Online Response #8

The word critique holds a lot of weight to it—most people simply read the word as “criticize.” Some reviewers get lazy and do just that, and unsupported arguments run rampant. In the case of children’s media, the idea of critique can have these same negative connotations. Parents undoubtedly get nervous about their children getting indoctrinated with all sorts of dangerous or extreme ideas—or ideas that don’t match their own opinions. This is why Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind is such a successful movie—rather than pushing a certain agenda, it plays with ideas. I have a very distinct memory of watching this film for the first time. My brother introduced it to me, and I was around 8 or 9. Before we started, he told me that his favorite part of the movie is that there isn’t a bad guy. As a kid, I found this disconcerting, and honestly I didn’t believe him. When I watched the movie I was very surprised to find out that the film holds sympathies for every group and opinion. Don’t get me wrong—it does have a point of view. However, the characters and issues represented are three dimensional and shown with a humanity that makes these issues as complicated as they deserve.

            This humanity is primarily shown through the two main female characters—who, by the way, are awesome female characters who are powerful, smart leaders without sacrificing their femininity. Nausicaa, as our protagonist, has the majority of the screen time and her hopes and dreams are the ones we are all rooting for. However, she is not entirely without blame. Nausicaa’s sympathies for the insects cause problems for her very consistently. Her flashbacks depict memories of harboring a tiny Ohm, make this love of the bugs very complicated. As the audience has seen by this point, this Ohm could bring toxins into the valley and also destroy the village. Overall, she is young and makes lots of mistakes along the way.

            Princess Kushana, the leader of the Tolmekian army, is perhaps the most fascinating character, and makes the critique in Nausicaa as three dimensional as it is. The Tolmekians are incredibly destructive, and if there has to be a bad guy, they are it. Initially Kushana seems destructive and terrifying, but quickly the story creates sympathy for her. She, like Nausicaa, is trying to be a good leader. Additionally, the fact that her body has been destroyed because of the insects makes her blood thirst for them very sympathetic. Lastly, she and Nausicaa have some sisterly respect for each other that makes their relationship very dynamic.

            As discussed in class, Henry Jenkins said that “children use their play to explore the social structures that surround them.” The humanistic way the characters in Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind a good example for children to questions their social structures and look at their antagonists in a new light.

Film Analysis 3: Rabbit-Proof Fence

 The premise of Rabbit-Proof Fence is similar to so many children’s stories—a child is separated from their parents and must return home. Peter Pan, The Little Princess, and in ways even Harry Potter follows this trajectory—but Rabbit-Proof Fence very quickly leaves familiarity for white, western children. The realities of the story are harsh and told with a sad sense of honesty that is unique among so many stories focused on children. While the political diversity of this story is painfully clear—Molly and her sisters, as mixed-race children, are property of the government and so horridly treated—the cultural diversity of the story is what really makes it interesting. The language, sound, pacing, and narrative arc all give insight into the aboriginal culture that Molly is torn from.

            First, the use of language in the story is very different than the use of language in many western films. At the beginning, when Molly is narrating the story, her use of language is rich as she speaks in her native tongue. The language is beautiful and the characters are chatty and pleasant, and so the audience gets to hear a lot of it. However, when Molly and her sisters are taken away from their mother the film hardly uses any dialogue from that point forward. When the girls try to speak their language at the camp, they are swiftly punished. For the remainder of the film, they speak English—but only when necessary. Language ceases to become a narrative tool once the girls cannot use their native tongue.

            The sound of the film is very unique and becomes more narratively important than the language. When the daughters are taken from their mothers the audience is left with the mothers for a long time, listening to the sound of their grieving wails. These wails blend into the sound of the soundtrack. The soundtrack features aboriginal instruments such as drums and didgeridoo and incorporates electronic sounds to echo the cries and wails of the daughters and their mothers.  The other sounds in the films make the setting come alive—bird calls, the sound of walking on rocks and dirt, the wind, and the water are all louder than normal to take the place of the lack of dialogue.

            Lastly, the pacing and narrative arc of the story comes out of the culture of the people. As said before, dialogue does not drive the story at all. The goal is clear and pursued with a diligence and lack of play that is uncharacteristic for children. The pacing is much like their walking—patient, but constantly aware of danger lurking. Additionally, none of what these children achieve could be done by many others. Molly’s ability to live off the land and her knowledge of tracking are the few things that keep these girls safe. Perhaps the most harrowing part of the story, however, is that there is no happy ending. While Molly and her sister get back to their mother and grandmother, it is tinged with the sadness of the girl they lost along the way. On top of that, we soon learn that Molly was later taken back to the camp, and that her daughters were taken from her as well. This little slice of heritage is indicative of a larger problem, and does not wrap itself up in the comfortable way many children are used to.

            Overall, the story of Rabbit-Proof Fence gives insight into the culture and heritage of the aboriginal people in Australia. Though it can be painful to watch, the fact that this story is so different both narratively and aesthetically makes the audience more aware and more sympathetic of the political difficulties portrayed in the film.

Book Analysis 3: Winnie-the-Pooh

Back home in Idaho in the garage under a few boxes, inside a Rubbermaid bin, under  clothes and drawings and Polly Pockets and blankets is a little stuffed bear—A Pooh Bear, in fact. He’s not yellow anymore, but more of a dirty mustard, and he’s way skinnier than any respectable Winnie the Pooh should be. His nose is flat and any signs of tags are completely gone. To me and my family he’s a precious bit of fluff, a friend who probably has seen more important moments of my life than any other object. Revisiting Winnie-the-Pooh as an adult was a delightful experience that is seeped in hunny-flavored nostalgia. The structure and nature of the Winnie-the-Pooh stories depicts the interplay of the child who is desperate for new life experience and the adult who longs for a simpler life an a familiar home.

            When we first meet Winnie-the-Pooh the first question to be answered, quite logically, is his name. The narrator, as most adults might be, is confused by Edward Bear being called “Winnie-the-Pooh.”

            “But I thought he was a boy?”
            “So did I,” said Christopher Robin.
            “Then you don’t call him Winnie?”
            “I don’t.”
            “But you said—“
            “He’s Winnie-ther-Pooh. Don’t you know what ‘ther’ means?”

In the book, Christopher Robin is always set up to be the most knowing character, and in many ways acts like the adult throughout the stories. Christopher Robin is desperate to have some sort of experience or memories under his belt so that he can contribute to the conversations. In the exchange of dialogue above, he takes the lead and patronizes the narrator for his perceived ignorance of the situation. Later, after he asks what it means to live under the name, he pretends that Winnie-the-Pooh had the question, not him. Christopher Robin and he narrator both “know” that Christopher Robin knows all of these stories already—they are supposed to be memories—it’s just that he forgets sometimes. In the stories, Christopher Robin is the leader and the explainer. For example, when Winnie-the-Pooh gets stuck in Rabbit’s hole, Christopher Robin knows that Pooh must not eat for a week or so, and then he will be thin enough to wriggle out.

            On the other hand, the narrator is set up to be more childish. When we first start on the stories, Christopher Robin has to give detailed instructions in order for things to go smoothly:

            “Could you very sweetly tell Winnie-the Pooh [a story]?”
            “I suppose I could,” I said, “What sort of stores does he like?”
            “About himself. Because he’s that sort of Bear.”
            “Oh, I see.”
            “So could you very sweetly?”
            “I’ll try,” I said.
            So I tried.

In this case, the narrator often has to take the hat of student while Christopher Robin reminds him of how to play. Additionally, while Christopher Robin seems to take a certain glee in correcting the narrator and being the “adult” figure in the stories, the narrator takes glee in making the stories as nonsensical as possible, even though he most definitely knows better. For example, when they go on the expedition, the north pole ends up being a literal pole that Winnie-the-Pooh finds.

            The whole story flips the relationship between adult and child and allows the adult to enter back into a nostalgic world of play while the child gets to play at adulthood. The whole story, rather than being told from the perspective of a child, is from the perspective of an adult, and consequently serves not the child’s needs but the adult’s needs for a little bit of nonsense and a whole lot of simplicity. The narrative structure lets the adult leave their world and go back home to the world of childhood.

Online Response #7

The world depicted in the film George Washington is one of poverty, trial, and a lack of education—a world different from the all-white, middle class communities that dominate Hollywood film. The railroad is a rough place to work and the manual labor obviously takes its toll on the men there. The children don’t play at school or at a playground, but around the railroad tracks an in abandoned buildings—there’s no other place for them to go. The current rules of poverty and race have kept these characters from pursuing anything more—in fact, one of the most significant reasons the other children find George strange is that he dares to dream of more. However, more important than the large-scale elements of diversity—race and poverty—are the small-scale differences between each child. These small differences are the ones that affect everyone and most immediately impact understanding and kindness in communities. Buddy’s family situation, Sonya’s hard lack of emotions, and George’s condition and heroism are the differences that make the most impact on the lives of this small community.

             For Buddy, his family makes him diverse and different form the other children. Buddy’s family situation is the issue brought up earliest in the film. His mother is ill somehow—though Buddy insists that she just doesn’t sleep well. The children discuss Buddy’s mother with apprehension and confusion—they find her behavior strange and uncomfortable. The fact that Buddy has to sing his mother to sleep polarizes him from the other children. However, after Buddy has died, the children remember Buddy’s mother not for her strangeness, but for her kindness. Vernon shares a story of how she fed him, even though it meant she would go hungry herself. The strange stigma surrounding Buddy and his family has released, and they see each other in a more humanized light.

            Sonya is also strange to the other children, particularly Vernon. Sonya is a little waif  with an ethereal element surrounding her. She’s old beyond her years which makes the wisdom she sometimes imparts strange coming out of her young mouth. Sonya’s biggest struggle is her lack of real emotion. The other children are disturbed when Sonya doesn’t cry following Buddy’s death—of course, Sonya doesn’t immediately seem bothered by that either. However, Sonya later tells Vernon that her lack of emotion—most likely due to a life too full of trails—scares her and consequently she believes she is a bad person. Vernon is able to understand Sonya’s difference after this conversation, and takes her under his wing.

            Lastly,  George is the most obvious “other” throughout the story. He is strange, has a rough family life, introverted, and is differently able than the other children. His problem with his skull most obviously separates him from the other children—he can’t swim or play around and he often feels ill. The children aren’t sure how to treat him because of it. However, he is more strange because of his personality. He is introverted and thoughtful, compared to the extroverted others, and most of all he believes that he can achieve more in life than what is already written for him. He very literally tries to achieve his dreams of becoming a hero. However, the other children don’t really understand George in the end—but they do admire him and accept him for his differences. And because the film is completely told from Nasia’s perspective, we do as well.

Online Response 6

Due to my mom’s distaste for games and my severe lack of hand-eye coordination, I’ve never been a gamer. My fascination for the medium has never been fulfilled, and despite my little sister’s explanations and help with playing, I’ve never quite understood the enthusiasm most people have for games (though I am guessing it’s much more engaging if you can actually play). Observing the class play of Disney Infinity made the attractive nature of games more apparent to me. Elements of interactivity, intertextuality, and simulacrum give games an aspect of exploration that stands out amongst other children’s media.

First, the whole game of Disney Infinity is based on intertextuality. The game operates on the assumption that the audience is familiar with the entire Disney universe, and a lot of the fun comes from making different texts from the universe collide. In the class a lot of people goofed around with the characters fighting each other and running around together—it’s fun to see Rapunzel and Baymax shoot at each other or Hulk give Sully a piggyback ride. 

The game also is based on the idea that the player can create their own Disney universe, which will combine bits and pieces of all of the Disney texts that particular player enjoys. This creates a surreal atmosphere that reflects the postmodern ideas we discussed in class. Specifically, it reminded me of the work of Rene Magritte and his work with simulacrum. Many of his paintings—including the famous The Treachery of Images, more commonly known as “This is Not a Pipe”—combine elements of everyday life in odd ways, emphasizing that his paintings are by no means reality. Magritte’s floating people seem to have a direct relationship to the floating elements created by players in the game, such as a bistro hanging mid-air in the middle of a Disney-esque forest. Because the symbol and sign of the thing do not equal reality, both Magritte and this game use that fact to play around with these elements and create something surreal and fantastic.

The interactivity available in the game is also a fascinating consequence of the rejection of treating the game world like the real world. The players can explore the world at their own pace and do ridiculous things with the objects around them—like picking up other people. Additionally, players can manipulate the timeline of the game to suit their interests and whims. Lastly, the glitches and physics of the gae let the players, through their avatar, manipulate that reality even further. This has the same effect as described above—the symbol of the thing is not the thing, and consequently the players can do what they like with it.

Overall, the interactive experience of the game played with the whole “unreality” that games and media inevitable possess. The acknowledgment of this simulacra allows for experimentation and exploration that is inherent in children’s play. This game reality, through its lack of reality and heightened interactivity, provides a space for skill development, competition, mimicking, and pleasure needed for a child’s progress.