4.5 stars. Rated PG, for no particular reason
By Derrick Bang • Originally published in The Davis Enterprise, 11.22.17
This one’s deceptive.
At first blush, Pixar’s Coco feels like the saga of a little boy
who desperately wants to embrace melody and song, but is thwarted by parents
and relatives with a deeply rooted aversion to music.
 |
| As his faithful dog Dante watches attentively, Miguel prepares to receive a blessing from his long-deceased Mamá Imelda: a necessary ritual, lest the boy be forced to remain forever in the Land of the Dead. Alas, the blessing will come with strings attached... |
That’s accurate enough, but
merely the entry point to this wildly imaginative, gloriously colorful and
unexpectedly poignant saga of family bonds. Co-directors Lee Unkrich and Adrian
Molina — who also co-scripted the story, alongside Jason Katz and Matthew
Aldrich — have ingeniously employed Mexico’s annual Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration to illustrate the
importance of honoring — and remembering
— past generations.
The narrative takes place during
a single fast-paced day and night, and is laden with gentle messages that range
from To Thine Own Self Be True, to There’s No Place Like Home.
In the tradition of Pixar’s best
films, the tone veers between droll comedy and heartbreaking pathos, and from
larkish excitement to edge-of-the-seat suspense. At the same time, we’re
dazzled by the animated equivalent of phenomenal production design, and charmed
by some cleverly integrated songs, including an endearing ballad written by
Kristen Anderson-Lopez and Robert Lopez, the Academy Award-winning team behind
the power anthem “Let It Go,” from Frozen.
The rather complex narrative
defies an elevator pitch, and opens with a prologue that cleverly establishes
back-story via Día de los Muertos
paper-cut flags. We then meet 12-year-old Miguel (voiced with earnest sincerity
by young Anthony Gonzalez), who chafes at the limitations imposed by a jovial
clan of shoemakers.
This family business has become
the pride of Santa Cecilia: a calling that began with Miguel’s
great-great-grandmother Mamá Imelda, as a means of survival when her husband
abandoned the family — including toddler daughter Coco — in order to follow his
dream of becoming a famous musician. Mamá Imelda’s subsequent ban on music has
been enforced strictly by subsequent generations, much to Miguel’s dismay.
He dreams of growing up to be a
celebrated musician like his idol, Ernesto de la Cruz, who became the most
famous musician in Mexican history: conquering pop charts, movies and concert
stages.
But thanks to the disciplinarian
edicts of his grandmother Abuelita (Renée Victor), the frustrated Miguel
believes that he’s backed into an either/or corner: He must choose between his
passion for music, and his love for his family. Efforts at persuasion merely
harden Abuelita’s position, and so Miguel — having accidentally stumbled upon a
family secret — yields to an ill-advised impulse, as night falls on Día de los Muertos.
It’s the one night when
everybody’s ancestors can leave the “Land of the Dead,” in order to
clandestinely visit with their living descendants ... but only — and this is
crucial — if they’ve been remembered with a photograph carefully placed within
the elaborate family ofrenda that
includes flowers, favorite foods and cherished knickknacks.
Miguel’s rash act prompts a
magical retaliation that renders him visible to the skeletal visitors who’ve
come to Santa Cecilia, and most particularly to his own ancestors. Dismayed by
what the boy has done, they bring him back across the glowing arch of flower
petals to their realm, where Miguel learns that he only has until sunrise to
break the spell, lest he become a permanent resident ... which is to say, a
skeletal remnant of his former self.
Fixing this problem seems simple
enough; Miguel needs only a blessing from any one of his ancestors. Mamá Imelda
(Alanna Ubach) is happy enough to provide such a prayer ... with the
stipulation that Miguel renounce any interest in music.
Unwilling to make such a
sacrifice, Miguel reasons that he’d have better luck obtaining a blessing from
his great-great-grandfather, long estranged from the family, but obviously to
be found somewhere within the Land of
the Dead. With the clock ticking — and questionable assistance from Héctor
(Gael García Bernal), a charming, fast-talking trickster who claims to have
connections within his realm — Miguel sets off on this unlikely quest.
Oh, yes: Miguel also is
accompanied by Dante, a hairless, slightly emaciated street dog — a Xolo dog,
short for Xoloitzcuintli (and the
national dog of Mexico) — which comes close to stealing the entire film. I’ve
not seen a dog animated with such hilariously accurate canine precision since
1950, when Chuck Jones introduced “Frisky Puppy” to the Warner Bros. cartoon
pantheon, as a foil for the fussy and fastidious Claude Cat.
Dante clearly qualifies as one of
the “flawed dogs” made famous by Bloom
County creator Berkeley Breathed. Loyal though he is, poor, clumsy Dante
has no impulse control, and a lengthy tongue that he can’t begin to keep within
his mouth. All dog owners will die laughing; this pooch is priceless.
Héctor is far more complex than
he appears at first blush, when he’s little more than a street hustler with a
talent for arch one-liners. But Héctor has his own poignant back-story, and —
much like Miguel — he “evolves” as the story progresses, shedding a brittle
exterior and revealing a deeply sensitive side.
In a mildly ironic twist, the
title character — great-grandmother Mamá Coco (Ana Ofelia Murguía) — is little
more than a sidebar fixture: Miguel’s ancient, fragile and silent confidante,
with whom he shares all the details of his daily adventures. Whether she
comprehends any of this is anybody’s guess; her wrinkled features rarely move.
But her presence eventually proves vital, once we reach a third act laden with cunning
plot twists.
The bulk of dramatic gravitas
remains with Miguel, who learns much (as do we) during the course of this
richly detailed story. This is a coming-of-age saga in a most unusual setting,
but the core truths remain familiar: the folly of hasty assumptions, the wisdom
of making informed choices, and the importance of following one’s heart.
Such serious stuff aside, Unkrich
and Molina unleash an endless volley of unhinged skeleton sight gags, which
never grow tiresome. All are edited with the snap of perfect comic timing,
which has been a hallmark of Pixar features ever since 1995’s Toy Story. Slow takes are equally well
edited, the directors achieving a wealth of emotion from the skeletal
expressions of various characters.
The film’s core look also is clever. Santa Cecilia is
depicted in soft earth tones, as a pastoral, low-lying (horizontal) community
that reserves its minimal bits of opulence for the local cemetery and the
various family ofrendas. The Land of
the Dead, in great contrast, is a dazzling display of vibrant, day-glo colors:
lavish costumes, vertical towers and an atmosphere of ongoing celebration.
(When this film hits home video, it’ll be a stop-frame delight for those
wishing to savor every little detail.)
In its own way, the Land of the
Dead is a happy place ... albeit one
with a few unexpectedly harsh limitations.
Pixar films go through years of
pre-production, so this one’s arrival at such a politically tempestuous moment
is sheer coincidence. That said, it’s a well-timed celebration of Mexico’s rich
culture and heritage, and a reminder that the important things — family,
legacy, respect and honor — are universal.
Much like a piñata, Coco’s enchanting, brightly colored
surface is laden with all manner of wise and heartwarming contents. It’s quite
a treasure.
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