the Future of the United Kingdom’, Nations & Nationalism, 16, 3, pp. 469–487 Leslie, E. (2002) Hollywood Flatlands: Animation, Critical Theory and the Avant-Garde. London and New York: Verso Ronen, R. (2002) Representing the Real – Psychoanalysis and Culture. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi BV

Filmography Rosicky, V. (dir.) (2015) Identity [independent film, no distributor/producer listed]

INDEX

Character names have been indexed uninverted, for example ‘Bart Simpson’ and ‘Betty Boop’ not ‘Simpson, Bart’ and ‘Boop, Betty’. Page numbers in italics refer to figures and those with an ‘n’ refer to notes where the following number is the note number. 2D-3D comparison 64, 163, 164, 166 Aardman 73–4; see also Park, Nick Aboriginal Dreaming Stories 121 Academy Awards 62 Acet, Nedy 99, 151, 162–3, 164 Ackerman, A. 5, 69, 151, 154, 159, 161 adolescence 39–40, 101–2, 133, 139, 142, 145, 148, 171 Adorno: T. 32, 142 America: 1930s traditionalism and conservatism 3, 20, 26, 31–2, 33, 36–7, 58, 135; comedy and national identity 61–2; consumerism and consumption 13, 94, 155, 157, 162; Great Depression 9, 20, 21, 31, 37, 44, 49, 159; and Japanese manga and anime 140, 142; Jazz age and 1920s 2, 8–9, 10, 12–13, 15–16, 17, 22, 58, 133, 135, 160; masculinity in 1930s America 37, 41; Miyazaki on Hollywood’s mainstream framework 142; nature and national identity 35; reflected by Felix the Cat 28; society and women 94–5 anarchy: and animated form 171; Disney animations 3, 28, 30, 31, 33, 43, 59; Felix the Cat 28; in gender-bending and cross- dressing 4, 90, 106; Harvie Krumpet 125, 129; Looney Tunes animations 49, 64, 98, 106, 133

Anderson, C. T. 156, 157, 158 Andy (Toy Story) 159 Angels with Dirty Faces (Curtiz, 1938) 38, 49 animators: acting classes at Disney Studios 26, 33, 38; hybridization of 50–1; and Toon personality/liveliness 1, 6, 26, 27, 33, 53, 64, 163, 169; women 98–105, 110; see also working conditions anime 133, 140, 141, 142, 171 animism 2, 16, 18–20, 30, 59 Anna (Frozen) 103, 104–5, 106, 109, 110, 117 anti-realism (pre 1935 era) 3, 28–9, 31, 33, 53, 56 anti-Semitism 16 Antz (Darnell and Johnson, 1998) 161, 162 Appiah, A. 116, 119, 127 Ariel (The Little Mermaid) 95–7, 98, 103, 110 Arikan, Y. 1, 27, 29, 35, 39, 40, 54, 55, 94 Armstrong, Louis 15 audience connectivity: breaking the fourth wall 9, 59, 60, 63, 69, 75, 77; CGI 5, 155–6, 162, 171; Disney features and child audiences 26; Elliot’s underdogs 116, 118, 120, 127, 128; empathy for Pocoyo 165; Gromit 77, 118, 126, 160; Looney Tunes

174

Index

animations 51, 55, 58, 59–60, 64, 65, 74; and psychology of animated characters 169; silent films 12, 122, 126; Stanislavsky on 33; WA LL-E 5, 154, 156, 158, 171 Audus, Hilary 65–6, 102 Aurora (Sleeping Beauty) 103 Australia 120–1, 125, 126 Auter, P. 60 Avery, Tex 3, 22, 50, 51–2, 53, 57, 60, 64 Baby Be Good (Fleischer, 1935) 22 Baby Face (Green, 1933) 21 Bakhtin, M. 18, 117, 146, 169 Bambi (Algar and Armstrong, 1942) 32, 39, 40, 94 Bambi (Bambi) 34, 40, 94 Bara, Theda 13 Barn Dance, The (Disney, 1929) 22 Barrier, M. 3, 26, 27, 28, 33, 36, 38, 39, 48, 49, 60 Barthes, R. 29 Bart Simpson (The Simpsons) 108 Baudelaire, C. 126 Baudrillard, J. 44n3, 157, 159 Bauman, Z. 27, 50, 58, 81, 104, 117–18, 123, 129 Baumeister, R. F. 2, 14, 29, 34, 49, 56, 58, 155, 170 Beasley, C. 91, 92, 93, 95, 105 Bell, E. 89, 96, 97 belonging: body conformity in Disney princesses 97, 98; Britishness in Park’s animations 3, 78–9, 81, 170; Chaplin’s The Gold Rush 29; Elliot’s underdogs 116, 118, 125, 126, 138, 170; Japanese culture 137, 147; and nostalgia in Betty Boop animations 8; Pixar animations 151, 160; and place 3, 42, 138, 140, 145; as result of identity 90–1; through adolescence 39, 40; see also difference; social conformity Belton, J. 49–50, 60–1, 130 Benjamin, W. 5, 30, 115 Berger, A. A. 8 Berger, J. 5 Beryl (Girl’s Night Out and Body Beautiful) 100–1 Betty Boop: American icon 8; body, self and difference 2, 18–20, 169; and censorship 3, 22; chase and capture 13, 18, 89, 169; class 2, 12; contradiction, empowerment and victimhood 13, 16, 17, 19, 54, 92, 93, 169; dances with Popeye 14, 108; debut 10–11; hedonism

16; performance 2, 9, 13, 26, 54, 89, 101, 169; place ( jazz age and 1920s America) 2, 8–9, 15–16, 17, 22, 58, 133, 135, 160; sexuality 9, 11, 12, 13, 14, 18, 22, 26, 37, 69, 85, 92, 118, 169; surrealism 9, 15, 19, 22 Betty Boop for President (Fleischer, 1932a) 20 Betty Boop’s Big Boss (Fleischer, 1933a) 14 Big Snooze, The (Clampett, 1946) 63 Bimbo the dog 10, 11, 16, 17 Bimbo’s Initiation (Fleischer, 1931) 16–17 Bird, B. 27, 53, 152 Blackman, L. 3, 28, 57, 58, 93 Blue Sky 155 body: animated implication of 2; animism 2, 16, 18–20, 30, 59; Beryl in Body Beautiful 101, 129; control/management of 3, 14, 98, 101, 128–9, 146; in Cooley’s ‘looking-glass self ’ theory 57–8, 89; Disney princesses 37–8, 95, 97, 98, 105, 170; Looney Tunes 3, 28, 49, 56–8, 69, 93, 98, 129, 160, 170; masculinity and patriarchy in 1930s America 37, 41, 170; Mulvey’s male gaze theory 18, 93; nudity in Harvie Krumpet 129; and otherness in Disney’s villainesses 97–8; as a site of punishment 3, 14, 17, 38, 39–40, 56, 57, 160, 170; and slapstick in Wallace and Gromit animations 75–7, 170; in Spirited Away 146–7; WALL-E 98, 129, 160–1; see also disability; sexuality Body Beautiful (Quinn, 1991) 99, 101, 129 Boop-Oop-a-Doop (Fleischer, 1932b) 18–19, 20 Bosko 50, 51 Bosko the Doughboy (Harmon, 1931) 50 Bow, Clara 11–12, 13, 14, 18 Boxer, S. 39, 143 Brave (Chapman and Andrews, 2012) 99 Brecht’s theory of other 157 British identity 3, 70, 78–9, 80, 81, 135, 170 Brod, H. 90, 91 Buck, Chris 98 Bugs Bunny: and American comedy 61; audience connectivity 60, 63, 69; as counterrevolutionary 63; crossdressing/gender-bending 4, 54–5, 85, 90, 105, 106; narcissism and self- belief 52, 58, 62; performance and self 3, 49, 52–6, 170; setting/place 58 Bug’s Life, A (Lasseter and Stanton, 1998) 161, 162

Index 175

Bully for Bugs ( Jones, 1953a) 57, 63 Burke, P. 1, 27, 41, 84, 90, 96, 128 Butler, J. 4, 89, 90, 91, 93, 98, 105, 107, 160 Buzz (Toy Story) 109, 109–10, 154, 155, 158 Calloway, Cab 15 Card, C. 39 Catmull, Ed 152, 153, 161, 166 censorship 3, 20–2, 31, 44n1 CGI (computer-generated imagery): DreamWorks 5, 98, 99, 155, 161–2; industry voices 162–6; Park on 75; Pixar 5, 98, 99, 151–6, 161–2; Toy Story 109–10, 154–5, 159, 161; WALL-E 5, 98, 152, 156–61, 171 Chaplin, Charlie 5, 17, 23n2, 28–9, 30, 34, 60, 66, 159–60, 165 Chapman, Brenda 99 Chihiro (Spirited Away) 5, 135, 139, 145–6, 147 child-like characters 34, 36, 37–8, 59, 65, 158; see also neoteny children: audiences 26, 62, 74; objectification in Toy Story 159; punishment and missing mothers in Disney animations 3, 26–7, 34, 39–42, 43, 44; see also adolescence Chodorow, N. 92 Cholodenko, A. 8, 30–1 Christie, I. 3, 78 Cinderella 4, 34, 94, 103 Cinderella (Geronimi, Jackson and Luske, 1950) 94 Cinoglu, H. 1, 27, 29, 35, 39, 40, 54, 55, 94 Clampett, Bob 21–2, 51 Clarke, J. 152, 154, 155, 156, 158, 161 class: Betty Boop 2, 12; British New Wave cinema 79; and Chaplin 29; masculinity in 1930s America 37, 41, 170 clay animation: Elliot in interview 118–20; and the history of stop motion animation 70–2; Park and Aardman 72–5; see also Harvie Krumpet; Mary and Max; Wallace and Gromit animations clay, medium of 70, 72, 73, 74, 75, 80, 85, 115, 119, 163 clayography 50, 118; see also Elliot, Adam Clinton, Hilary 95–6, 99 Close Shave, A (Park, 1995) 76, 78, 81, 82 collectivism 3, 23, 31–2, 37–8, 41, 44, 48, 139, 169

Collier-Meek, M. A. 109 comedy/humour: Elliot’s underdogs 122, 128, 130; Looney Tunes animations 51, 60–2, 65, 77, 170; Park’s little nuances 73; slapstick 4, 75–7, 79, 80, 170 computer generated imagery see CGI (computer-generated imagery) consumerism and consumption: American society 13, 94, 155, 157, 162; attack on overconsumption in Spirited Away 145, 146–7; and Betty Boop 13, 14; disposability of animated features 155, 162; DreamWorks 162; Manga and anime 140; mass production 14, 152, 157; in WALL-E 5, 156–7, 158, 159, 160 Cooley, Charles Horton 57–8, 93 Coquette (Taylor, 1929) 13 Cott, J. 4, 75, 77, 80 Crafton, D. 2, 10, 16, 27, 33, 38, 52, 53, 54, 57, 62, 63 Creature Comforts (Park, 1989) 74 Crocetti, E. 139 cross- dressing 4, 14, 20, 54–5, 83, 85, 90, 105–8, 109, 170 Crossingham, Merlin 76, 77, 78, 83 culture: American identity and comedy 61–2; American reception of Japanese manga and anime 140, 142; American romanticism 156, 157, 161; American traditionalism and conservatism (1930s America) 3, 26, 31–2, 33, 36–7, 58, 135; Britishness in Park’s animations 3, 70, 78–9, 80, 81, 135, 170; and Disney princesses 90, 93–7, 98, 170; displacement 4, 42, 43, 58, 118–19, 120–1; Japanese culture for Miyazaki 4–5, 134, 135–6, 137, 138, 139, 142, 144, 145–6, 147; jazz age America and Betty Boop 2, 8–9, 12–13, 15–16, 17, 22, 58, 133, 135, 160; Looney Tunes animations 51, 52, 54, 59–60, 62, 64; Pixar’s acknowledgement of 155–6; and transsexuality 108, 109; as a wandering phenomenon 4, 51, 58, 123, 125, 128; see also consumerism and consumption Curse of the Were-Rabbit, The (Park, 2005) 78, 80, 83, 84, 85, 89–90 Daffy Duck: anarchy of 49; audience connection 59, 60, 69, 74; body of 56, 58, 69, 129; comedy/humour 51, 60, 61, 65, 77; setting/place 58, 60, 74, 123, 155; on studio system 60, 63; vulnerability of 52, 59, 60

176

Index

Davis, A. 90, 93, 95, 97, 103, 109 Davis, M. 60 Dawson, A. 4, 51, 123 De Lauretis, T. 18, 90, 92, 93, 95, 110 Deleuze, G. 14, 28 Delver, C. 39, 43, 143 Descartes, L. 109 Dewy (Silent Running) 158 diaspora 3, 15, 42, 123, 128, 133, 170 difference: Betty Boop animations 2–3, 17–20, 28, 169; Brecht’s theory of otherness and empathy for objects 157–8; Bugs Bunny 52; Elliot’s stigmatized misfits 110, 115–16, 118, 119, 120, 123–4, 125–8, 130; Elsa 104, 105, 115, 117, 124; ethnicity and diaspora 42, 43, 120–1, 123, 128, 170; hotel manager (Porky Pig’s Feat) 59; and the imperfections of clay 115, 126; Lacan’s mirror stage theory 71, 82; and self- definition 20, 117, 119, 127, 136, 143; society’s fear of 98; spectacle of 116, 117, 118, 122–3, 124, 128, 130; Ursula 97–8, 106–7, 110, 115; Wallace and Gromit animations 3, 69, 70, 76, 77, 79, 80–3, 84, 85, 115; Western perspectives on Japan 135–6; women 90, 92, 93, 95 DiLorenzo, P. C. 162, 163 DiNardo, P. J. P. 20–1 disability: Elliot’s underdogs 98, 116, 119, 122, 124, 125, 126, 127; and the medium of clay 115; in Rosicky’s Identity 118; in WALL-E 98, 160–1 Disney animations: 1930s traditionalism and conservatism 3, 26, 31–2, 33, 36–7, 58, 135; and Adam Elliot 120; anti-Semitism 16; cultural power/ significance of 26, 31; Donald Duck 59–60; early anti-realism 28–30; Fantasia 32, 54; influence on Warner Bros. 48, 51, 62; Lilo and Stitch 3, 42–3, 58, 121, 133, 142, 143, 170; and Looney Tunes 48, 50, 51, 54, 62–3; Mickey Mouse 10, 22, 28, 29–30, 31, 43, 44n1; missing mothers and punished children 3, 26–7, 34, 39–42, 43, 44, 94, 97, 142–3, 170; Miyazaki on 142; nature theme 33, 35, 133, 145; patriarchy and paternalism 32, 36–7, 38, 39, 91, 95, 96, 97, 110, 169; princes 103, 104, 106, 109; realism 26, 27–8, 31–2, 38, 51, 62, 133, 142, 161; see also Disney princesses; Disney villainesses

Disney princesses: Ariel 95–7, 98, 103, 110; body conformity 97, 98; gender representation 90, 92, 93–7; gender stereotypes 93–5; merchandising 95, 103; Quinn on 101; Snow White 3, 34–8, 58, 72, 85, 94, 103, 170; social conformity 3, 33–4, 96, 97, 104, 105, 170; voice 4, 95–6, 103–5, 110, 117 Disney Studios: acting classes for animators 26, 33, 38; and CGI 152–3; employment conditions 3, 34, 38, 63–4, 153; female personnel 98; and Pixar 153, 161; Production Code 31; technological innovators 3, 10, 32–3, 38, 44, 161 Disney villainesses 91, 97–8; see also Ursula Disney, Walt: anti-Semitism 16; auteurism of 34; industrial ethos 27, 32, 38; influence of 48; as innovator 32–3, 152; and migration of Chuck Jones to Warner Bros. 5; paternalism 32, 39, 44; view of women 4, 93, 94, 110n1 Dizzy Dishes (Fleischer, 1930) 10 Dodd, Peter 64–5 Donald Duck 59–60 drag queens: Ursula 97, 98, 106; see also cross- dressing Dream of a Rarebit Fiend (McCay and Porter, 1906) 70 DreamWorks 5, 98, 99, 155, 161–2 DuBois, E. 12, 37 Duck Amuck ( Jones, 1953b) 49, 58, 60, 61 Duffy, B. R. 82 dystopias 140, 149n3, 156, 157, 159, 160 Easter Island statues 72 Eisenstein, Sergei 30, 31, 32 Elliot, Adam: biographical background 118; body 98, 129, 160; embracing controversy 116, 170–1; ethnicity 120–1, 128, 135; fear of fixedness 4, 117–18; Harvie Krumpet 4, 117, 120, 122–5, 129; in interview 118–20; Mary and Max 120, 124, 125–30, 142, 155 Elmer (Looney Tunes character) 52, 53, 54, 55, 60, 63, 105–6 Elsa (Frozen) 43, 103, 104–5, 106, 115, 117, 124 England, D. E. 109 Englishness 78; see also British identity Eric (Frozen) 103, 104, 106, 109 Ernst, Joni 96, 99 Ethel and Ernest (Mainwood, 2016) 64, 65

Index 177

ethnicity 16, 42, 95, 120–1, 123, 128, 135 Eveready Harton in Buried Treasure 17 everyman 28–9, 30, 79 Fanon, Frantz 116 Fantasia (Ferguson and Algar, 1940) 32, 54 Farrer, P. 108 Fatty Arbunckle scandal 17 Felix the Cat 10, 28, 29, 50 femininity: Betty Boop’s body 2, 9, 11, 12, 89, 92; and cross- dressing 20, 90, 105–8; Disney’s erasure of 39, 94, 97, 143, 170; Disney villainesses 97–8; domesticity 36–7, 91, 94, 96, 97; flappers 12–13, 18; and masculinity in Pixar films 109–10; passivity 4, 95, 96; and patriarchy 39, 91, 92; pleasing others 94–5; progressive Disney princesses 95–8, 103, 104; Quinn’s animations 100; Walt Disney’s view of 4, 90, 93, 94, 110n1 feminism: and family life 95; Frozen 103, 104; Miyazaki and Japan 4, 5, 138–9; modernist and postmodernist approaches to 92, 105; Quinn’s animations 99–101; Women’s right movements 12, 92, 138 film noirs 49, 62 Fitzgerald, Scott F. 12, 22 Fitzgerald, Zelda 13, 14 flappers 9, 12–13, 14, 16, 17, 18, 169 Fleischer, Max 9–10, 11 Fleischer studios 22, 50 Flowers and Trees (Gillett, 1932) 33 Flying Mouse, The (Hand, 1934) 33 Ford, G. 51, 52, 63 Ford, Henry 16 Fordism 3, 38, 64 Forster, E. M. 30 Foucault, M. 3, 14, 20, 98, 129 fourth wall 9, 59, 60, 75, 77 Fox, N. J. 3, 9, 14, 56, 93, 129 Frankenstein (Whale, 1931) 38 Freleng, F. 62 Freud: S. 89, 91, 92 Friedan, B. 94 Frozen (Buck and Lee, 2013) 4, 43, 90, 97, 98, 103–5, 106, 109, 110, 117 gag- driven shorts 3, 10, 33, 50, 57, 63, 64–5 Garber, M. B. 4, 90, 91, 106, 107–8 García Carsí, Guillermo 151, 164–6

gender: animation industry employees 98–105, 110; cross- dressing 4, 14, 20, 83, 85, 90, 105–8, 109, 170; in Frozen 4, 90, 97, 103–5, 109, 110; as performance 4, 54, 83, 85, 89, 90, 105–8, 160; snapshot of gender theory 4, 90–1; see also femininity; feminism; masculinity Get a Horse! (MacMullan, 2013) 98–9 Gillam, K. 97, 109, 110 Gilliam, Terry 72–3 Gillota, D. 61 Girl’s Night Out (Quinn, 1988) 99–100 Glyn, Elinor 12, 17 Goffman, E. 72, 81, 124–5 Gold Rush, The (Chaplin, 1925) 29 Gone with the Wind (Fleming, 1939) 38 Graham, Don 33, 38 Grand Day Out, A (Park, 1989b) 73 Grave of the Fireflies (Takahata, 1988) 142 Great Depression 9, 20, 21, 31, 37, 44, 49, 159 Gromit (Wallace and Gromit character) 4, 76–7, 78, 79, 83, 85, 90, 118, 126, 160, 170 Grube, D. 3, 79, 81 Grumpy (Snow White and the Seven Dwarves) 35 Gunning, T. 122 Ha! Ha! Ha! (Fleischer, 1934) 16 Hall, Conrad 70 Hall, S. 104, 115, 117, 128, 141 Hammer Horror films 80 Hardy, Oliver 65–6, 77 Harryhausen, Ray 70, 71–2 Harvie Krumpet (Elliot, 2003) 4, 117, 120, 122–5, 129 Harvie Krumpet (Harvie Krumpet) 4, 117, 119, 122–5, 126, 127, 129, 130, 136 Hastings, A. 78–9 Hatano, K. 139 Hawaiian identity 42, 43 Hays Code 20, 21, 31 Hendry, J. 135, 136, 137, 139, 147 Homer Simpson (The Simpsons) 108 Horikoshi, Jiro 147 Horkheimer, M. 32 horror 26, 80, 83 hotel manager (Porky Pig’s Feat) 59 humour see comedy/humour Humpty Dumpty Circus, The (Blackton and Smith, 1989) 70 Huntington, S. 61–2 hybridized identities 50–1, 123

178

Index

Identity (Rosicky, 2015) 118, 171 I’m No Angel (Ruggles, 1933) 21 In Cold Blood (Brooks, 1967) 70 interviews 2, 5; Acet, Nedy 99, 151, 162–3; Dodd, Peter 64–5; García Carsí, Guillermo 151, 164–6; Hilary Audus, Hilary 65–6, 102–3; Paccou, Marie 101–2; Page, Chris 151, 158, 164; Quinn, Joann 99–101 Is My Palm Read (Fleischer, 1933b) 11, 20 Japan: adolescence 139, 145; anime and manga 133, 135, 140, 141, 142, 147, 171; cultural tradition 137, 139, 140, 145–6, 147; ie=family 137, 138; Miyazaki’s theme of 5, 134, 135, 137, 142, 143–4, 145, 146; nostalgia/ memory 137–8, 142; realistic depiction of 144; Shinto 136, 147; top- down histories 136–7, 143–4; westerncentricity 135–6; women 138–9 Jason and the Argonauts (Chaffey, 1963) 71 Jazz age/1920s America 2, 8–9, 10, 12–13, 15–16, 17, 22, 58, 133, 135, 160 Jiro (The Wind Rises) 147, 148 Jobs, Steve 135, 153 Johnston, Ollie 153 Jones, Chuck: on Bugs Bunny 52–3, 54, 58, 63; and Chaplin 60, 66; characters’ psychological depth 52–3, 57, 60, 64, 169; on Daffy Duck 58, 60; on Walt Disney 48, 51; on Warner Bros. studio dynamics 62, 63 Jungle Book, The (Reitherman, 1967) 39 Kammen, M. G. 3, 31 Kane, Helen 11 Kant, I 154, 169 Katzenberg, Jeffrey 99, 154, 161, 162 Kearney, R. 4, 20, 84, 127, 143, 169 Keaton, Buster 4, 60, 66, 75–7, 80, 126, 160, 170 King Kong (Cooper and Schoedsack, 1933) 71 Klein, N. M. 28, 30, 31, 33, 34, 49 Ko Ko, the Clown (Fleischer character) 15, 16, 20 Kondo, D. 137, 138, 147 Lacan, Jacques 9, 71, 82, 91, 170, 171 Laderman, G. 26, 32, 40 Ladykillers, The (Mackendrick, 1955) 79 Lasseter, John 98, 148, 152–3, 154, 162, 166, 171 Laurel, Stanley 77

Leary, M. 1, 3, 8, 27, 154 Lee, Jennifer 98, 103, 104 Leslie, E. 28, 29, 30, 32, 36, 37, 39, 77, 82, 170 Lilo (Lilo and Stitch) 42, 43, 170 Lilo and Stitch (DeBlois and Sanders, 2002) 3, 42–3, 58, 121, 133, 142, 143, 170 Little Mermaid, The (Clements and Musker, 1989) 95–7, 98, 103; see also Ursula ‘living cartoons’ 9–10 ‘looking-glass self ’ 57–8, 89, 93 Looney Tunes animations: audience connectivity 55, 58, 59–60, 64, 65, 69, 74; body in 49, 56–8, 69, 74, 98, 129; Bugs Bunny’s performance and self 3, 49, 52–6, 170; comedy 51, 60–2, 65, 77; cross- dressing/gender-bending 4, 54–5, 85, 90, 105, 106; lessons from 64–6; place/setting 49, 58–9, 60, 74, 123, 133, 155; postmodernism 52, 106, 118; revolution in 48–9, 50, 51–2, 62–4, 135 Lucas, George 152 Luske, H. 36 Luxo Jr (Lasseter, 1986) 153, 154 McCarthy, H. 133, 134, 140, 141, 142, 144 MacMullan, Lauren 99 McNight, U. 42 Maker, W. 20, 59, 70, 116 Maltin, L. 11–12, 14, 15, 22, 26, 33, 49, 51, 52, 54, 55, 58, 59, 60, 62, 64, 154 manga 133, 135, 140, 141, 147 Mantrap (Fleming, 1926) 13, 18 marxism 82 Mary (Mary and Max) 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 142 Mary and Max (Elliot, 2009) 120, 124, 125–30, 142, 155 masculinity: 1930s and 1940s America 37, 41, 94, 170; 1970s crisis 92; Betty Boop animations 13, 16, 18, 20; and cross- dressing 90, 107, 108; and Disney villainesses 97; and patriarchy 18, 37, 41, 91, 109–10, 170; in Pixar animations 109–10, 154 Max Horowitz (Mary and Max) 124, 125, 127–8, 129–30 Mei (My Neighbor Totoro) 142, 143 memory: American nation 8, 31, 44; meaning creation 128; of place 116, 117, 123, 128, 137–8, 140, 141; The Wind Rises 148

Index 179

Mickey Mouse 10, 22, 28, 29–30, 31, 43, 44n1 migration: between animation studios 50–1; Bugs Bunny as pilgrim 58; Elliot’s misfits 118, 119, 123–4, 128, 138; to Australia 120–1; World War II émigrés 32 Miyazaki, Hayao: adolescence 5, 133, 139, 142, 145, 148, 171; biographical background 140–1, 142; celebration of women 138, 139; cinematic influence 133, 171; as Disney of Japan 133, 135; dualism 5, 134, 144; ecology/nature 134, 135, 141, 142, 145, 146, 147, 148; influence on Lasseter 153; and manga 140, 141, 147; My Neighbor Totoro 141–3, 148; nostalgia 4, 130, 133, 138, 140, 141–2, 145, 148, 171; place 130, 133, 134, 138, 141, 171; Princess Mononoke 134, 135, 137, 143–5; rejection of hierarchical approach to Japanese history 137, 143–4; Spirited Away 139, 145–7, 157; The Wind Rises 135, 147–8, 155 moai statues of Easter Island 72 Modern Times (Chaplin, 1936) 159, 160 Moi, L’autre (Paccou, 2001) 101–2 Mooney, Andy 95 Moore, L. 12, 13, 14, 16, 17, 22, 56, 57, 72, 93, 98, 128, 129 Morph (Take Hart) 74 Mulan: (Mulan) 95, 97, 103 Mulvey, L. 17, 18, 93, 110 My Neighbor Totoro (Miyazaki, 1988) 141–3, 148 Nahoko (The Wind Rises) 148 Nani (Lilo and Stitch) 42, 43, 142 Napier, S. 134, 135, 139, 140, 142, 145, 146 narcissism: Bugs Bunny 52, 58; Disney’s femmes fatales 97; Park’s villains 3, 81–2, 97, 116, 136, 170 national identity: 1920s jazz age 2, 8–9, 12–13, 15–16, 17, 22, 58, 133, 135, 160; American traditionalism and conservatism (1930s) 3, 26, 31–2, 33, 36–7, 58, 135; Britishness in Park’s animation 3, 70, 78–9, 80, 81, 135, 170; displacement 4, 42, 43, 58, 118–19, 120–1; Japanese culture for Miyazaki 4–5, 134, 135–6, 137, 138, 139, 142, 144, 145–6, 147 nature: Disney 33, 35, 133, 145; Miyazaki’s animations 134, 135, 141, 142, 145, 146–7, 147–8

Natwick, Myron “Grim” 11, 36 Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind (Miyazaki, 1984) 141, 142 Negri, Pola 13 neoteny 2, 11, 12, 13, 14, 16, 19, 26, 36, 169 New Wave Cinema 79 New York 10, 126 No-Face (Spirited Away) 146, 147 nostalgia: for 1920s America in Betty Boop animations 2, 8–9, 133, 160; Betty Boop 8, 9; CG and WALL-E 5, 151, 157, 158–9, 159–60, 161; Disney’s legendary animators 153; and empathy 158; Hammer Horror films 80; Miyazaki’s cinema 4, 130, 133, 138, 140, 141–2, 145, 148, 171; Wallace and Gromit 69, 78, 160 O’Brien, Willis 71 Olympia (Riefenstahl) 37 Oswald the Lucky Rabbit 28, 50 otherness see difference Paccou, Marie 101–2 Page, Chris 151, 158, 164 Park, Nick: biographical background 72–3; cinematic influences 72, 73, 79, 80, 84, 133; Creature Comforts 74; difference and nationhood 70; and Elliot 119; imperfection creating meaning 70; Looney Tunes influence 64; tactility, emotion and personality 74; see also Wallace and Gromit animations parody: of horror in Wallace and Gromit 81, 83; Looney Tunes 48, 49, 51, 59, 62, 63 Pato (Pocoyo) 165 patriarchy: Disney animations 32, 36–7, 38, 39, 91, 95, 96, 97, 110; and femininity 39, 91, 92; Japanese households 138, 139; and masculinity 18, 37, 41, 91, 109–10, 170; and the pleasure of looking 18; and transvestism 107 Penguin (The Wrong Trousers) 80, 81–2 Penny (The Rescuers) 40–1 Peter Pan (Geronimi and Jackson, 1953) 41 Petlevski, S. 53 Pickford, Mary 12, 13, 18, 23n2 Pinocchio (Luske and Ferguson, 1940) 34, 39–40, 41, 94 Pinocchio (Pinocchio) 34, 39–40 Pixar 5, 98, 99, 151–6, 161–2; see also Toy Story; WALL-E

180

Index

place: belonging and wandering in Elliot’s cinema 4, 117, 118, 119, 120–1, 123–4, 125, 126, 128, 130, 138; diaspora and displacement in Lilo and Stitch 3, 42, 43, 133, 170; hybridized identities 50–1, 123; in Looney Tunes animations 3, 49, 58–9, 60, 74, 123, 133, 155; manga 135, 140; memory of 116, 117, 123, 128, 137–8, 140, 141; Miyazaki’s dreamscape worlds 4, 130, 134, 142, 148, 171; Morph 74; Wallace and Gromit 77–8; Woody 155; see also national identity Pocahontas 95, 103 Pocoyo (García Carsí, Cantolla and Gallego, 2005) 165 Pocoyo (Pocoyo) 165 Popeye 4, 14, 90, 107, 108 Popeye the Sailor (Fleischer, 1933) 14, 107 Porky Pig 52, 58, 59, 63 Porky Pig’s Feat (Tashlin, 1943) 59 Porky’s Duck Hunt (Avery, 1937) 52 Porky’s Hare Hunt (Hardaway and Dalton, 1938) 52 postmodernism: body and self 56, 128; Chihiro 146; Frozen 103, 104, 106; and gender 92, 105, 106, 170; identity politics in animation 118, 171; Japanese adolescence 139; Looney Tunes 52, 106, 118 Preston (Wallace and Gromit character) 76, 82–3 Princess Mononoke (Miyazaki, 1997) 134, 135, 137, 143–5 punishment: Betty Boop 14, 17, 22; Disney princesses 34, 38, 57, 96, 97, 104, 105, 170; Disney’s punished children 26–7, 34, 39–40, 41–2, 43, 44; Looney Tunes animations 3, 56, 160 Purves, B. 75, 80, 85 Questel, Mae 11–12 Quinn, Joanna 99–101, 102, 169 Rapport, N. 4, 51, 123 realism: American cinema of the New Deal era 37; animation’s representation of 93, 115; CG 5, 69, 151, 157, 161, 163; Disney animations 26, 27–8, 31–2, 38, 51, 62, 133, 142, 161; and Elliot 13, 118–19, 124, 125, 126, 130, 142; Fleischer’s 3D set back camera 10; Japanese cinema 144; Japanese manga 140; and Miyazaki 133, 142, 171; and slapstick 75, 76; stop motion animation 69–70, 71–2, 85, 115, 154; and

thingness 151; Warner Bros. 48, 49, 51, 53, 62, 63; see also anti-realism Rescuers, The (Lounsbery and Reitherman, 1977) 39, 40–1 ringmaster (Boop-Oop-a-Doop) 18, 20, 28, 169 Ronen, R. 5, 69, 154, 169 Rosenbaum, J. 159–60 Rosicky, Vít 118, 171 Rothbard, M. N. 21, 44 Rozario, R.-A. 95, 96, 97, 103 San (Princess Mononoke) 5, 135, 144–5 Sarafian, Katherine 99 satire 78; see also parody Satsuki (My Neighbor Totoro) 5, 135, 142–3 Schlesinger, Leon 50, 59, 63 Schneider, S. 60, 62 Scott, E. 156, 157, 158, 159, 160 self-reflexivity/consciousness: and the animation form 1; Betty Boop 13, 18, 89; Warner Bros. Looney Tunes 3, 49, 52, 54, 55, 60 Sells, L. 95, 96, 97, 106–7 Selzer, Eddie 63 sexuality: Betty Boop 9, 11, 12, 13, 14, 18, 22, 26, 37, 69, 85, 92, 118, 169; and ethnicity 95; and gender theory 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 106; Mae West 18, 20, 21, 22; see also cross- dressing Sharot, S. 9, 13, 14 Sherrington, G. 120, 121 Shinto 136, 147 Shojo heroines 2, 5, 135, 139, 142–3, 144–6, 147 Shrek (Anderson and Jenson, 2001) 155, 162 Sid (Toy Story) 159 Siggraph 153 silent films: audience connectivity 12, 122, 126; Buster Keaton 4, 60, 66, 75–7, 80, 126, 160, 170; and the gaze of the stop motion character 80, 126, 127 Silent Running (Trumbull, 1972) 158 Simpsons, The 108 slapstick comedy 4, 75–7, 79, 80, 170 Sleeping Beauty 103 Smith, Alvy 152 Snowman, the 65, 66 Snow White 3, 34–7, 37–8, 58, 72, 85, 94, 103, 170 Snow White (Fleischer, 1933c) 15–16 Snow White and the Seven Dwarves (Hand and Cottrell, 1937) 3, 27, 34–8, 58, 72, 85, 94, 97, 103, 170

Index 181

social conformity: Chaplin in The Gold Rush 29; context for American comedy (1930s) 61–2; Disney princesses 3, 33–4, 96, 97, 104, 105, 170; Disney’s punished children 27, 33–4, 39–40, 41–2, 43, 44; Harvie Krumpet 125 society: 1950s Britain 79, 80; and control/ management of the body 3, 14, 98, 101, 129, 146; and Cooley’s ‘looking-glass self ’ theory 57–8, 89; Elliot’s stigmatized misfits 110, 115–16, 118, 119, 120, 123–4, 125–8, 130; in flux and shifting identity 1, 117, 123; and gender construction 90, 107–8, 109–10; homogenization 119, 121; Japanese 135–7, 138, 139, 140, 143–4, 145–6, 147; modern malleability and identity in flux 117; in WALL-E 156, 157, 160; and women 9, 12–13, 14, 18, 91, 92, 93, 94–5, 96; see also America; social conformity Spark, Andi 121 Spencer, Fred 59 Spirited Away (Miyazaki, 2001) 139, 145–7, 157 Stanton, A. 156, 158, 160 Starewicz, Wladyslaw 71 Star Wars trilogy (Lucas, 1977; Kershner, 1980; Marquand, 1983) trilogy 152 Steamboat Willie (Iwerks and Disney, 1928) 22, 154 Stets, J. 1, 27, 41, 84, 90, 96, 128 stigma: and Adam Elliot’s clayographies 110, 116, 118, 120, 121, 123–4, 128; creation of 81; Elsa 104; in identity theory 4; and the rejection of ‘otherness’ 117; stop motion technique 115; Wallace 84 Stitch (Lilo and Stitch) 43 stop motion animation: and Elliot’s Oscar award 120; Fleischer’s 3D set back camera 10; and the grotesque 72, 82, 115; in horror films 80; Looney Tunes’ influence 64, 73; Morph 74; origins of 70–1; realism 69–70, 71–2, 85, 115, 154; tactility 70, 71, 72, 75, 119; technology for 10; see also Harvie Krumpet; Mary and Max; Wallace and Gromit animations Studio Ghibli 135, 137, 141 surrealism: Betty Boop 9, 15, 19, 22; in Looney Tunes animations 52; Snow White (Fleischer, 1933c) 15; stop motion animation 70–1, 72 Swale, A. 134, 146, 147 swashbuckling adventures 37, 49

Takahata, Isao 141 Tangney, J. 1, 3, 8, 27, 154 Tashlin, Frank 52, 64 Telotte, J. P. 54, 105–6 ‘Termite Terrace’ 50, 51–2, 63 thingness: Buster Keaton and Gromit as objects 4, 75, 80; of CG 5, 151, 154, 157–8, 161, 164, 171; objectification of self 1–2, 3, 27, 154 Thomas, Frank 153 Thorson, Charlie 51 Thugs with Dirty Faces (Avery, 1939) 51 Toshiko, Kishida 138 Toy Story (Lasseter, 1995) 109–10, 154–5, 159, 161 transvestism see cross- dressing Trav S. D. 79–80 uncanniness 71, 72, 79, 80, 108, 154 United States of America see America Un Jour (Paccou, 2001) 101 UPA (United Productions of America) animation studio 51 Ursula (The Little Mermaid) 92, 97–8, 106–7, 110, 115, 129 US (United States of America) see America Valentino, Rudolf 13, 23n3 violence 49, 52, 56, 57, 62, 63, 75–6, 98, 129 Vision On (Doig, Pilkington and Dowling, 1965–76) 73–4 voice: Disney princesses 4, 95–6, 103–5, 110, 117; WA LL-E’s and Pixar’s early struggle for 157 Wallace and Gromit animations: audience connectivity 77, 118, 126, 160; family 77–8, 80, 81, 85; gender performance 83, 85, 90; Gromit and Buster Keaton 4, 75–7, 126, 160, 170; horror 79–83; narcissistic villains 3, 81–2, 97, 116, 136, 170; national identity/Britishness 3, 70, 78–9, 80, 81, 135, 170; nostalgia 69, 78, 160; otherness/difference 3, 69, 70, 76, 77, 79, 80–3, 84, 85, 115; plasmation 70, 115 Wallace (Wallace and Gromit animations) 76, 77, 79, 84 WALL-E (Stanton, 2008) 5, 98, 152, 156–61, 171 WA LL-E (WALL-E) 5, 152, 156, 157, 158, 159, 160, 161

182

Index

Warner Bros. studios: animator migration 50–1; Disney’s influence 48, 51, 62; and Hays Code 21; studio origins 49–50, 62; working conditions 3, 52, 60, 63–4, 135; see also Looney Tunes animations Warner, Jack 62 Watts, S. 26, 31, 32, 35 Wedge, Chris 152 Wells, P. 27, 32, 33, 34, 38, 52, 72, 73, 104, 105, 107 West, Mae 18, 20, 21, 22 What’s Cookin’ Doc? (Clampett and Freleng, 1944) 62, 63 What’s Opera Doc? ( Jones, 1957) 49, 54–6, 62, 105, 106 Wilde, Oscar 85, 135 Wild Hare, A (Avery, 1940) 52 Wind Rises, The (Miyazaki, 2013) 135, 147–8, 155 Wohlwend, K. E. 109

Wollstonecraft, Mary 92 Wooden, S. 97, 109, 110 Woodward, K. 18, 41, 42, 98, 116, 117, 123, 128, 129 Woody (Toy Story) 109–10, 154–5, 156, 158 Woolf, Virginia 91 working conditions: Disney studios 3, 34, 38, 63–4, 153; in Looney Tunes’ animations 3, 52, 60, 63–4, 135; Pixar 153; Studio Ghibli 141 Wrong Trousers, The (Park, 1993) 76, 80–1, 82, 84 Yasujiro, Ozu 133 You Ought to be in Pictures (Freleng, 1940) 59, 63 Yuh Nelson, Jennifer 99, 102 Yukichi, Fukuzawa 138 Zipes, J. 28, 32, 34, 36, 38