Five stars. Rated PG, for mild peril and fleeting Irish profanity
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 1.30.15
There’s an irritating tendency to
believe that quality animated films come only from the United States, an
arrogant assumption that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has
attempted to address — with varying success — since granting such features
their own Oscar category in 2001.
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| Ben, left, unfairly blames his younger sister Saoirse for the absence of their mother, who apparently died in childbirth. But their father, Conor, knows the actual truth ... and it's a secret that he hopes to preserve, lest it also affect his little girl. |
Although domestic efforts still
tend to win the award — and that’s also annoying — the competition nonetheless
has granted welcome exposure to foreign talents such as Sylvain Chomet (The
Triplets of Belleville), Marjane Satrapi and Vincent Paronnaud (Persepolis)
and Hayao Miyazaki (nominated three times, and a winner for Spirited Away).
But a sidebar problem also has
emerged: It can be hard to see some of the nominees, particularly prior to the
Academy Awards broadcast. As I’ve noted previously, the Academy’s animation
branch can be congratulated for recognizing talent outside the United States,
but that cultural generosity hasn’t been embraced by American movie
distributors ... or, for that matter, by American movie viewers.
In 2011, A Cat in Paris and Chico and Rita had almost no distribution throughout the United States. One of
last year’s nominees, Ernest & Celestine, never was released in our local area, having been granted only limited national release and exposure at some film festivals. And although
nothing could have stopped the Frozen juggernaut — which inevitably included
the Oscar in this category — Ernest & Celestine is a far better film on
every level.
Which brings us to this year, and
similar frustrations. Studio Ghibli’s The Tale of the Princess Kaguya played
a few film festivals in October and had very limited release in the rest of the
country ... but only in a compromised version that inserted a new American
voice cast (another practice that I deem horrifying). Good luck finding it.
Irish director Tomm Moore’s Song
of the Sea played for two qualifying weeks in late December, in New York, and
has remained off the radar since then ... until now. The film is making spotty
appearances nationwide, and, starting today, we’ve been granted one screen at
an outlying Roseville multiplex.
Trust me: It’ll be worth the
drive.
And don’t wait, because I doubt
it’ll stay there very long.
Moore may be remembered for
having helmed the delightful Secret of the Kells back in 2009, which also
earned an Oscar nod. He and his crew began work on Song of the Sea that same
year, and the lengthy production time will be understood the moment you
experience the luxurious, absolutely gorgeous hand-drawn art that fills every
frame.
Beautiful animation isn’t
necessarily sufficient for its own sake, of course; ideally it should accompany
a compelling and emotionally vibrant narrative. That’s definitely the case
here, as the film’s look and atmosphere perfectly complement the poignant Irish
folk tale at the heart of this storyline.
Selkies — women capable of
transforming into seals — have long played a prominent role in Irish myth, and
they’ve cropped up in several films over the years; even American indie
director John Sayles covered this ground, with his poignant 1994 adaptation of
Rosalie K. Fry’s The Secret of Roan Inish.
Moore’s Song of the Sea is an
original story, co-written with Will Collins, and it weaves a similarly
charming tale that will beguile both children and adults. The saga gently
pushes its central characters out of their familiar, real-world lives and into
a parallel realm inhabited by beings and creatures long regarded as fairy tales.
In that respect, the tone and approach are very much like Miyazaki’s Spirited
Away and My Neighbor Totoro, but in this case deeply immersed in Irish
culture.
Our key protagonist, Ben (voiced
by David Rawle), is a young boy who lives with his father, Conor (Brendan
Gleeson), and younger sister, Saoirse (Lucy O’Connell), on a rocky promontory
overlooking the ocean. The children’s’ father is responsible for the lighthouse
adjacent to their tiny house; it’s an isolated, lonely existence steeped in
sorrow.
Ben was the apple of his mother’s
eye until Saoirse’s birth, an event that precipitated some sort of crisis. Ben
hasn’t seen his mother since that night; Conor also pines the loss of his wife.
The implication is that Ben’s mother died in childbirth, but we suspect that
isn’t true; regardless, the boy continues to blame his younger sister, quite
unfairly, for the shroud-like gloom that envelopes them like a blanket.
Saoirse, nonetheless bonded to
her brother in the time-honored manner of all adoring younger sisters, cannot
understand Ben’s often gruff impatience with her. The little girl also doesn’t
speak, having been silent her entire life. But she does seem to share some sort
of rapport with the smiling seals that often watch from the waves that break
against the shore below their home and lighthouse.
The character art is minimalist
and flat, eschewing the 3D look we often expect these days: more like Charles
M. Schulz’s approach to his Peanuts children. This is not intended as a
pejorative; Moore, artistic director Adrien Merigeau and their animators never
waste a line, obtaining precisely the right character emotion at all times.
Surrounding landscapes are more
detailed, in a painterly manner; our initial view of the shore and verdant
slope leading to the lighthouse is breathtaking, the rocks standing stark
against a rich blue watercolor sky. (Moore admits to being inspired by Irish
landscape painter Paul Henry.) A car trip through the surrounding countryside unfolds
as an interactive map while Ben tries to chart their course on paper with
colored pencil, this retro approach blended with conventional animation inserts
of their trip. Delightful.
Ben and Saoirse’s meddling
grandmother (Fionnula Flanagan) insists that the children move to the city to
live with her, arguing that their desolate lighthouse setting is inappropriate.
But Saoirse begins to decline as she loses contact with the ocean. Ben’s antipathy
notwithstanding, he still feels protective of his little sister, and worries
about her fading state.
And the boy is astonished when
the musical notes that Saoirse plays on a conch shell attract the attention of
some clandestine elves: the last of their kind not transformed into the stone
figures that we suddenly realize have been as ubiquitous as garden gnomes.
Saoirse, it turns out, is the last of the selkies — a rather unsettling detail
— and the only one capable of restoring order in this supernatural side-realm.
By singing. But the little girl
remains mute, unaware of any such power.
Worse yet, these events have come
to the attention of the witch Macha (also Flanagan), who has been responsible
for all the stone transformations. This began long ago as a misguided act of
kindness, when she “healed” her giant son Mac Lir’s grief by turning him into
the rocky island not far from Conor’s lighthouse; over time, Macha has become
convinced that emotions are responsible for all the world’s ills, and that we’d
be better off without them.
To that end, Macha dispatches her
owl emissaries to kidnap Saoirse, before she can learn to sing.
At which point, Ben realizes that
it’s time to step up and accept responsibility like the loving older brother he
really is, deep down. His subsequent adventures, as he struggles to rescue
Saoirse — assisted solely by their huge, loving dog, Cu — will be familiar to
Miyazaki fans who watched as young Chihiro sought to rescue her ensorcelled
parents from a similarly supernatural realm, in Spirited Away.
The film’s magical atmosphere is
augmented further by its deeply moving soundtrack: a blend of original
compositions by Bruno Coulais, and traditional Irish ballads and shanties
performed by the band Kíla. I’ve long thought that wistful Irish tunes are
second to none, in terms of emotional impact: a fact further proven by Moore’s
deft handling of this score.
While there’s much to be admired
in recent American efforts such as How to Train Your Dragon and Up, they
focus more on fun; they rarely engage the emotions at a truly spiritual level.
I’ve had that stronger, more satisfying reaction to an animated feature only a
handful of times during the past decade or so; I can point to Spirited Away, Ernest & Celestine and now Song of the Sea.
It is indeed that powerful. And
memorable. And beautifully, lovingly crafted.
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