An Animated Mind For Animated Times

Not because they had any practical use for a hobbit, mind. Past hobbit-related successes had simply put it in everybody's minds that having a hobbit along is a surefire key to success.

1. With Roger’s voice actor standing off camera, Bob Hoskins acts into empty air and frantically sawing at his handcuff, continually looking up and down at different visual marks of various depths. Look at the slow pan up of his eyes in gif 4, and then the quick shift to his side. Think about how, on set, he was looking at nothing. 

2. Starting in gif 2, The box must be made to stop shaking, either by concealed crew member, mechanism, or Hoskins own dextrousness, as he is doing all of the things mentioned in point 1. 

3. In all gifs, Roger’s handcuff has to be made to move appropriately through a hidden mechanism. (If you watch the 4th gif closely you can see the split second where it is replaced by an animated facsimile of the actual handcuff, but just for barely a second.)

4. The crew voluntarily (we know this because it is now a common internal phrase at Disney for putting in extra work for small but significant reward) decided to make Roger bump the lamp and give the entire scene a constantly moving light source that had to be matched between the on set footage and Roger. This was for two reasons, A) Robert Zemeckis thought it would be funnier, and B) one of the key techniques the crew employed to make the audience instinctually accept that Toons coexisted with the live action environment was constant interaction with it. This is why, other than comedy, Roger is so dang clumsy. Instead of isolating Toons from real objects to make it easier for themselves, the production went out of its way to make Toons interact more with the live action set than even real actors necessarily would, in order to subtly, constantly remind the audience that they have real palpable presence. You can watch the whole scene here, just to see how few shots there are of Roger where he doesn’t interact with a real object. 

The crew and animators did all of this with hand drawn cell animation without computerized special effects. 1988, we were still five years out from Jurassic Park, the first movie to make the leap from fully physical creature effects to seamlessly integrating realistic computer generated images with live action footage. Roger’s shadows weren’t done with CGI. Hoskin’s sightlines were not digitally altered. Wires controlling the handcuff were not removed in post. 

Shonen power systems are like magic systems. It can be fun to explore the nitty-gritty details but at the end of the day, what decides the outcome of a fight is story and character writing. The Stan Lee Corollary applies here: "The winner of the fight is whoever I, the writer, want to win the fight."

That said, I think part of the reason people struggle to really grasp shonen power systems is that we tend to come at it from an Americanized comprehension of power. This is a distinction I've brought up a few times before but the difference in our conceptions of superpowers is the same as the difference in our conceptions of weapons.

-> To Americans, a weapon is an external object that bestows power. To possess a weapon is to be gifted with the ability to do violence. Anyone can pick up a gun and shoot someone; It is the gun that holds all the power.

Spider-Man is bit by a spider and that spider gives him powers. He has the ability to do all of these things because he was so fortunate as to have power bestowed upon him. His powers are a privilege granted to him, and his philosophy is all about what you do when fortune and random chance makes you so powerful.

-> In Japan, a weapon is an extension of the self. It is the wielder who is powerful, and the weapon is the means by which they express their strength. The sword by itself is limited in its capacity to do harm; It requires the deft hand of a master to become truly formidable.

Son Goku is a martial artist whose powers are an expression of his journey of self-improvement. Goku hones his art, building his mastery of his body, his mind, and his understanding of his place in the universe both physically and spiritually. And as he does, his powers increase and his technical master of them develops.

But neither of these things is absolute. Spider-Man's powers were given to him by someone else, but he's also a tech-savvy super-genius. His battles are often decided by his strategic thinking and technological inventions, which are absolutely expressions of his self rather than privileges given to him.

Son Goku is a martial artist, but he's also a super-alien gifted by physical and mental advantages that give him a leg-up on the competition. His art develops at an incredibly fast pace compared to the humans around him because of the privileges he was born into.

It's complicated. So while it can be said that Spider-Man's powers were given to him and Goku worked for his, neither fully reflects the totality of these two characters. And yet, on some level, you can still see a clear distinction between how Spider-Man's relationship with his powers works and how Goku's does.

A really interesting example that straddles this line is the way bending works in Avatar: The Last Airbender, and how it quietly changed in Legend of Korra even though on the surface, the basic details are the same: Sometimes people are born able to shoot fire out of their lungs.

It would not be correct to say that bending is strictly a martial art that you can learn through study and practice. If you aren't born to the right ethnic heritage, you won't have it. A Water Tribe baby isn't going to be able to Earthbend no matter how hard they practice. Even if you are born to the right heritage, you still might not have it.

It also would not be correct to say that bending is strictly an inherited superpower that requires no effort whatsoever to learn. A Firebender isn't born able to shoot lightning from their hands. A Waterbender isn't going to uncontrollably bloodbend everyone around them until they learn how to control their bloodbending abilities.

ATLA sits right on the dividing line where Inherited Power and Martial Art meet. You must have the right genetic components in order to begin to study bending. An untrained bender is no different from a nonbender; If you don't understand the underlying philosophies, don't know the movements, lack the spiritual and emotional discipline, etc. then you aren't bending shit.

The ability to bend an element at all is a privilege, but every bender's powers are nonetheless an expression of their own personal journey, the development of their art, and their relationship to the element they bend. Or elements, in the case of the Avatar.

LOK shifts the dial all the way over to Inherited Power. Everyone's bending abilities are turned on full-blast from the moment they're born. Martial arts and discipline still exist, but in the way that the X-Men train to control their powers and not accidentally barbecue everyone around them with laser eyes.

Meelo farts huge gusts of airbending. Korra was able to bend three elements as a toddler but couldn't bend air until a switch was flipped in her brain and those powers got turned on, at which point she was an instant master of it. Anybody can lightningbend, it's not special. Bolin can't metalbend because he's actually a lavabender; He has different superpowers, and once he realizes that, he can lavabend at a master level instantly.

You can even see it in the conflicting stories of where bending came from. ATLA tells a story of how the original masters studied various creatures and the way they move with the elements, and from that study were able to form the building blocks of what would become bending.

LOK tells a story of how ancient god-entities used to gift bending to humans, like handing rifles to hunters as they go out in the field and then taking the rifles back when they come home. But then the god-entities left and they let the humans keep their rifles.

In the broad strokes, it's the same power system in both shows. There are four elements, people are born able to bend one, the Avatar can bend them all, sometimes people learn specialty subsets like bloodbending or metalbending or lightningbending. But LOK westernized its presentation, its mechanical details, and the relationship that the characters have with their disciplines.

For example, when making your own fan works, it's easier to paint within the lines if you have a clear understanding of where the lines are.

It's also easier to criticize others for painting outside those lines. For instance, the myriad criticisms levied at Korra as a character for being too powerful as a little baby compared to Aang. It's a criticism with isn't wrong but misses the forest for the trees; It writes off Korra as simply a "bad character" and overlooks the broader criticism that the nature of bending itself has changed in the sequel show.

There is a desire to believe that art has rules, because rules are easy to grasp. That there are certain correct ways to tell a story, or certain correct ways to build a world, or certain correct ways to design a character, or certain correct ways to write powers. That creativity can be fit into boxes.

Because categorizing magic systems is easier to get your head around than trying to grasp what it means that the curtains are blue in this scene. Whether Thor is physically stronger than the Hulk is something you can try to quantify. Something you can measure out with facts and logic and reason.

That the Arc Reactor killing Obadiah Stane represents the new corporate direction of clean energy production annihilating the specter of defense contracting and liberating Stark Industries from the sins of its past is something you really have to sit and think about. There's no yardstick you can use to measure symbolic meaning or artistic intent.

You might even be wrong. There's no proof that can be offered. No equation you can plug into a calculator to determine what was meant by the Arc Reactor exploding.

And that's scary. And hard.

It's far easier to treat art as a science, something that can be observed and categorized and measured and studied and quantified. Something that has clear answers, where someone can be provably right or provably wrong.

I’m back, after months, even years, of inaction. And I plan to post more and more in the future, but first a capper on the holiday season with one of my favorite stories.

One of my holiday traditions, maybe even my only personal tradition just on my own, is A Christmas Carol. I love the story, a classic story of redemption. I love watching different takes on it, all those different version be they weird and strange or rigid and traditional. Every year, when they come back on tv, I try to watch at least a few.

But like most stories that are remade over and over again by Hollywood, there’s going to be some clunkers and not-so-good versions. The Christmas Carol in particular seems to attract copycats, which isn’t on it’s own a bad thing, but if you’re copying a story yet don’t get what makes the story work… well… let’s just say there’s a few versions out there that screw it up. Sturgeon’s Law and all: 10% of most things is great, the rest is better left to Christmas past.

So, mostly for fun, I decided to put together my own little list of things that most poor versions of the story mess up on, and why they shouldn’t be messed up. Even great versions do some of these, but they’re some of my favorite things about the story when done right. This is obviously pretty nerdy, and it’s going to get a bit nitpicky I’m sure, but bear with me. It’s the details that make the story great.

* First and foremost: this is in no way about me slamming anyone making weird and niche versions of the story. It’s one of the most applicable stories out there - if you can fit it to the characters you want, more power to you. Just make sure it works. If you want it to be funny rather than meaningful, just make sure the jokes land. If you want it to be as silly as possible, own it. Just keep the heart there. If these things get changed, even stuff I’m about to say, that’s Rule #1:l it only ever needs is to be replaced with something that works just as well. * That said, let’s move on. The biggest note here that instantly proves a poor version: Scrooge is not on trial just for hating Christmas, nor for being irritable. He’s not even specifically on trial just for not being charitable. He’s being judged because his greed and indifference are actively harmful to both himself and the people around him. If you don’t do that, then the whole thing feels like it’s undeserved. * Context is important for that. As a greedy money lender and landlord in the Victorian era, his negative impact on the world around him is obvious if you know the context (remember that A Christmas Carol was in large part an indictment of the society of Dickens’ time), but that context isn’t as well known to people nowadays. That leads sometimes to viewers assuming Scrooge is being indicted simply for moralistic reasons. If you have to add a scene or two to make the fact that Scrooge actively makes life worse for the people he affects clearer to the audience, go ahead. The 1984 version, for example, adds a nice part where Scrooge trades in essential goods (specifically, the only cheap foodstuffs that the poor can afford), but gouges the price horribly until those who pay it are well out of pocket. That’s the kind of thing he’s being judged for. * As a note, don’t overdo it with “bah, humbug.” Yes, it’s an iconic line. No, Scrooge doesn’t actually say it all that much. Dial it back. Looking at you specifically, 2018. * Bob Cratchit is there to show the effects Scrooge’s ignorance: Scrooge is the richest man in the setting, yet his most essential employee can barely make it by or take care of his family despite all the toil he puts in. Do try not to portray Bob as a bumpkin or a lazy bum. * People don’t really screw up Marley that often, so I don’t really have to say anything about him. * Scrooge is not being scared into changing. Yes, Marley is scary. Yes, Yet to Come is unnerving. But he’s changing because he wants to. Each of the ghosts contributes to this want, and Scrooge’s temperament should generally shift in three ways, at least imo: ** In meeting the Ghost of Christmas Past, Scrooge should come realize/acknowledge that he has made mistakes. ** In meeting the Ghost of Christmas Present, Scrooge should come to realize that he wants to change, even if he’s not sure how. ** In meeting the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come, Scrooge then should realize that he needs to change. * On that note, the spirits are all kind - yes, even Yet To Come. They are there to help Scrooge. That doesn’t necessarily mean they like him. Don’t be afraid to not pull punches or try too hard to make them too saintly, unless of course that’s the kind of story you want. * Scrooge’s nephew Fred is there to show that Scrooge could have love and tenderness in his life if he so chose: he doesn’t have to be alone, and in fact being with others is easy for him, yet he rejects it. His later scenes are often cut, which loses something. HIs scene in the Present shows that yes, there’s happiness going on and Scrooge is missing out. It’s not just about Fred making fun of Scrooge because he rejected him (pretty much my single, sole complaint about the Muppet version). * On that note, don’t forget about Fen. I think a lot of filmmakers decide she’s superfluous with Scrooge’s fiancée also in the mix, and to an extent there’s a point there (films can only have so much space) but the hypocrisy of Scrooge fondly remembering her but being a jackass to her son is a good thing to keep. * Speaking of which, another thing often cut out is the scenes in Present and Future showing regular folk not of the main set of characters, either enjoying or suffering on Christmas. A prevailing theme throughout is that Scrooge’s actions, and his world, have effects on far more than just himself, and that mankind is his business: again, the time constraints of film are noted, but try to add at least one scene of a poor family eking by, or one of Scrooge’s downtrodden clients celebrating that he’s dead. Scrooge’s change hits more if the world reacts to it. * The Ghost of Christmas Present is jolly, yes. He’s not Santa Claus. Don’t portray him as Santa Claus unless you’re doing it on purpose and dedicating the entirety of the segment to the tenderness Scrooge is missing (this is what the Muppets did for instance, and it works well there because that version of the story is written around it). Otherwise, the Clive Donner version - jolly, compassionate and loving to those, yet stern, sarcastic and utterly pitiless to Scrooge himself - is the golden example. * On that note, don’t forget about Ignorance and Want. The worst image of humanity’s sins, and all that. It’s a shocking moment that’s meant to sum up what Scrooge leans in the Present segment. * It bears repeating that the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come isn’t evil, and isn’t actually trying to kill Scrooge. He’s only showing things that Scrooge has done to himself and others. If given the choice, having Scrooge fall onto his grave himself is always better than having the spirit throw him there. * Do not cut out the part where Scrooge’s home has been ransacked (by his housekeeper, but even the best versions cut that detail out) and his possessions cruelly sold off. Also, as I said before keep at least one scene where someone speaks of how happy or uncaring they is that he’s dead. The atmosphere around Scrooge’s ignominious fate, and his denial about how people think of him after death, is what the entire part is actually about. * This pretty great Books Vs Movies comparison on Youtube makes a good point about the order of events. As I said, the segment is about Scrooge and what happens to him after death: start with that, and interrupt that with the news that Tiny Tim is dead. That’s supposed to be the capper: Scrooge looks for an escape from the truth, and only finds more awful even when it’s not specifically about him. * The “Scrooge has changed” segment is pretty by numbers, so I don’t have much nitpicking about it. Just always follow up with stuff that happened in the beginning. * This is less something that bugs me about some versions and more something that I love about some versions: my favorite part of the “Scrooge has changed” scenes in any version is the bit in the Muppets version where the collectors for the poor (played by Beaker and Honeydew) give him a gift and almost move Scrooge to tears. Followed closely by a really small moment in the Clive Donner version where Fred and his wife make it clear that Scrooge being with them has made them happy. Scrooge realizing how good it feels not just to give love, but to share love and have it shared with you, can make a very wonderful moment - even the original story doesn’t really focus on that towards the end.

And that’s it. Probably a few things I missed, but meh. I wanted to get this out before the New Year, lol. Hope I brought up a few things that people might notice and love as well next year.

I was able to see a few versions this season. Mostly my two favorites: the Clive Donner / George Scott version, and the Muppet version. Didn’t get around to seeing Scrooged though - it’s my favorite modernization.

As for new versions, I caught the one that came out this year by Zoghogg Studios, and I’d more or less recommend it to those who like the story. It’s a modernization that puts it into present day Scotland (or at least within the last few years), and I found myself liking almost everything about it - a bit heavy handed at times, but the atmosphere, the scenes and how they chose to adapt them, the new things they added, most of it was pretty great - except the guy playing Scrooge. Be it the writing, the acting, or most likely some combination of both, he just didn’t work: instead of talking like a person, he basically just yelled BAH HUMBUG at everything and incessantly bragged about how rich he was. And while everyone else’s dialogue was modernized well and very casual, his speech was all over the place, he’s the only one with original Dickens lines and so sometimes sounds like he’s reciting while people are talking regularly, that is when he isn’t screaming at the top of his lungs. He felt like a parody, except the whole thing was totally serious.

But otherwise, I’d watch it again. It had a fun twist where Scrooge was actually a young(ish) man, and the “nephew) was actually his Uncle, giving him the potential to find love again and changing the kind of man he is in the backstory, which is a neat idea more versions should do.

But that’s just me rambling on. Hope you guys had a wonderful holiday season and are set to be hopeful this New Year, as always. It’d be cliche to end on Tiny Tim, so I won’t. I’ll just say, let’s all walk among our fellow men and women and everything in between this year, if we can help it.

"This is the story of Bob, a farmer. Bob was out tending his crops one day when SUDDENLY he got swept up in events that would bring about the end of the galactic empire!? What are the odds!?"

No. Try again.

"This is the story of the person who brought about the end of the galactic empire. This is who the story is about, and it would only have been about this person. He started out his life as a meager farmer named Bob."

There we go.

"How ridiculous is it that this guy from the middle of nowhere was about to outwit Jacked Mcbufferson using his established flaws and defeat him without being stronger than a freight train. I hate it when the plot gives characters wins!"