The big drag about modern animation is the perception — which seems to be growing more prevalent rather than less — that it’s somehow better when it’s “good for you.” In the old days, anvils were dropped remorselessly on coyote heads and Popeye, under his breath, swore like a sailor (natch). Now we have Wall-E blinking out sad, cautionary tales about the horrors of environmental waste (or of simply getting too fat to leave your armchair), or wildly scripted tales, like those of Hayao Miyazaki, that follow the kind of noodly dream logic you might see in experimental film — this is serious stuff, with heavy-duty art-gallery weight. Much of modern animation is technically very beautiful. But what if the story being told leaves you wanting? To say you don’t like these so-called serious, not-just-for-kids animated movies has become something of a cutural offense, apparent proof of your coldness as a human being.
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REVIEW: Sylvain Chomet Conjures a Toon-Deaf Illusionist
