The Bechdel Test Part 2: Romantic Comedies

Okay, so it was Oscar night on Sunday, so you may wondering what I thought of the outcome. The Artist pretty much deserved to win Best Picture, Score, Actor (though Gary Oldman was equally deserving for his turn in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy), and Director, but I remain irked that Nicholas Winding Refn's fantastic Drive didn't get even a nod in any major categories. Scorsese's Hugo earned its five wins, especially cinematography and set design. Sacha Baron Cohen's stunt was predictable but I'd be lying if I said I didn't think it was funny. I couldn't give two fucks about The Help, I haven't seen Midnight in Paris, and Meryl Streep's win was as inevitable as it was pointless. So that's that for another year. Incidentally, you should check out this video from Anita Sarkeesian  for some really interesting points about women filmmakers and the Oscars.

Also, beware, as this post's a long one, so you might want to put on a pot of coffee.

Anyway, in my last post, we had a look at the Bechdel Test and how women are grossly under-represented in films. This time, I want to focus the discussion by examining a few films that are aimed specifically at, and are about, women. As I mentioned before, 'women's films' are often referred to as 'chick flicks', which is a deceptively problematic term. If we take 'chick flick' simply to mean a film that appeals in particular to women, then we have an incredibly broad raft of different types of films. Romantic comedies tend to be the dominant chick flicks, but often melodramas such as John Avnet's Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe are seen as chick flicks, as are musicals, and films about 'women's issues', such as the recent The Help, which was nominated for a Best Picture Oscar. Chick flicks tend to focus on characterisation, relationships and emotional conflict and resolution, as opposed to action, violence, or the other preserves of 'male cinema'. But even this definition incorporates films as diverse as Gone With The Wind, Now Voyager, and Maid in Manhattan. The core concept of the chick flick is that it appeals exclusively to women. It's very interesting, then, that 'chick flick' is broadly a pejorative term, used to denote frothy, inferior films that lack the artistic gravitas of a 'male' film. On this second point, I think the damage to women's films is twofold: 'chick flick' diminishes the value of women's cinema by framing it as an inferior 'other' to male films. Furthermore, it makes it too easy to criticise unsatisfactory tosh aimed at women by giving it a label rather than actively engaging with it and asking what in particular is so unsatisfying and toshy. 

To paraphrase Chris Rock, I hate chick flicks, but I love women's films.  We need to start making and watching good women's films, and relegate chick flicks to the past, both by being more demanding of women's cinema, and not using the term 'chick flick' as a vague, insubstantive pejorative. For the next section of this post I'll be briefly discussing three romantic comedies. Originally, I wanted to discuss a broader range of films, but  for now I'll leave it at the rom coms and return to the rest in a future post.

It's no surprise that romantic comedies are as successful, or ubiquitous, as they are. They're cheap and quick to make, and a guaranteed formula means even critically panned dross like Bride Wars tends to make a respectable return for their studios. It's partially through the slavish adherence to the familiar romcom plot formula, as well as the identikit marketing of almost every example of the genre (evidence of which is here, here and here) that mean that rom coms are generally regarded as inferior, which is a shame because there are good examples of romantic comedy, some of which are, admittedly, responsible for the model on which so much other crap is based. What follows is a summary of a few notable examples of romantic comedies that, for better or worse, exemplify the genre in some way, and whether they pass the Bechdel Test.

1) Pillow Talk

Frothy but fun: Pillow Talk

Michael Gordon's Pillow Talk comes from the tail-end of Hollywood's so-called Golden Age in 1959, and while not the first romantic comedy, is certainly partially responsible for the modern rom com formula. The plot begins with Jan Morrow, played by Doris Day, being tormented by Brad Allen, her womanising neighbour who keeps tying up their shared phone line with his string of girlfriends. Initially they hate each other (can we see where this is going?), before Brad sees Jan and realises she looks and dances like Doris Day. He therefore instantly decides he wants to sleep with her, but knowing she'll reject him once she finds out who he is, he adopts a fake Texan persona called 'Rex Stetson' and gets her to fall in love with him. However his jealous friend, also in love with Jan, brings the whole deck of cards crashing down, which of course, results in the brief end-of second act conflict, before Jan gets over the fact that was duped and decides she really is in love with Brad and marries him. Despite the formulaic plot, Day and Rock Hudson, who plays Brad, inject their roles with wit and humour, and while the film is undoubtedly unenlightened about women (and in one unintentionally ironic scene, homosexuality), it feels very modern. For example, Jan is a single, independent woman with a job and an apartment, and although she does end up with Brad in the end, the film doesn't portray her as the kind of unlucky-in-love loser that more recent, supposedly more progressive films have done.

Bechdel Test: Fail. Jan talks to her housekeeper, who also serves as her 'wise friend' character, but they only ever really talk about Brad Allen's annoying phone habits.

2) Down With Love

Pillow Talk has become so archetypal of the genre that it was semi-remade the 2003 film Down With Love, directed by Peyton Reed. It borrows the basic plot and character beats of Pillow Talk to tell its story of Barbara Novak who, while promoting her new pseudo-feminist book, falls for the womanising Catcher Block. Down With Love tries to gets away with repeating the catalogue of rom com cliches by setting itself in the golden era of romantic comedies, and by overtly mirroring the style and structure of of films like Pillow Talk. It's a self-aware rom com, one that refers to and pokes fun at formula while itself adhering to it. Even the post-modern twist at the end doesn't really change the direction of the movie, and so the two leads end up together against all sense of odds or social ethics, proving once again that even crazy feminist go-getters just want to be loved.



Red text on a white background strikes again

What is frustrating about this film, apart from the overdone production design and score, which insist on incessantly reminding you that YOU'RE IN A 60s COMEDY!, is that its setting provided a great opportunity to satirise and deconstruct the cliches of rom coms. In parts it clearly wants to: in one scene, for example, the 'friend' character, played by Frasier's David Hyde Pierce, refers to Catcher's apartment switcheroo caper as being straight from a film, and to Catcher and Barbara as 'the leads'. The final twist reveals that it was Barbara who was fooling Catcher all along, which consciously and directly subverts the dynamic it borrows from Pillow Talk. But alas, all this clever meta-commentary ultimately signifies nothing, as 'the leads' end up together just as surely as supporting characters always pair off with each other, just so everyone gets at least one shag. Barbara fools Catcher because she fell in love with him as his former secretary, before reinventing herself a glamorous writer. She even wrote her feminist book just to attract Catcher's attention, 'cos that's like, you know, all chicks really want. Apparently, the only arc that Barbara goes through is to do dye her hair red at the end, as some sort of contrived compromise between being a sexy blonde and a frumpy, secretarial brunette.

Bechdel Test: Pass. Barbara and her friend character talk about promoting her book. Which is about love, and indirectly, men, because apparently even when women aren't talking about men, they are really.

3) When Harry Met Sally

Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal: Perfect casting

If Pillow Talk exemplifies the genre in the 1950s and 60s, then Rob Reiner's 1989 When Harry Met Sally is undoubtedly the archetypal modern romantic comedy; the yardstick by which all other boy-meets-girl stories are judged. I think When Harry Met Sally is the best example of a rom com that adheres almost completely to formula, yet manages to transcend those limitations and become a good film in its own right. What makes Reiner's film so successful is the combination of snappy, funny writing, well-written, properly developed and likable characters, and a romantic sincerity sorely lacking in many more recent rom coms. The leads are perfectly cast - Sally is initially fussy and slightly annoying (ironically Meg Ryan has never been less so), whereas Billy Crystal plays Harry at first as cocksure, faux-wise beyond his years and even a little chauvinist, propositioning Sally just hours after he's left his girlfriend to go to New York. What is great about these characters is that they don't sacrifice their unlikable traits for the sake of the audience. Rather, we gradually get to know and understand their idiosyncrasies, watching them develop over the course of years. In a lesser film, Harry's climactic dash to tell Sally he loves her would be trite and cynical, but it works here because we're genuinely invested in the characters: they're right for each other because they're written well, not because the movie has to end with them getting together. What I like in particular about When Harry Met Sally is both leads are given equal screen time, and both are developed equally well. Despite the plot being a fairly formulaic romantic comedy, it would be especially unfair to call When Harry Met Sally a chick flick because it's about two people falling in love: it's categorically not about a woman's search for a man, which despite all its cleverness, is basically what Down With Love, and many other inferior romantic comedies, are about.

Bechdel Test: Fail. I think in this instance you can forgive the failure as all any of the four named characters do, male and female, is talk about the opposite sex. If you're selective, can reverse-apply the Bechdel Test to men in films, and find that many male characters only talk about women. However, as Anita Sarkeesian has already pointed out, there is not a problem with male representation in films, but there is with female representation. Many great films fail the bechdel test and many bad ones pass it, but the point is that it is still extremely useful as a gauge for the culture of gender bias in cinema.

I'm aware that I've missed an entire raft of films that would have been useful in this discussion; Bridesmaids is a particular interesting example of a typical 'guy film' - in this case the gross-out sex comedy - being reappropriated by a majority female cast and for a female audience. I'll save my thoughts on Bridesmaids for another post, but I'll say here that although I welcome films like Bridesmaids, and I applaud its attempt to represent women as just as funny and oafish as men, I do think that it largely fails at doing so, and fails at avoiding the cliches of the conventional rom com. Similarly, romantic comedies have experienced a similar reappropriation for male audiences, with examples including the fantastic High Fidelity, the iconic Annie Hall, the silly but amusing Knocked Up, and the overrated (500) Days of Summer. Also, and I'm saving these films for later as well, I think there are some great films with strong female leads and casts that don't fit into the rom com genre, including Alien, Thelma and Louise (both directed by Ridley Scott and both of which pass the Bechdel Test), and Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown.

Good effort but can we try it without the pink and the puppies next time?

I've suggested that women are under-representend both in films and as film-makers, and I think part of the problem is that women are cast in the same roles over and over again - as the wife, the girlfriend, or as the single woman who wants to become a wife or girlfriend. What can we do to change this? Supporting films that cast women in less conventional and more prominent roles would be a good, such as in Clint Eastwood's teriffic Changeling, or indeed Bridesmaids, even though I personally think it's overrated. Still though, babysteps. Secondly, in order to combat the lack of prominence of female filmmakers, I suggest two new categories for the Oscars (and other major film awards): Best Male Director and Best Female Director. We have male and female categories for the Best Actor awards, so why not for directors? It would force the major awards ceremonies to at least acknowledge the existence of female directors, which apparently at the moment they don't do at all, and it would bring greater prominence not only to specific female directors such as Kathryn Bigelow (the only woman to have ever won a Best Director Oscar or BAFTA), but also to women filmmakers in general. Women are clearly marginalised in front of and behind the camera, and it is incredibly detrimental to cinema. When any group is given excessive prominence over another, we all lose out because we miss the potential for new ideas, images and stories. The absence of women in films is gross and bizarre, and on a purely financial level it's stupid. The fact is women's films make money: Bridesmaids grossed almost $288 million worldwide, on a relatively small budget of $32.5 million, and Steven Soderbergh's 2000 Erin Brockovich made $256 million on a budget of $52 million. Making quality films for and about women isn't just about feminism or art - it makes financial sense too, and it's about time the film industry woke up to this and cleaned up its act.

The BAFTAs, the Oscars, and the Bechdel Test: Part 1

This week, I'll mainly be talking about the Bechdel Test, which is a method of determining how present female characters are in a film. It's something that I've wanted to discuss for a while, as I think the lack of women characters in films is a real problem in cinema. There's a lot of ground to cover, so we're going to do a two-parter, to be followed up in a fortnight. 

For a film to pass the so-called Bechdel Test it must have two named female characters, they must talk to each other, and they need to talk to each other about something other than a man. The test originates from a comic strip published by Alison Bechdel in 1985, from a comic called Dykes to Look Out For. Here's the strip for your viewing pleasure:

The original Bechdel Test

Sounds simple, right? Surely many films pass a test in which the only criteria is that women talk to each other? Nope. Ah, I hear you say, most of those that don't pass must be dumb action movies aimed at adolescent men, what do you expect? Surely more sophisticated films, or even films that are supposedly aimed at and about women (more on this next time), would naturally pass the Bechdel Test? Sadly not, dear reader. I consider myself a reasonably enlightened man, with a relatively diverse taste in films. I like Westerns, film noir, animation, spy thrillers, dramas, indie, and even I'm partial to a good romantic comedy. But out of the first 200 films in my collection how many do you think pass the test? 100? 50? Not even close. It's 8. A paltry 8 of the first 200 films I own have two women characters that talk to each other about something other than a man. And it's not as if those two hundred films are all 80s Arnie-fests, either. Amongst others, the genres this sample covers include gangster flicks, documentaries, monster movies,  science fiction, political thrillers, comedy, romance, and children's films, all ranging from the early 1930s all the way up to 2010. With the exception of silent films and blaxploitation, I don't think there could be much more diversity in terms of genre, style and period, and yet ninety six per cent (ninety six per cent!) of those films do not involve conversations between women that don't involve men. Think about that for a second. I don't think my DVD collection is particularly unusual, either: go and check your own film collection and see how many of your films pass the test. How many was it? Did any of them pass at all? This is a problem endemic within the film industry and it seems to pervade through almost every genre,  from small indies to massive summer blockbusters, from the earliest films to the latest Oscar nominees. The fact is, women just aren't present in films, either in front of or behind the camera. Out of the four hundred and fifty or so films I have on DVD, only two (TWO!) have been directed by women, namely Kathryn Bigelow's 2009 The Hurt Locker, and Sofia Coppola's 2003 Lost in Translation, and guess what: neither of those even pass the Bechdel Test.

Awards Season

Speaking of the Oscars, in the eighty two years the Academy awards have been running, only one woman has ever won best director, which was Bigelow for her superlative The Hurt Locker in 2009. At this year's Oscars, there are no female nominees for best director, and of the twenty one producers nominated for best film, only four are women. Last night's BAFTA ceremony painted a similar picture: best film and best director were given to The Artist, directed by Michael Hazanavicius and produced by Thomas Langmann, and the outstanding debut award went to Paddy Considine for Tyrannosaur. Incidentally, neither of these pass the Bechdel Test, either. Similarly, Kathryn Bigelow is the only woman to have ever won a BAFTA for best director, and one of only two women to have ever been nominated for one, the other being Copolla for Lost in Translation. I think these figures speak for themselves: the British and American film industries have always and continue to be run by men, for the entertainment for men. Even the few women film makers that achieve success in the industry tend to make films about men and for a largely male audience. 

Witness the apocalypse

More to the point, it shows that the Bechdel Test isn't about quality. The Artist, Tyrannosaur and The Hurt Locker are all terrific films, as are many of the other BAFTA and Oscar-nominated films that don't pass the Test. What the Bechdel Test shows, however, is that even great films, made by talented, enlightened, modern film-makers, some of whom are even women, still struggle to represent half of the human race. And I don't even mean represent them well, I just mean represent them at all. Thankfully I haven't seen the Sex and the City films, but if we applied the Bechdel Test to the TV show, even though it's a vacuous wasteland of revolting characters, obnoxious writing, and cynical world views, it would still pass because the horrible characters talk occasionally about other things than men, like the virtuous pursuits of shopping and being over-privileged whiny little shits. The Bechdel Test is not an indicator of quality but it is an indicator of a gross and bizarre misrepresentation in cinema. Surely we can't leave the Sex and the Cities of this world to fill the gap of representation left by otherwise quality films? Why does the film industry continue to be dominated so overwhelmingly by men? I'm not entirely sure, but it's a problem that can be dated well before the advent of Hollywood. 

The Madwoman in the Attic

Historically, literature has been dominated by male writers writing about male characters, with female characters defined strictly in relation to their male counterparts. Even major novels by women, whose main characters are female, tended to focus on who their heroine would marry, and both Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, written by Charlotte and Emily Bronte respectively, were originally published under the names of male pseudonyms. Ironically, when the novel as a form was developed it the eighteenth century, it was perceived as a somewhat crude and intellectually vapid degeneration of literature, and was therefore associated with femininity. There are two aspects here that modern films share with literature that I want to pick up on. The first is the way women are typically portrayed in film, and the second is the difference between 'guy' films and 'chick flicks', which I'll be discussing next time. In 1979 Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar published a seminal essay on the portrayal of women in nineteenth-century fiction, entitled The Madwoman in the Attic. Their essay argued that women in Victorian literature are typically represented eihter as either pure, virginal and innocent, or dangerous, monstrous and exotic. It's a dichotomy that is best exemplified by Jane Eyre's own madwoman Bertha, who is directly contrasted with the innocent Jane, and whose husband Rochester has hidden in his attic. 

Beautiful and deadly: Veronica Lake as the
archetype we've all seen a thousand times

Any of this sound familiar? Well, it should do, because it's a model for femininity that Hollywood continues to frequently use to represent women. You can often see this dichotomy in film noirs such as Double Indemnity, The Maltese Falcon, and The Big Sleep, where the only two women, who invariably never interact with each other, are the erotic, dangerous femme fatale, and the bookish assistant / victim character. The James Bond franchise continues to trade on this very formula, with 2008's Quantum of Solace's female characters still filling the roles of either 'early love interest-cum-victim', and 'dangerous female lead-cum-love interest', that typify the Bond girls of every decade since the 1960s. For other recent examples, see Christopher Nolan's 2010 Inception, whose Mal, played by Marion Cotillard, is the archetypal femme fatale. Mal is particularly interesting because all we ever see of her is the version in Cobb's imagination. She is a meta-character, quite literally a concept and not a real person. In the publicity for the film, she is labelled as 'The Shade', alluding both to her non-reality, and to her conceptual femme fatale forbears. Mal is essentially a self-conscious reflection on female characters in film. Nolan alludes to the femme fatale trope, but he doesn't really deconstruct it either, and instead reverts to the demon / angel female dichotomy by contrasting Mal with the only other named female character, Ariadne, played by Ellen Page, who is herself defined only in relation to Cobb's struggle banish Mal from his subconscious and return home. I think this is a real problem for a lot of films, because while men are typically cast in a variety of interesting roles, women too frequently end up playing the same tired, cliched and boring parts that are rooted in anachronistic conceptions of gender. Literature in the twentieth century underwent a wake-up call, and there have been many works that have attempted not only to present better, more developed female characters and female-centric stories, but also to co-opt classic literature into modern gender discourse, as in Jean Rhys' Wide Sargasso Sea, which acts as a parallel to Jane Eyre, telling the story of the 'mad' Bertha Mason. I think it's about time that something similar happened in cinema, as too often women continue to be marginalised and written as boring archetypes instead of real people. It's bad for cinema, it's lazy on the part of screenwriters and directors, it's cowardly on the part of studios not to distribute films that aren't squarely aimed at young men, and it's fucking boring for the rest of us to have sit through another bloody sub-plot about a 'hooker with a heart of gold'.

Films with Julia Roberts are always boring and stupid

Next time, I'll be wrapping up our little discussion with a look at the so-called chick flicks, and arguing that they're even worse than 'men's films' at representing women, and I'll also be taking a few pot shots at recent poisonous pseudo-feminist horseshit like Sucker Punch. Tune in next time for the exciting conclusion!  

  

A Study in Satire: This is England and Four Lions

If you didn't catch the three-part miniseries This is England '88 over Christmas, then I highly recommend that you track down a copy and watch it through. It offered a wonderfully unvarnished, beautifully written and acted human drama, as did its predecessor, This is England '86. Of course, these TV series, both directed by the brilliant Shane Meadows, originate from the 2006 film This is England, also directed by Meadows. Here Meadows tackles racism and youth culture in the 1980s, in an occasionally warm and funny, but more frequently bleak and disturbing view of Thatcher's Britain. In contrast, Chris Morris' 2010 Four Lions was an irreverent, controversial and often hilarious farce about post 9/11 fundamentalist terrorists in Britain. The would-be terrorists in question are woefully inept, bumbling their way through terrorist-training camp, childish bickering, and bomb-making towards an attempted attack on the London marathon.

Four Lions: Mass murder has never been funnier

The respective tones of these films are wildly different, their subjects differ in content, setting and era, and the aims of their directors seem worlds apart. So why compare these apparently disparate films? Because, despite superficial differences, both Four Lions and This is England are both part of the same tradition of social and political commentary known as satire. It's a common misconception that satire must be funny and silly, making fun of, say, a prominent politician, as in Have I Got News For You. Although satire often is funny and irreverent, this isn't always the case; Charles Dickens Oliver Twist (amongst his other works), for example, is a blisteringly satirical novel, and though it has moments of farce, its overall tone is of anger and disgust at Victorian society. Satire is often as angry as it is jovial, and indeed This is England is a very angry satire, as I'll discuss in a moment. Both This is England and Four Lions tackle issues of race, prejudice and fundamentalism in Britain, but their use of satirical perspectives means that their connections go much deeper than that. More to the point, I think comparing these films in particular is a really useful way of understanding that satire, a tradition that has existed since ancient Rome, still works and is still highly relevant in modern films, especially in those that deal with contemporary issues such as terrorism.

This is History

So how can two films that not only differ in tone and content, but are also set in different time periods, both be considered satirical? I think it's quite easy to see Four Lions as a satire: it's set in contemporary Britain and sends up in an amusing way the contemporary issue of terrorism and fundamentalist religion. This is England does none of that; its story focusses on the skinhead culture of the 80s and the emergence of the National Front, movements that surely have been resigned to the pages of recent history. Well, sort of. The tricky thing with period films and literature is that, with the exception of the ghastly ITV period drama factory, narratives that are set in an historical era are more often than not about the period that they are made in, rather than the one they are set in, if that makes sense. For example, John Milton's epic poem Paradise Lost, whilst ostensibly about the biblical fall of man and expulsion from Eden, equally provides a mirror for the English Civil War, seventeenth-century regicide and the restoration of the monarchy. Paradise Lost was set in a period removed from when it was written, but discusses (or at least, reflects) contemporary issues. In this respect, This is England is no different. The presence of the National Front in the film is an obvious reference to the rise of the British National Party, which has become worryingly prophetic with the recent emergence of the violent English Defence League. 

But there are more parallels than simply emergent cultural racism. Released in 2006, This is England features a young boy whose father was killed in a morally dubious and unpopular war, living under the shadow of an increasigly unpopular and authoritarian government, while unemployment, immigration and youth culture dominate social discourse. Sound familiar? This is England does exactly what it says on the tin - present a portrait of England not simply in the 1980s, but also of an England / Britain very close to a modern audience. This is in contrast to Four Lions, which is set in the present, and so therefore is only able to deal with modern, rather than historical issues. So why the difference? Well, for one thing Chris Morris' satirical background is in pardodying news programmes, as with Brass Eye and The Day Today, so it makes sense that he would follow that with a modern setting for Four Lions. Shane Meadows, on the other hand, partially based Shaun's character on his own boyhood experiences, so again, it's a natural fit that he would set the film in the eighties, the period in which he had those experiences. However, I think there's more to those choices than the simple biographies of the filmmakers - they consciously chose the period settings of their films, and for satirical reasons.

Two sides of absurdity

This is not a pleasant man.

But why would the historical period affect the satirical tone of these films? Well, without becoming too technical, historically there have been two forms of satire, known as Horatian and Juvenalian, after the Roman satirists Horace and Juvenal. Horatian satire is generally jovial and lighthearted and aims to poke fun at its targets, rather than out and out eviscerate them, while still criticising them. Something like Sacha Baron Cohen's Ali G or Borat is a modern equivalent of this type of satire. In contrast, Juvenalian satire is harsher and angrier, aiming to demolish its objects rather than merely sending them up. In a modern setting is often a little more difficult to identify as satire because it tends to treat its subjects more seriously. George Clooney's 2005 film Good Night and Good Luck would be an example of a modern Juvenalian satire (as well as another period piece discussing modern issues, in this case using McCarthyism to criticise the Bush administration), treating its subject seriously (paranoia in politics and censorship), angrily and rather solemnly attacking its targets.

Undoubtedly, This is England is a Juvenalian satire, and Four Lions Horatian, and the periods in which they're set contribute significantly to this. In its modern setting, Four Lions presents immediately familiar imagery and associations, and it encourages us to laugh at them, and by extension, ourselves. Towards the end of the film, police shoot a runner in the London marathon, mistaking him for a terrorist (an obvious allusion to the real-life and very unfunny shooting of Jean Charles de Menezes), but we're encouraged not to lament, but laugh, as two police officers argue over whether the costume the runner was wearing was of a bear or a wookie (for the record, it was a wookie). Interestingly, the gag doesn't come off as tasteless, and although there is clear rage behind the Menezes reference, ultimately the outcome here is laughter at the gross absurdity of the situation. In contrast, This is England depicts racism as a very real and very serious issue in Britain. Although there are many funny moments in Meadows' film, the humour always comes from the film's internal reality, and usually reflects the natural comedy of adolescence; Michelle's awkward and slightly creepy invitation to Shaun to 'lick her tits' is one that springs to my mind. This naturalistic, charming humour is offset by moments of deep melancholy and disturbing violence that threatens to erupt at any time. The final scene, for example, where Combo brutally attacks Milky is both frighteningly real, and one that could not exist in Morris' Four Lions without completely breaking the tone. 

Bernard Manning gets red in the face over a made up drug

The difference in settings help differentiate the tones of these films, because, although still familiar, This is England is at a remove from the audience in a way that the modern Four Lions is not, and that distance encourages us to look at the subject of racism and skinhead culture in the eighties more seriously. The jovial, Horatian satire of Four Lions really only works because its object is completely immediate: what it is satirising is still in the headlines. For an example of how this works, see how esoteric and dated the gags become in Have I Got News For You when old episodes are repeated out of context, or note that in repeats of Drop the Dead Donkey there are textual summaries of the episode's contextual current affairs. Without immediate context, neither show works as humorous satirical commentary. This is England doesn't need that level of context (though it does provide some with archive footage and references to Thatcher and the Falklands), because its focus is on the human drama, rather than on the funny absurdities of specific events. Ironically, however, this lack of context allows This is England to slip under the door a raft of serious commentary on our contemporary world. Again, this approach works in Good Night and Good Luck, just as it worked in Arthur Miller's seminal play, The Crucible. In one respect, the subject matter of Four Lions is, if anything, more horrific than This is England; for all its brutality, mass murder is never on the cards in Meadows' film. And I think this, too, informs the approaches of the films. Perhaps something like terrorism and religious fanaticism is simply to terrible to contemplate in anything other than comical, irreverent terms. Certainly, Chris Morris is no stranger to courting controversy by treating serious topics in an apparently light way, as with his infamous paedophile sketch on Brass Eye, or his brilliant practical joke involving cake, a made-up drug. In contrast, Shane Meadows approach is generally less overtly satirical, and so the satire in his film is subtler and intermingled with a more grounded, realistic sense of human drama.

Shine a light

Good Night, and Good Luck: not all satire is silly

Which approach, then, is most effective? Does the Juvenalian attack of This is England mean that a harsher blow is inflicted on its target, or does the irreverent, Horatian humour of Four Lions provide a better, and ultimately more damning, counterpoint to the horrors that the four central characters intend to enact? Both have their place, and indeed, Four Lions would be a far less powerful and engaging film if it stuck to a sombre examination of modern Islamic fundamentalist terrorism, as would This is England if it chose to lampoon racist skinheads, rather than shining its harsh light on their pitiful world of violence and impotent frustration. Both forms of satire work for different reasons, and both tread fine lines between seriousness and po-facedness, and absurdity and tastelessness. Both This is England and Four Lions are successful satires, in that they shine lights very effectively on their targets, highlighting by turns their pathos, their silliness and their baffling, obscene, hilarious and disturbing absurdities. What I find particularly interesting about these films is that despite their modern relevance, and both of their respective directors' penchant for edginess and controversy, they are both part of a satiric tradition that has its roots planted roughly two thousand years ago. It's often very easy to forget that modern art, literature or film is connected in any meaningful way to the past, or that exciting modern filmmakers like Meadows and Morris might be influenced by something as dusty and historical as a 'satiric tradition'. I think, however, it's remarkably refreshing to remember that satire, Juvenalian or Horatian, remains relevant and vital in even the most controversial and dramatic films produced today.

'Every Time a Bell Rings an Angel Gets Its Wings': A Tribute to the Greatest Christmas Film of All Time

Well, it's a week before 25th December, and as convention dictates I must do a Christmas Special blog post. As this is the first time I've done something of this kind I didn't have to rack my brains especially hard to find the perfect subject for such a post - a tribute to Frank Capra's 1946 classic, It's a Wonderful Life, and surely the best festive film ever made. It's a Wonderful Life is undoubtedly one of the most beloved Christmas films of all time, and I've yet to meet anyone who has seen it and doesn't love it. If any such person exists, I don't want to know about it. This post won't be arguing for Wonderful Life's position as top Chrimbo flick - I think that's already pretty well established. Rather, I'm going to systemically and objectively discuss just why It's a Wonderful Life is just so fucking lovely, and amongst the films that can and will make me cry like a baby every single time I watch it. I'm going to have to include some pretty major spoilers, so if you haven't seen the film before, I urge you to see it - it's on at the Tyneside Cinema in Newcastle and probably elsewhere, and it's readily available on DVD. Nevermind if you're one these cretins that don't like 'old' films (the subject of a future post, to be sure), if you have even the slightest degree of humanity you will surely love It's a Wonderful Life. I can't explain why without ruining the experience, but in this season of goodwill and friendship, just trust me on this one. Watch it.

So on with the show, and the reasons why It's a Wonderful Life really is wonderful. At the top of the list is the fact that:

1) It has Jimmy Stewart in it

How good is Jimmy Stewart? Ooh, about this good.

James Stewart was, and remains, one of the best screen actors to have ever lived. Second, perhaps, only to Gregory Peck, Stewart imbued his roles with a profound and quiet dignity, playing the smart male alternative to the more conventional machismo of the John Waynes, or the sophistication of the Cary Grants of Hollywood. And it is dignity that is the key word of Capra's classic, never moreso embodied than by Stewart's George Bailey, a man torn between his dreams and his responsibilities. For my money, Stewart never had a role more suited to his physique, his mannerisms and his skills as an actor. George's transformation from a brash, charming and idealistic college student, into a desperate family man driven to the edge of suicide is made utterly believable by Stewart's performance, and creates a deep and lasting pathos for the character.

2) Christmas is barely present
Like all the best Christmas films (Gremlins, Die Hard, The Hudsucker Proxy), It's a Wonderful Life doesn't actually feature Christmas as a story-telling device. Most of the film isn't even set during Christmas, and that the final act is set on Christmas Eve is almost incidental, serving more as an emotional underscoring of the themes in the film, rather than the central focus of the story. Undoubtedly, the iconography of Christmas plays a large part during the alternate-reality sequence and the final scene, but they're in the service of the wider narrative arc, providing the natural setting for the conclusion of the films themes of friendship and community. To contrast, something like Chris Columbus' Home Alone, while having none of the complexity, depth or emotion of the former, features similar themes of family and isolation, but uses Christmas as a specific narrative device; to get Kevin McAllister's family to leave him while they go on a Christmas vacation. The Christmassy feeling we get when watching It's a Wonderful Life is all the more powerful because it's not emphasised from the outset. It almost sneaks up on us, slowly building until that final scene where George's friends finally come through for him, while his daughter tinkles away on the piano playing 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing'. The swell of emotion at the end of the film is genuine, not because it's about anything inherently Christmas, but because that scene is the culmination of the relationships that we have witnessed George forge and maintain throughout his life.

3) It's more subversive than you might think
While the main thrust of the story is about George's journey as an ambitious young man, It's a Wonderful Life contains some quiet, yet quite strong political and social commentary. Firstly, George's failed attempt at escaping the small town of Bedford Falls reflects contemporary American anxieties over the suburban lifestyle and increased material consumption. As a child and college student, George vows that he'll 'shake of the dust of this crummy town' and travel the world, but as circumstances conspire against him, he gradually finds himself less and less upwardly mobile. A very large part of It's a Wonderful Life is an examination of life's unavoidable descent into entropy, from the naive, energetic optimism of youth to the quiet desperation of adult life, culminating in the moment when George decides to kill himself. Despite the warmth we feel by the end of the film, It's a Wonderful Life is largely a dark, satirical look at mid-twentieth century American life, and could even sit alongside other bleak masterpieces like Death of A Salesman, or Richard Yates' novel Revolutionary Road.

More to the point, It's a Wonderful Life takes a pretty big swipe at big business and the rise of corporate America. Don't believe me? Senator Joe McCarthy, who headed the hysterical anti-Communist witch-hunts of the 1950s, hated the film, objecting to its portrayal of Henry Potter as a ruthless and amoral profiteer. One of the major themes of It's a Wonderful Life is the conflict between community and individual profit. The Dickensian Potter, the film's villain, makes his fortune by buying out smaller business and charging extortionate rent for substandard property. It is only George Bailey's family run business, Bailey's Savings and Loan, that stands against Potter's town-wide monopoly. Where Potter's rampant, individualistic avarice threatens to destroy the community of Bedford Falls, George sacrifices his own personal ambition for the sake of the community he grew up in. At the heart of the film is the depiction of someone defying, and inspiring his community to defy, corruption, profiteering and unbridled greed. It's a Wonderful Life shows the small, grubbiness of these things in the face of human community.

4) It's simply a beautiful film

Christmas Eve with George Bailey and friends.

From the cinematography, the performances and the use of music, to the silent re-introduction of falling snowflakes that signal George's return to his own reality, It's a Wonderful Life is a beautiful, beautiful film. As we watch George grow up and become world-weary we witness the decline of Bedford Falls, and when, haggard and soaked, George returns to his dilapidated home we see a bittersweet reinvigoration of the town as they rally to his support. I cannot think of another film that feels so full of goodness, is so unabashedly wholesome, or is so full to the brim with feeling, without resorting to sentimentality, mawkishness or cynicism. The film peppers itself with the key moments in George's life that will later come in to play when he wishes his life away, and yet those moments feel natural and compelling in and of themselves, as snapshots of the ebb and flow of a person's life. As a result, when Clarence explains to George's dismay that his brother never saved his brothers at arms, 'because you weren't there to save him', we feel the loss that George feels, because we too were there when as a boy George saved his brother from drowning. Just as that moment in George's life is ripped from him, it's ripped from us, too, and it hurts. We are shown, not told, that Clarence's words are true: 'Each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?' Even the smallest person touches dozens of lives without realising it, affecting the world around him in a tapestry of relationships and friendships that he himself barely glimpses. It's a Wonderful Life goes straight to the heart of the nature of a life lived in one community, ultimately touching and altering the lives of people that George has never even met. And finally, when George returns home to his friends and family to find that they have raised the money that his bumbling uncle left at Potter's bank, we weep, just as George weeps, as he reads Clarence's send-off, that 'no man is a failure who has friends'. Every year friendships bloom and others wither, jobs come and go, people move away, people die. Every year I watch It's a Wonderful Life on Christmas Eve, and every year that last phrase seems to take on new meaning, reducing me each time to an ever-more embarrassing pile of emotion. As the spectre of failure (whatever that means) seems to loom greater with each passing year, Clarence's note becomes increasingly powerful. It's a Wonderful Life is the perfect Christmas film because watching it at Christmas marks the end of another year in our lives, with Clarence's words as the epigraph. No man is a failure who has friends.

Merry Christmas.

"Along come these left-wing militants who blast everything within a three-mile radius with their lasers": Why the concept of over-analysis is a stupid myth and doesn't exist.

This fortnight's / month's post is on a subject dear to my heart, and one which surrounds a popular myth that has bugged me for years: the position that certain films, books, music and popular entertainment weren't meant to an analysed in any serious way, and any attempt to do so is a futile and pretentious enterprise, practised by only the most self-indulgent of navel-gazers. I put to you that this viewpoint is not merely misguided and narrow-minded, but that it is self-contradictory and demonstrably false. Yes, dear readers, tonight I defend that most unpopular and derided of creatures: the film critic. Incidentally, this one is a bit of a rant.

Spongebob Squarepants: Disproving the myth of stuffy academics

Firstly, let me begin my blasting the popular conception of art criticism. Since this is a blog about films I'll limit myself to that medium. The image of the critic distanced from both popular opinion and reality, jollying himself to the meta-academic pleasures of Federico Fellini's 8 1/2, sat in his ivory tower while he misses the more earthy, blue-collar pleasures of Joe Dante's Gremlins, looking down his nose at anything that resembles a blockbuster, is as old as the hills and is still extremely pervasive. Whilst I'd agree there is an element of snobbery amongst some schools of criticism (Halliwell's Film Guide, I'm looking at you), the vast majority of popular critics that I read are as open to American blockbusters as they are to Scandinavian social realism and Italian arthouse cinema. Even amongst so-called bonafide academics, there is an extraordinary rejection of snobbery: one of my university supervisors, who has got a PhD and academic publications and everything loves Spongebob Squarepants and Batman: The Animated Series. The notion that 'high' critics don't engage with 'low' art in any positive way is nonsense and needs to stop.

This leads me on to my main target - the (frankly, idiotic) mantra that some films were never meant to be 'over-analysed'. This is something that I have heard repeated over and again from intelligent, normally open-minded individuals, and it has to stop. Firstly, let me start with the word 'meant'. This is misleading because is presupposes that the mantra-chanter somehow had access to the inner-motivations of the film-makers when they wrote, directed, filmed and edited their work. You might well think that Michael Bay's Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen was never meant to be watched as anything other than entertainment, but, how exactly do you know this? Did Bay consult with you beforehand, wringing his hands over whether he is an artist, or entertainer (as if those things are mutually fucking exclusive to begin with)? No? Well then sit the fuck down. More to the point, the intent of the artist doesn't bloody matter. In scholarship / criticism / whatever, there's a rule called the Intentional Fallacy, which, in short, states that 1) We can't ever really know the intentions of an artist so there's little point in trying to decipher them, and 2) there will inevitably be meanings and subtexts in any piece of art not necessarily consciously inserted by the artist. Did Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster consciously invoke Christian iconography when they created Superman? Maybe, maybe not, but it's damn well there and you'd be a fool to deny it on the basis that the creators didn't intend it to be there.

Gremlins is only fit for entertainment, you say?
Fuck you.

So that's one word polished off. Let's move on to the next one, and the real meat of my argument: 'over-analysed'. Like it or not, we analyse things everyday. If you're not particularly bothered about the cultural significance of Roy William Neill's Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman, or how Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo is really about the voyeuristic nature of cinema and the objectification of women, that's fine with me (though I really do think you're missing out if you don't care just a little bit), but don't call the discussion of these things something they're not. What, I think, people usually mean by 'over-analyse' is that whatever film review / article / opinion they're griping about, a review of the aforementioned Gremlins, for example, has exceeded the analytical limitations they would like to see set for that particular film. Let's say you disagree with my opinion that what makes Gremlins interesting is the way it constantly breaks the fourth wall in a way that reflects the delightful, dangerous and hilarious anarchy that the eponymous Gremlins embody. Perhaps you don't like my writing style, or you favour the opinion that the Gremlins represent something other than anarchy, which is all fine and dandy. But, and excuse me while my prose briefly devolves into splenetic fury, exactly who the fuck put you in charge of how far I'm allowed to analyse a film, or whether that's how I should derive pleasure from it? Do you like Gremlins? Well, bad luck chump-change, because you've just analysed a film. Yep, that's right, even deciding whether or not you like something constitutes analysis, since presumably you've come to your decision based on, you know, the component parts of the film and whether they add up to something that pleases your pink little brain. To return to my carefully considered question, who (the fuck) put you in charge of deciding when I should stop analysing Gremlins, or Superman, or my fucking Campbell's Tomato Soup if the mood should strike me?

There is no such thing as over-analysis. You can analyse something well, and you can analyse something badly. You can make your points in a measured articulate way, or you can ramble incoherently. You can make complex ideas clear and accessible, or you can obscure simple ideas with impenetrable prose and a contempt for your reader. You can look at every facet of one frame of a film, or you can discuss the movie's big themes. You can make a value judgement based on a historical or purely aesthetic basis. You can hate a film because it's pretentious and self-indulgent, or because it's violent and over-crammed with unnecessary CGI. You can take whatever opinion of a film that you like, but you can't accuse critics of over-analysis because it's nonsensical, and this silly, embarrassing fallacy of taking criticism 'too far', whether it's for The Three Colours Trilogy or Uncle Buck, has got to stop. It's just bloody stupid.

When The Autumn Moon is Bright: Why Horror is Universal

The older I get the more I like Halloween. I like the parties and fancy dress clothes, carving pumpkins is definitely more fun than putting up the Christmas tree, and there's a delightfully knowing tackiness to the whole affair. And so in that spirit I have decided that this fortnight's post will be about the horror films that Universal Studios produced throughout the 1930s and 40s. While Warner Bros. were busy with gangster films like The Public Enemy and The Roaring Twenties, Universal Pictures was creating its signature genre with a spate of horror films based on nineteenth century gothic fiction and folklore, with early examples including The Hunchback of Notre Dame (1923), The Phantom of the Opera (1925), and The Man Who Laughs (1928). Influenced by the menacing shadows and distorted angles of the German Expressionist films of the silent era, the Universal horror films in turn influenced horror iconography throughout the twentieth century, and are largely responsible for our modern perceptions of the classic Halloween monsters. Universal Pictures is a major studio nowadays, but in the early days it was best known for producing B movies. They were made quickly and cheaply, often with the same roster of character actors and stars appearing in each new film. However, with talent on board like director James Whale or the intense Boris Karloff, many of Universal's B-horrors rose above their roots as exploitation pictures. The Universal horrors have become so iconic that we are familiar with their imagery without necessarily being familiar with the films, or even from where that imagery originates. When we think of the Frankenstein monster and of Dracula, we invariably think of the Universal versions of those monsters, and it is largely the Universal Frankenstein series that is to blame for the modern confusion between Dr. Frankenstein and his monstrous creation. This post is a beginner's guide to four of the most popular and enduring films of the Universal monster canon, and the three that I personally find the most fascinating and compelling. Incidentally, all of these little summaries contain SPOILERS.

The Wolfman

Lon Chaney Jr. is having a very bad hair day.

Lon Chaney Jr. plays Larry Talbot, the unfortunate man who is cursed with the sign of the werewolf, in George Waggner's 1941 film that draws inspiration from European myths and folklore about lycanthropy and supernatural animal transformations. Although the wolf make-up looks primitive by today's standards, and the scenes with Larry as a werewolf are only mildly violent, Chaney Jr. cultivates a wonderful sense of pathos and frustration as the tortured but decent Larry Talbot, and is supported by a wonderful cast that includes Claude Rains (who also starred as the eponymous Invisible Man) and Bela Lugosi, who most famously played the evil Count Dracula. The pacing of the film is superb, developing Larry as an everyman before finally condemning him to his fate as the wolfman. The relationship between Larry and his father, played by Rains, is well developed, with his father convinced that Larry is merely suffering from a schizophrenic delusion that he is a werewolf. The 'no-one believes the hero' horror cliche is played remarkably well here, and what is particularly great about it is there is genuine ambiguity over whether Larry really is a werewolf, or merely insane. When, as a wolf, Larry attacks his victims, it is usually by strangulation, or other decidedly non-wolfish means, and when he is killed (by his own father, no less) after a final rampage, his body 'returns' to normal before anyone has a chance to see him as a wolf. Even his father remains suspiciously quiet, allowing the villagers to believe that a real wolf attacked Larry before he had a chance to intervene. Although the sequels dispensed with the ambiguity by having Larry resurrected by moonlight, I think the alternative reading of the original Wolfman stands up, and makes for a much more interesting film.

Dracula

Strange, powerful and iconic: Lugosi as Dracula

Adapted from Bram Stoker's classic novel, the 1931 Dracula, directed by Tod Browning is part of the first wave of Universal sound pictures. Browning's film simplified Stoker's film by keeping the action in England and reducing the number of characters, but succeeds in adapting the eerie, uncanny atmosphere of its source. Compared to the other two films I'm discussing, Dracula feels a little wooden and stagey, with most of the scenes consisting of characters talking to each other in rooms. However, this is counterbalanced by Bela Lugosi's unnerving performance as the eponymous vampire, some incredible sets depicting Dracula's castle, and a great supporting cast including Dwight Frye as the lunatic Renfield. The film is loosely faithful the novel, but its brevity and less ambitious globe-trotting streamline Stoker's novel into a pacy and tense picture. Lugosi's Dracula is the iconic screen incarnation, with the widow's peak, east-European accent and sweeping cloak all a product of this film, and now indelibly associated with the character. Fascinatingly, there exists an alternative, Spanish-language version of Dracula that was filmed simultaneously on the same sets with a Spanish cast. In the days before dubbing was perfected, English-language films were sometimes re-filmed in different languages for the foreign market. The Spanish-language version of Dracula has become famous because, incredibly, it is superior to the original version. When they were filming, the Spanish crew would come in after the Americans, watch the day's footage and actively try to better it. As a result, the direction is far more fluid and less stage-bound, the sexuality of the female characters is less restrained, and it has a longer running time. Carlos Villarias plays Dracula in this version, and although good, he is no match for Lugosi. Despite the technical superiority of the Spanish version, Lugosi's Dracula will forever remain the iconic vampire of cinema and pop culture.

Frankenstein

It's alive! Boris Karloff gives life to Frankenstein's creation.

Perhaps the only other monster to rival Dracula in terms of recognisability is the Frankenstein monster, and again, it is the Universal studio interpretation of the character that has lodged itself firmly in the popular cultural zeitgeist. The flat top of the monster's head, exaggerated brow, and electrodes through his neck are all products of the Universal film, but are now as inseperable from the character as the widow's peak is from Dracula. Frankenstein, masterfully directed by James Whale and released the same year as Dracula, is often criticised for reducing the intelligent, articulate character of Mary Shelley's superlative novel to a lumbering, dumb brute, and for only loosely following the novel's events. But Boris Karloff, under layers of make-up, invests the monster with surprising and disarming pathos, sensitivity and subtlety. Besides, we all know that criticising adaptations on the basis of their faithfulness is a rocky position. Incidentally, that Frankenstein the novel has a tradition of adaptation, borrowing from and referring to previous works of literature, makes, I think, the film one of the most interesting of the Universal horror stable. In many ways, the film pays tribute to the experimental nature of the novel, playing with and reinterprating the characters and their relationships. The transgressive nature of the relationship between Henry Frankenstein and his creation is subtly hinted at in the first film, only to be expanded on in the sequel, Bride of Frankenstein.

Bride of Frankenstein

To a new world of gods and monsters: the eerie Bride.

Bride is one of the few sequels in the Universal canon that not only matches its predecessor, but actually betters it. The audacious opening positions the film directly as an adaptation, but is only slightly more faithful to the novel than the original film. It also introduces the new character of Dr. Pretrorius, who has created life through alchemy, in contrast to Frankenstein's scientific approach. Pretrorius convinces Frankenstein to create a bride for the monster, and while Pretrorius does not exist in the novel, his presences allows the film explores the conflict between the natural and the unnatural suggested in Shelley's work. More importantly, the strange, slightly predatory and very homoerotic relationship between Drs. Frankenstein and Pretorious is made all the more interesting and poignant given that Whale himself was both homosexual and working within the restrictive and homophobic strictures of the Hays Film Code. The final scene of the film, not present in the novel, is a brilliantly executed, and is by turns a tense and tender sequence, the impact of which is visible in Danny Boyle's recent, otherwise faithful, stage version of Shelley's novel which refers explicitly to Whale's film in a sequence that mirrors the final scene in Bride.

These summaries are by no means an exhaustive account of the horror films produced by Universal Pictures in the 1930s and 40s (I'm still working through the library myself), but I hope they give a sense not just of the series itself, but from where we draw much of the iconography of this season. The films that Universal produced during this period have given us imagery that remains popular and recognisable, but if we return to their source, also give us some incredibly rich, nuanced and, yes, frightening cinematic experiences.

Baby Mine: Why Children's Films Are Brilliant

Disney matures: The Lion King

Last month, the 1994 animated feature The Lion King was re-released in cinemas (pointlessly 3D-ified), topping the box office and re-establishing itself as one of Disney's greatest feature films and one of the most enduring children's animated films. Last year, Toy Story 3 was the most successful film at the box office in 2010, and one of the highest grossing films of all time, and from Saturday 22nd October, the Tyneside Cinema in Newcastle upon Tyne are hosting a season of films to watch before you're 13, ranging from classics such as The Wizard of Oz, to modern films like Toy Story and School of Rock. Evidentally, children's films are popular with adults as well as their offspring, and the extraordinary success of Toy Story and The Lion King demonstrates that there is a considerable adult market for films aimed primarily at children. I wonder what makes children's films so popular amongst adults, and whether the joint factors of nostalgia for the films we watched as children, and the necessity of joining the kiddies at the cinema fully accounts for the tremendous popularity of children's films amongst grown-ups.

Incidentally, if you've somehow avoided seeing The Lion King, Bambi, Toy Story, The Land Before Time et al, then you might want to consider leaving the following paragraphs alone, as they are going to be SPOILERIFIC. You might also want to consider watching them, as they're fucking class.

The Problem of Nostalgia

I might argue that nostalgia explains the popularity of these films, and certainly it explains a lot. For those who saw The Lion King at the big screen as a child (as I and many of my peers did), who could resist re-visiting not just Mufasa's death, but also all the memories that came with that moment back in 1994, when the Sega Mega Drive reigned supreme and Freddoes were still at the correct price of 10p? This certainly plays a very large part of my love The Lion King, amongst other films from that era, but that can't be the only thing that draws me back after 20 years, can it? The buffalo stampede is a truly powerful cinematic moment, regardless of what age you see it at. Although nostalgia is important for our affections for children's films gone by, I suspect there is more to our collective love of them than merely looking through rose-tinted spectacles. I recently conducted a highly unscientific survey on favourite children's films (by which I mean I asked some of my friends on Facebook what theirs were), and I found the results quite surprising. Rather than, as I suspected, the films that were chosen as adults being the same as the favourites they had as children, they were almost uniformly different. In other words, as people grew up, their favourite children's film was not dependent on what it was when they were six. I think there are several ways to interpret this. Either that kids' films are getting better (I don't think so), that they are more consciously aimed at adults (partially, more on this later), or that what we look for in films changes as we get older, and that this also applies to children's films. Either way, nostalgia isn't playing as large a part as we might expect.

The most popular films for the 'children' were predictably divided between Disney classics such as The Jungle Book and The Lion King and 80s adventures like The Goonies and Labyrinth, whereas the favourite films for those same people as adults came mainly from new kids on the block Pixar and Studio Ghibli. Even more interestingly, the adults' films were almost exclusively animated, and far less varied than their choices as children. I realise that there are complex reasons to do with what we're exposed to as children, and what we choose to watch as adults, not to mention the utterly un-rigorous nature of my 'research', but nevermind all that, as I think my assertion still stands that mere nostalgia isn't sufficient explanation for adults' enduring love of children's films. 

Grown up children

So as grown-ups, I think, we're picking films that speak with an adult perspective on childhood. Most of them  deal with loss, death, and symbolically, the end of childhood. These are themes that centre around childhood, but it doesn't follow that they are themes exclusively for children. Don Bluth's 1988 The Land Before Time, for example, is a film that features anthropomorphic talking dinosaurs, but it not only deals with the loss of a parent, but also the subsequent feelings of denial, despair and acceptance that accompany bereavement. Transposed into live action, we might expect the next Ken Loach or Charlie Kaufman film to explore such issues. One person justified his choice of The Land Before Time as both his child and adulthood favourite: 

the whole film is about children not having adult support and having to deal with their problems as a team [...] I also love the way it tackles the issue of racism: 'three horns never play with long necks [...] These are obviously the reasons why it is my favourite film as an adult. As a child I liked it because it was just fucking mint.

As an adult, he's made an intellectual decision for his love of the film, whereas as a child, it was more intuitive: because the film was 'fucking mint'. You might think as an adult he's simply rationalising his choices as a child, and this probably holds some water - I certainly do this all the time - but the important thing here is that The Land Before Time works as both a film for adults and children, and crucially, for the same reasons. Both audiences know how painful the prospect (or even reality) of losing a parent is.

Why Pixar Nailed It in 2010

Dreamworks: Big on stars, low on story

I think what makes for a great children's film is that it doesn't become boring, or seem less emotionally complex as we grow up. Rather, it actually becomes more satisfying, exhilarating, and even painful the older we get. And importantly, the message is essentially the same for both the adult and child, which is why most of  Dreamworks' Studio's output fails as great children's cinema. Shrek, for example, mainly appeals to children through a cast of goofy, funny characters, and it appeals to adults through ironic pop culture references and big name stars, but there is very little emotional connection between the two audiences. The adults are not transported back to childhood, and the children are not challenged to think like adults, in the way that the protagonists of The Lion King, Bambi, or The Land Before Time are. In contrast, this is why I think Pixar's recent hat trick of Wall-E, Up, and Toy Story 3 is so astonishing. Both Wall-E and Up, I'd argue, are barely even exclusively children's films; they're viewed as such because they're animated, produced by Pixar, and both have caricatured, cartoonish characters. But they undoubtedly push the emotional complexity of traditional children's cinema, and moreover, they appeal to adults not through lame in-jokes but through the fact that their  characters and stories are just as compelling for grumpy old bastards as they are for the bright-eyed enthusiasm of youth.

Andy makes his ultimate decision one last time

And this brings me to Toy Story 3. For my money, this is one of the best films of the last ten years, and was certainly the best mainstream film of 2010. It not only achieved that rarest of qualities, the not-disappointing second sequel, but also succeeded in surpassing both its predecessors. Moreover, and this is partially why I find it so fascinating, it managed to be a children's film that was squarely aimed at adults, and I can't think of one other film that does that. Even the great Studio Ghibli, for all their beauty, mystery and wonder, have yet to pull off the magic trick that Pixar did with the third Toy Story. They knew that the children who saw Toy Story 1 and 2 the first time around would be twenty-something adults in 2010. And boy, did they nail us with those final scenes. When I saw it at the cinema last year, children happily munched away on popcorn while grown men and women audibly sniffled, and remained awkwardly motionless in their seats. As garbage-compacted doom seemingly closed in around Woody and Buzz, it was our own childhood experiences that we witnessed careering towards the scrapheap. Pixar were consciously invoking nostalgia for these characters, but in doing so seemed to elaborate on the themes already hinted at in the previous films.

The impending death of the toys was the death of childhood, and their temporary salvation mirrored the audience's child-like revisiting of the world of the films, and implicitly their own childhoods, after a decade. The incinerator sequence, as far as I'm concerned, and without hyperbole, is one of the greatest dialogue-free scenes ever filmed. The sigh that Andy's mother lets slip when she realises he's leaving home is just as heart-breaking, and the bittersweet coda as Andy gives up his toys is deceptively dark. One of the only criticisms I and others initially had was that the toys weren't killed at the end, and the literal deus ex machina that rescues them at the end was a minor betrayal of the impending fate that was so skilfully woven throughout the rest of the movie. But really, to have killed the toys would have been too dark for a children's film, and besides, they have already faced and accepted their own mortality. Whether or not they are actually killed is really a moot point and, I'd argue, would alienate the child audience. Essentially, Toy Story 3 is able to have its cake and eat it by giving us a happy ending without sacrificing the reality of the scrap-heap that the toys are inevitably headed to. This is not something that adults' films can do without appearing mawkish, sentimental or lazy. Great children's films appeal to both kids and grown-ups, which is a claim that very few great adults' films can make. It is only in children's films that the death of childhood can be properly explored, and so the best children's films achieve a maturity that is rarely seen in grown-up cinema.