Three stars. Rated PG, for mild dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang
This one’s a head-scratcher.
It’s important to note that The Red Turtle is only sponsored by Japan’s Studio Ghibli; the
film is directed and co-written by Dutch animator Michaël Dudok de Wit. Thus,
the style and palette are nothing like the vibrant, watercolor fantasies made
famous by Ghibli’s Hayao Miyazaki; the texture and atmosphere here are much
more subdued, and the detail work is noticeably sub-par.
Indeed, Dudok de Wit’s figure
composition strongly evokes the Tintin
works of Belgian cartoonist Hergé (Georges Remi).
It’s essential to fall in love
with the look of The Red Turtle — not
an easy task — because that’s the film’s primary allure. Dudok de Wit is concerned
primarily with mood and appearance; the actual narrative — which is exasperatingly
vague — is of lesser consequence.
There’s also no dialog: none at
all, aside from a few shouted protests or wordless exclamations of concern.
Everything in this 80-minute film is conveyed via context, inference and body
language. While Dudok de Wit can be congratulated for the occasional plot
points that do emerge, solely via
visuals, this technique does contribute to a tedious viewing experience.
The film’s numerous accolades and
Academy Award nomination notwithstanding, I can’t see it becoming a much-viewed
classic.
The story begins as a lone man is
washed ashore on a deserted island. We never get his name, nor do we learn
anything about him, aside from the reasonable survival skills that suggest he’s
a sailor. Of the circumstances that dumped him into the ocean, we know nothing.
The partially forested island
provides sufficient food and fresh water; the man quickly sets about
constructing a raft from downed tree wood. But his effort to sail beyond a
surrounding reef is scuttled when some large, unseen, undersea something whomps against the raft and
scatters it into scores of pieces.
Undeterred, the man builds
another raft, and tries again. Same result.
Something doesn’t want him to
leave. Something in the sea? The spirit of the island itself?
Get used to such questions,
because this film is full of them. None gets answered.
A third rafting attempt finally
reveals the water-based agent of destruction: a huge red turtle that surfaces
and stares, impassively and unblinkingly, at the man. It’s the film’s signature
image, the sea creature’s brilliant crimson a striking contrast to the duller
earth tones that characterize most of the visuals.
The man returns the look, frozen
and anxious, waiting for what comes next. Which is another destroyed raft.
Shattered, emotionally spent, he
swims back to the island and collapses.
What happens next slides into the
realm of magic fantasy: a huge leap based, to a great degree, on the selkies of
Irish and Scottish folklore. This fantastical occurrence allows the man to abandon
efforts to leave, instead enjoying a long and (we assume) satisfied life on the
island.
As this is an unlikely romance,
of sorts, it could be argued that the island has encouraged the man to fall in
love with it — with nature — by creating a personification that eases this
process.
Alternatively — and I tend to
favor this reading — perhaps everything from the second act onward is a nod to
American author Ambrose Bierce’s famous short story, “An Occurrence at Owl
Creek Bridge.”
Neither option is fully
consistent with subsequent events; too many details are vague, and too many
questions remain unanswered. A third-act catastrophe, in particular, feels
pointless and needlessly contrived: an event that serves no purpose.
At the same time, surprisingly,
viewers who hang on will be moved by the story’s poignant conclusion. I guess
that’s a tribute to Dudok de Wit’s directorial skill, to evoke such emotion
even under bewildering circumstances.
He earns some respect during the
first act, with its nod to Robinson
Crusoe, and our natural curiosity as the man explores and attempts to
master his environment. His sole companions are tiny sand crabs, which function
throughout as droll comic relief, particularly when one crab keeps taunting
another by waving a bit of vegetation.
But we become far too invested in
fresh appearances by those crabs, as we crawl past the first act; they’re the
only element that brings some life and personality to the film.
Dudok de Wit employs a blend of
animation styles, neither very impressive. The various island backdrops appear
pencil-sketchy, often with an impression of wood grain. Very few distinct
settings are employed — beach, ocean, forest, cliff faces — and they’re mostly
static and frequently repeated, often in slow, inert long shots. Major yawn.
The man almost never is seen in
close-up, which minimizes any need for subtle facial expressions. His dreams
and nightmares emerge in monochrome; his waking activities take place in
subdued yellows (beach sand), greens (forest) and light blues (ocean).
The various rafts, in contrast,
clearly are digital creations; they have a fluidity of movement absent from the
island elements.
More than these various tableaus,
though, the film gets much of its atmospheric impact from the careful use of
sound effects: the wind rustling through the leaves of the forest trees; the
slight, crunching footfall echoes when the man explores these woods; the whooshing patter of thousands of
raindrops during a sudden squall.
Laurent Perez Del Mar’s
instrumental underscore is subtle and sparingly employed, mostly to enhance the
quiet tension of a given moment.
But
it’s all too precious, too deliberately stylized, too laborious, too vague. The
frequent black-outs, employed to mark the passage of time, further slow the
already sluggish pace. All the critical love notwithstanding, I can’t help feeling that many viewers will share my
regret, once the film concludes, that the destination wasn’t worth the journey
... and that there are far better ways to spend 80 minutes.
No comments:
Post a Comment