Unit 2 Book Analysis

Sideways Stories From Wayside School

Louis Sachar’s 1978 book, Sideways Stories from Wayside School, tells thirty stories from the perspectives of thirty characters on a thirtieth-floor classroom. It has become popular enough that for many children it may be one of the first times they are exposed to bizarre and absurdist humor. The book opens with the description of the school itself, which was meant to be one floor with thirty classrooms, but due to a construction mix-up, was built with thirty floors (except for a missing nineteenth), with one classroom on each. Through a mixture of directness, as well as implicitly in its tone and often nonsensical writing style, it encourages children and students to experiment, question norms and authorities, and explore what makes them unique.

The chapters are episodic in nature, with each chapter focusing on a different character. Most are about students, with a few exceptions: the evil Mr. Gorf who turns children into apples for misbehaving, her much kinder replacement Mrs. Jewls, and Louis, who serves as a sort of proxy for the author himself. The classroom serves as a sort of microcosm of absurdity, with chapters addressing real issues that children face, albeit in humorous ways.

The Three Erics, for example, face an identity crisis when they are all given negative, stereotyped nicknames that imply the direct opposite of who they really are. A boy named Nancy and a his girlfriend Mac decide to change names under obvious pressure for their names to match their genders. Terrence constantly messes up at recess in front of his peers, facing verbal punishment from them as well as adults.

A strong theme in the book is futility in the face of authority, specifically the frustration kids feel in the presence of adult authority figures. Todd is the best-behaved student in class, but due to constant mix-ups, he somehow manages to be sent home every day at noon as punishment. In his chapter, despite being harassed by another student and saving the class from a robbery, he still somehow violates Mrs. Jewls’ three-strike system and is sent home. In another chapter, Mrs. Jewls sends Dameon on a pointless quest to ask Lewis if he wants to join the class in watching a movie about turtles. He repeatedly runs up and down the stairs as messenger between Louis and Mrs. Jewls until he misses the entire movie himself. In the end, Louis decides not to watch the movie. He doesn't like turtles because they are slow.

Taking a hopeless, futile situation and making it humorous is a common theme in absurdist film and literature. The fact is that many of the children of Wayside School are frustrated, as children are in real life. Their frustrations include authority, inability to fit in, and social rules they don’t seem to grasp. The value of Sideways Stories is that it acknowledges that often times, children simply can’t change their circumstances. But they can learn to experiment within the limitations they are given and come to appreciate and even love what sets them apart from the norm.

Play

Play and Pokemon Red

My experience with play this week also incorporated a lot of nostalgia. I was able to find and play through a version of Pokemon Red, the first entry in the Pokemon franchise back in 1996, though not my first experience with the games when I was growing up. Though I have experienced the game more recently than I’d probably like to readily admit, it had still been some time and considering the game a bit more analytically was a fresh experience. All video games have rules, whether explicit or unwritten, and most have objectives the player needs to complete in order to win. Games like Pokemon offer kids the chance to experience both the advantages and limitations of rules, and what, for them, defines winning.

Pokemon’s original premise, and it’s entire marketing campaign (“Gotta catch ‘em all”) is based around the idea of collecting the various types, totaling 150 in the original series. But there are other dynamics at work. The in-game credits don’t actually roll until the player has battled his/her way to the top and become the Pokemon champion. As part of the story, the player is caught up in a quest to stop an evil organization, Team Rocket, from fulfilling their schemes. For others, Pokemon is simply a fun social experience, with options existing for playing against or trading with friends.

The distinct aspects of the game—completing the Pokedex,becoming champion, fighting evil, and playing with friends—remain the pillars of the franchise amidst lots of other changes it has undergone. Players are free to choose what winning means for them and what kind of character they want to be: researcher, champion, hero, or social. Developing in any of these areas requires achieving certain objectives, but it isn’t necessary to master every aspect in order to complete the others.

Games can be valuable tools to teach children about life, but have inherent limitation. Sometimes playing by the rules is important, but at others, a game’s necessarily limited possibilities eventually inhibit a child’s ability to think “outside the box.” Pokemon, while certainly still limited by this kind of restriction, offers children with differing values, interests, and personality types a chance to define for themselves what winning means to them.

Unit 4 Film Analysis

The Iron Giant 

Brad Bird’s The Iron Giant was released by Warner Brothers in 1999, at the tail end of the so-called Disney animation renaissance. It failed to earn back even half its budget at the box office, but today it enters many critics’ lists as one of the best animated films ever made. Maybe the absence of musical numbers or talking animal side-kicks hurt its performance, but more importantly, Warner Brothers didn’t seem to know what kind of film they had or how to market it. The Iron Giant  tackled issues that even today remain touchy subjects, and did so with a kind of nuance that was pretty much unheard of for an American children’s film in the 90’s. Though it initially suffered for it financially, it remains a testament that children’s entertainment can challenge kids to consider topics that even adults struggle with, including gun control and even war itself.

Brad Bird, along with fellow CalArts graduate, John Lasseter, were early American fans of Hayao Miyazaki’s work. When they went on to collaborate at Pixar, both acknowledged they had been inspired by films like Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind and My Neighbor Totoro, and wanted to take a similar approach to addressing conflict and issues in kid’s films. Like Miyazaki, they weren’t satisfied with black and white representations, of purely virtuous heroes, and villains that were evil incarnate. Bird’s sensibilities are clear in The Iron Giant as in those later films.

The Iron Giant  is set in 1957, when Cold War paranoia was at its hight and the world was one bad decision away from nuclear holocaust. As an homage to Sci-Fi B-moves of the 50’s, it smartly uses nostalgia and pop culture to address anti-war and anti-gun themes, along with empowering themes of overcoming prejudice and the dark sides of one’s own nature. It’s also empowering for kids because nine-year-old Hogarth actually takes on the role of teacher. He teaches the Iron Giant, who is essentially a child figure himself, about the beauty of life, choices, and the difference between good and evil.

It’s impressive that even in developing its anti-war theme, the film avoids demonizing the military, as often happens. The closest thing the film has to a villain is actually Mansley, who is simply greedy for power. The giant himself, pitched by Brad Bird as “a gun with a soul,” is a sympathetic figure. Due to programming, he only becomes dangerous when he sees another weapon. The message is clear: violence begets violence, fear begets fear.

For all its nods to E.T., The Day the Earth Stood Still, and Superman comics, and though beneath a colorful mix of traditional animation and CG, it tells a deceptively simple story, there is a complexity in theme as well as a sense of charity for its characters that set The Iron Giant apart from kids films in its era. There was very likely a reluctance or uncertainty in portraying “adult” themes in kid’s media that led the film to be overlooked at its initial release. But today it can be seen really as one of the first in a trend toward children’s entertainment that can be entertaining as well as substantive, encouraging young viewers to ponder on issues that they can one day be influential in addressing.

Unit 4 Book Analysis

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

Themes of sacrifice are no stranger to adventure and fantasy stories. Joseph Campbell, who theorized the “monomyth,”writes that each hero has to descend into the abyss in order to ascend—often as a literal death and resurrection—and to achieve his reward at the journey’s end. It suggests something Messianic, but also isn’t without application for everyman struggles either. As the last of a seven-book series, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (2007) finds author J.K. Rowling trying to neatly conclude themes from both sides of that coin: both those of sacrifice and atonement, and the day to day struggle that many have with their own faith.

Harry Potter is easily the most ubiquitous series of young adult novels of this generation. Despite undeniable Christian references throughout the series—with Rowling identifying as Christian herself—as it became more culturally pervasive, the series was met a proportionate amount of criticism, mostly from Christian denominations fearful that it would lead kids to the occult. But the “magic” in Harry Potter has much more in common with the fantasy of Tolkein or C.S. Lewis, both with a long-acknowledged Christian subtext to their work. Deathly Hallows has Rowling focusing these themes and refining them, with Harry serving both as Christ figure as well as everyman.

Harry’s climactic sacrifice at in Hallows is the most-often recognized evidence of spiritual subtext in the series. It’s pretty unmistakable: in order to save both wizard and muggle-kind, Harry has to give up his own life. His sacrifice strips evil (personified, of course, by Voldemort) of its power, and Harry returns to life empowered to achieve an ultimate victory. Earlier in the novel, Harry visits his parents tombstones for the first time in his life. Engraved is the passage from 1 Corinthians 15:26: “And the last enemy which shall be defeated is death.” The passage refers to Christ’s death and resurrection, but also foreshadow’s Harry’s acceptance of his own death, as well as seeing his parents again through the power of the resurrection stone. In the interim between his death and revival, Harry find’s himself in King’s Cross—where his life had been taken down a literally different path—and the station’s name is not without significance either. There he meets with Dumbledore, the series’ biggest patriarchal figure.

This leads to another, less-frequently discussed, spiritual subtext of Deathly Hallows. Rowling stated that her own and struggle with religious belief is apparent in the novel. Campbell writes that in every story, at some point, the hero’s guide must leave the hero alone. In, Harry finds himself doubting Dumbledore, his recently-departed mentor. In his presence, Harry had found a constant reassurance, but once separated, one reason after another crops up for Harry to doubt whether Dumbledore ever care for him at all, whether he was ever honest with Harry, and whether the quest he started Harry on was just a farce. Ultimately, his faith overcomes his doubt, and at Harry’s sacrifice, he is returned to the presence of this father figure.

For kids, it’s completely possible to enjoy Harry Potter as an adventure story without the spiritual subtext, in the same way this can be done with The Lord of the Rings, or The Chronicles of Narnia. Allegorical works are valuable to kids and adults alike because they open the reader or viewer to truths they might otherwise disengage with. Joseph F. Smith said, “We are willing to receive all truth, from whatever source it may come; for truth will stand, truth will endure…” Truth simply resonates, and series like Harry Potter can become a passage through which kids begin to examine their own values, and often, even their relationship with God.

Week 11

Critique

“The concept of portraying evil and then destroying it--I know this is considered mainstream, but I think it is rotten. This idea that whenever something evil happens someone particular can be blamed and punished for it, in life and in politics is hopeless.”  --Hayao Miyazaki

In a textbook example of missing the point completely, the first time Hayao Miyazaki’s Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (1984) made it to the U.S, it was in the form of 95-minute New World Pictures edit called Warriors of the Wind. Rather infamous now, the re-cut watered down the film’s environmentalist themes and turned the Ohmu into the chief antagonists, sealing the deal with a VHS cover featuring three male warriors (nonexistent in the film) in a Star Wars-esque pose, with Nausicaä relegated to the background, in order to market it for children. In western media animation was, and to some extent still is, largely seen as a “for-kids-only” medium. For that matter, children’s films generally weren’t seen as a platform for discussing serious issues—at least not with much depth or subtlety. In his films, Miyazaki strives for a higher standard, to challenge his audience and responsibilize them, including children.

The film was the United Sates’ first exposure to Miyazaki and his thematic interests of pacifism, feminism, environmentalism, among others, that he would further develop throughout his career. We are introduced to a strong female hero, and she isn’t the girl Rambo, though she proves herself more than capable. She resolves conflict with charity, compassion, and understanding. The world in Nausicaä is a stunning, ominous apocalyptic landscape, but cackling overlords and mindless killing machines are absent. The villains of the film are that of greed, ignorance and fear. Though minor conflicts are set up and resolved, ultimately the film isn’t man vs. nature, or even man vs. man, but man vs. man’s nature.

Another important note is that the insects are actually frightening, and definitely more so to kids. In most media there is a constantly-reinforced association of beauty with goodness, and ugliness with evil. It’s a powerful notion that even though we as an audience might sympathize with the creatures much sooner than many characters do, there is still something of a gut-level instinct to fear them, possibly even hate them, because of their appearance. Even at a young age, children don’t have to be told that the insects are bad—they make that assumption. Few children’s films are willing to place the burden of responsibility—not just on it’s characters, but audience as well—to come to admire something when our instincts might tell us to shoot it, or to run far, far away.

There is a temptation in films that deal with heavy topics topics to corporealize the enemy. Set him up in act one so we knock him down in act three, and we go home happy and contented because hey, we beat racism, or hunger, or the evil U.S. Marines that want to destroy the sacred trees. This temptation is especially strong in children’s films. While on an individual basis, there might not be anything inherently damaging about that plot, when all kid’s films seem to be self-congratulatory, it becomes a problem. Miyazaki has become possibly the greatest animated filmmaker ever because he inspires, but he doesn’t reward his audience for watching a movie. There is an undeniable urge to change something about the world, and maybe—if children can’t wake up and create world peace tomorrow or the next day—to change something about themselves, and the way they view the world.

**And just so this isn't a complete "let's bash western media" kind of blog entry, here's an awesome (and bold) MGM Christmas cartoon from 1939.

Experimentation

Some of the most common advice given to enterprising artists are statements like “Don’t censor yourself,” “just let your ideas flow freely,” “silence your inner-critic.” It’s a pretty widely-accepted idea that in art, at least in its early stages, avoiding placing limits on yourself is often an important part of the creative process. In George Dunning’s Yellow Submarine (1968), this theme of freedom and anti-conformism might come secondary to other quintessentially Woodstock-era philosophies like the power of peace, love and music. But it’s the idea in which form seems to perfectly accompany message and purpose. Yellow Submarine teaches kids about embracing uniqueness and being unafraid of experimentation, not just in story, but in aesthetic.

John Lennon wrote “I Am the Walrus” as an absurd mix of unrelated and unfinished ideas—taken from some of his own poetry, a nursery rhyme, a Lewis Carol reference, and a dash of nonsense lyrics—partly in the attempt to frustrate critics who liked to over-analyze the Beatles’ music. The song isn’t featured in the Yellow Submarine, but the philosophy certainly is. There is a strong element of spontaneity, a kind of stream-of-consciousness, controlled chaos that runs through the length of the film, not unlike how the Beatles themselves created much of their music. With episodes like The Sea of Time, and the Sea of Holes, the story resembles a child’s dream, and trying to explain it out loud as having some kind of logical structure throughout probably proves just as fruitless and frustrating. In that aspect it reminds me of Time Bandits (1981), a film I wrote an analysis for early in the semester.

Speaking of Terry Gilliam, Yellow Submarine’s avant-garde animation must have at least partly inspired some of the work he would do on Do Not Adjust Your Set and his work with the Pythons just a short time later. The animation is unique, often beautiful, sometimes disorienting, and definitely psychedelic. It isn’t quite like anything that came before, combining the decade’s colorful graphic art with cutout animation and surreal imagery. The thrown-together feel adds to the impression that it’s a film seemingly unburdened by self-censorship.

In many ways—and this isn’t a criticism—Yellow Submarine feels like a film was created in a brainstorming process and then just left there. That’s not true; it’s actually a fully realized,  strangely beautiful, enjoyable film. But the sense of controlled chaos is fitting for a children’s animation sprung from the Summer of Love, and all the philosophies we associate with the era. It’s a story about freedom to enjoy music, art, and life without succumbing to the bummers that are the blue meanies. And unlike a lot of other works that tell kids to “just be yourself” or “just enjoy life” it seems justified in giving that advice, because it’s very creation seems loyal to the same idea.

Unit 2 Film Analysis

The Little Fugitive

Ray Ashley’s The Little Fugitive (1953) is a independent film that documents the adventures of a young man after he decides to run away from home, to the farthest place he knows—Coney Island. It’s a fictional story, but it’s naturalistic, documentary-style approach was unusual for its time. It clearly drew from the Italian Neo-Realist movement in its pacing, scope, and aesthetics, and likewise would prove influential on the French New Wave that would come a few years later. Ray Ashley’s unique, realistic approach to a simple story leads the audience to identify much more intimately with a character and in the process, to access forgotten truths from their own childhoods

Lennie and Joey Norton are brothers living in the suburbs, forced to spend the weekend without their mother around. To get rid of him, Lennie and his friends trick Joey into thinking that he has killed his older brother and the police will soon be after him. With six dollars, Joey hops a train and flees to Coney Island. There Joey plans to live out the rest of his days riding horses and drinking soda. Meanwhile Lennie soon realizes his mistake and tries to locate Joey.

The first impression the film makes is its marked realism. It was shot handheld on a 35 mm camera, creating an almost home-movie feel. Richie Andrusco and Richard Brewster, who play Joey and Lennie respectively, were first-time actors. Their performances are so convincing it seems likely that Ashley often just left the camera roll and let the boys be themselves. Moments play out quietly and cuts are few. Even with the occasional plot conveniences, the film feels honest. There’s a genuine quality that, without feeling overly saccharine, creates a sense of nostalgia whether the viewer experienced the 50’s firsthand or not.

Like the best films that attempt to give realistic portrayals of childhood, it doesn’t diminish or belittle the problems that the boys experience. It’s relatively lighthearted; there are no life-altering tragedies on display, but it’s successful in showing the wonder as well as anxiety of a child trying to get by in an adult world. What’s impressive is that both wonder and anxiety seem to be on equal display—as they probably would be in a kid’s mind. Part of Joey knows he has to provide for himself somehow, to earn money so that he can eat, and part of him just wants to ride the carousel and spend money on horsey rides. It’s a truth that resonates with the viewer and effortlessly recalls memories of childhood, leading to greater identification with the characters.

The Little Fugitive doesn’t shy away from taking its time. It doesn’t hurtle toward plot points. For the most part it is content to simply observe moments in their beauty and honest simplicity. It allows for easy identification, whether for adult audiences in the 50’s, separated from Joey by age, or for a young viewer today separated by generations. To understand these characters and their world, one doesn’t need to have been a six-year-old in 1953; any more, say, than one needs to have been a teenager in 1976 to understand Dazed and Confused, or a young Iranian girl to understand The White Balloon. The Little Fugitive, and the uncommon films like it, serve   as a gateway of sorts, not only to another time and place, but within the viewers, encouraging them to recall and reconnect with a more childlike self.

Unit 3 Film Analysis

Big 

"When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things." 1 Corinthians 13:11

“The natural man is an enemy to God… unless he … becometh as a child, submissive, meek, humble, patient, full of love, willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.”  Mosiah 3:7

12-year-old Josh Baskin wishes to be “big” and wakes up the next day day in the body of a 30-year-old man. Penny Marshall’s Big (1988) is an accelerated coming-of-age story, operating at a place where childhood and adulthood meet, an intersection of the innocent and the corrupted, the imaginative and the restricted, the carefree and the world-weary. Naturally, nostalgia is an important theme and in part, the sentiment the film tries to call forth from its audience (at least, in those beyond the age of 12). As a fantasy/comedy film, Big is unapologetically idealistic, but it doesn’t treat childhood as inherently superior to any other time of life. Rather, Big is about how childlike ideals are both accessible and fundamental for anyone, of any age.

Feeling restricted by his parents and invisible to the girl he likes, Josh Baskin thinks being “bigger”—maybe subconsciously, not so much in stature as in status and respect—will be the solution to all his pubescent woes. Once his wish is fulfilled however, Josh has to deal with a reality that is qual parts hilarious (for the audience, anyway) and heartbreaking. Josh’s mother naturally panics at the strange, seemingly insane man, and before he can explain himself fully, Josh runs for the hills. After enlisting the help of his best friend Billy, Josh settles in a run-down New York apartment and decides to try living a normal, adult life until they can straighten everything out.

A common trope of the kid’s fantasy genre, namely, parents always remaining out of the loop, is put to interesting use here. The fantastic scenario is too much for Josh’s mother to accept. But Billy, after using a special song only the two of them know to test the truth, quickly comes to terms with the fact that his best friend has turned into Tom Hanks.  So from Act I, a child’s mentality—in this case, his best friend’s—proves Josh’s salvation.

Using his computer skills, Josh gets a data-entry job at a toy company—hardly different from fighting ice wizards in text-based game, right? But it’s not long before Josh has a fortuitous encounter with Mr. MacMillan the CEO, which is when the film starts getting really interesting. MacMillan is just the first of many characters Josh meets at the company, with romantic interest Susan and (one-sided) rival Paul to follow. Each of these characters is missing something fundamental for their happiness, each is looking in the wrong places, and each has to access their inner-kid to get it. Josh is the catalyst to make that happen, and though the overarching story remains about him, just as interesting is the progression of the others as Josh acts as a sort of mystical, accidentally benevolent stranger, passing briefly through their lives and (at least in MacMillan and Susan’s case) changing them in the process.

MacMillan is jaded after a lifetime of meetings and consumer reports, and after a few hours with Josh in the toy store, promotes him to Vice President in charge of research and development. Through Josh, MacMillan is reminded that the toys he has dedicated his life to are much more than statistics—they are things he can actually play with. Susan is similarly  dissatisfied but thinks she can find some kind of fulfillment with sex. She comes home with the oblivious Josh to his recently-upgraded toy paradise of an apartment, and an initially awkward encounter gives way for an innocently sweet one. After being coerced into jumping on the trampoline, she waits expectantly in bed for Josh—only to realize that when Josh had asked to be on top, he meant the top bunk. Her bewilderment gradually gives way to a smile, and she falls asleep, realizing she might be beginning to gain something more permanent than temporary satisfaction (while she and Josh eventually do begin a sexual relationship, the bizarre implications of that are a can of worms better saved for a different kind discussion).

Paul meanwhile, is resistant to change. He invites Josh to a game of paddleball in an attempt to upstage him, and in a hilarious role-reversal, ends up looking like the more childish of the two, erupting in a "give me the ball!” tantrum. This is where the film makes the distinction between being childlike and childish. It’s not childhood, per say, that saves these characters—Billy wants to take advantage of Josh’s age to buy “beers and dirty magazines,” and might not have had the same effect on MacMillan and Susan as Josh did. It’s Josh’s imagination, altruism, and uncomplicated philosophy on life that is needed. The “take-home message” of Big isn’t just nostalgia. It’s that staying faithful to your inner-kid is an essential part of staying fulfilled in a crazy adult world.

Unit 3 Book Analysis

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

"But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she’s going to adopt me and sivilize me and I can’t stand it. I been there before.”

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, final lines

After the success of his children’s novel Adventures of Tom Sawyer (1876), Mark Twain was soon at work on a sequel. But the novel starting taking on a much more serious tone than he anticipated, and Twain set it aside for a number of years. In the 1880’s, the initial optimism of Reconstruction began to fade and the South entered a time of social unrest. It might have been the increasing weight of racial oppression, with the Jim Crow laws looming just five years away, that motivated Twain to finish and publish Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in 1885. In it, the titular Huck is living in pre-war Mississippi, with a mean drunk for a father and under the care of the Widow Douglas, who is determined to whip him into a civilized, church-going young man. Finding the atmosphere oppressive, Huck soon begins his journey aboard a raft with a runaway slave named Jim. Along the way, he becomes more resolved that he’s better off not becoming “sivilized” as society defined it at the time.

The noble thing about Huckleberry Finn is how the novel allows itself to settle completely in the mind of a young man. Twain has a lot of institutions to address—Southern society, religion, intellectualism, and especially racism and slavery. But he writes in vernacular English and speaks through the uneducated Huck, with moral lessons either understated or not articulated at all by its narrator. It is in this voice that Twain accomplishes his best of satire, not to mention moments of honesty. Twain allows Huck to wrestle with the cognitive dissonance that results when ideas and beliefs begin to contradict one another.

At first Huck lives under many of the same assumptions and traditions as the rest of the white folks around him. Jim quickly becomes a kind of father figure for Huck, but despite helping him escape, Huck is slow break the notion that he should treat Jim as anything but inferior. Early in their journey, Huck apologizes to Jim after teasing him, and actually feels guilty about feeling guilty—that he should be humbled by a black man. Huck meets a series of colorful characters along his journey, with most of them—like the band of robbers, the feuding and ill-fated Grangerford and Shepherdson families, and the two con-men masquerading as royalty—serving to convince Huck of how hypocritical his society actually is.

That kind of cognitive dissonance only increases, right until the moment that Jim is sold to another family. Huck believes that freeing Jim will lead to Huck’s own damnation, but resolves to help Jim anyway, declaring "All right, then, I'll go to hell!”

The novel resolves tidily—Jim is freed once again, and the well-meaning Sally Phelps offers to adopt Huck. But Huck, as he says in the novel’s closing lines, has “been there before.” Huck is fond of the Phelpses and they only want what they perceive as best for him, the pillars of society in the South: religion, etiquette, education, and morality. But as Huck has come to see it, piety and hygiene aren’t worth much and, though he might not be able to articulate as much, he can do a better job educating himself that society has done thus far. Huck decides to head West, where civilization hasn’t had a chance to arrive yet.

Diversity is about inclusion—adopting or at least acknowledging ideas and cultures different from one’s own. But in Huck’s case it’s equally about rejection—of his old life, of “decent society.” Huck’s quest has prepared him discern for himself, to take the best of every world he encounters, accepting truth where he finds it, and rejecting the worst—the end goal for children in their efforts to make diversify, challenge their own beliefs, and make new discoveries.

Week 9

Diversity

 “One of the reasons I made [George Washington] is because movies talk down to kids, put them as a cute little kid with a box of cereal and a witty joke… You watch movies like Kindergarten Cop and it's like, 'Oh, a kid said something about sex. Isn't that funny?' It's just annoying and it makes me sad for their parents.”

 Gordon Green

Gordon Green’s first film, George Washington (2000) is a story of a group of young friends during a hot North Carolina summer. After an unexpected tragedy, the kids are forced to decide how they will cope and find their individual stories of redemption.

When we talk about portrayals of diversity in the media, it’s probably something less useful studied through individual examples versus in the media collectively—recognizing trends across years, within genres, or among target audiences. It’s just not realistic to expect a single work to be completely representative of every combination of race, gender, sexual orientation, and socioeconomic status. Still, it’s worth noting when a piece of media makes a conscious attempt to avoid being completely homogenous.

In George Washington, Green is concerned with giving every character a voice. It’s more than just a story about a racially integrated town. It’s about honest and intimate portrayals of how we cope with tragedy and loss. It isn’t a token thing. The film has an almost documentary-feel and a dreamlike, Terrence Malick-esque pace that allows its characters to play out their stories and reach their conclusions on their own time. When diverse characters are allowed to be more than tools, but real people, these stories evolve as much into a study how much people have in common as much as what our differences are.

Exposure to new perspectives is essential during a kid’s formative years, because kids often have such a limited perspective based on where they are born and raised. But children’s media can be  particularly weak  when it comes to these types of portrayals, with minority characters rarely featured, and even less in major roles. There are real problems that come with being raised believing that there is only one way to live. When attempts are made to be more diverse, it can allow for a sense of inclusion for those not normally represented, and offer a new or unfamiliar perspective the audience may not have considered before. It allows children and adults alike to grow as people, gain new insight, and have more charity.

And, in honor of my favorite show that returned today:

Unit One Book Report

Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli

"She laughed when there was no joke. She danced when there was no music. She had no friends, yet she was the friendliest person in school....
"We did not know what to make of her. In our minds we tried to pin her to a corkboard like a butterfly, but the pin merely went through and away she flew" (Stargirl, 15).

 

Stargirl is a 2002 young adult novel by Jerry Spinelli, detailing a young man’s recollections of a year in a small-town Arizona high school, and the events set into motion by the arrival of an eccentric young woman. Her name is Susan Caraway, but she is known simply as “Stargirl.” In a homogenous school community, when Stargirl appears in her strange outfits and toting a pet rat, ukulele, and sunflower bag everywhere she goes, there is immediate stir. Leo, the narrator, finds himself smitten, and must decide whether to act on his feelings under the pressure of his classmates’ opinions. Under even greater pressure, Stargirl herself must decide whether she will conform to the other kids’ standards, or maintain her individuality. High School is a social microcosm, an idea reflected in a lot of great children’s literature, and in Stargirl, Spinelli treats that environment as a testing ground for moral and ethical lessons.

“Mica Area High School–MAHS–was not exactly a hotbed of nonconformity.  There were individual variants here and there, of course, but within pretty narrow limits we all wore the same clothes, talked the same way, ate the same food, listened to the same music.  Even our dorks and nerds had a MAHS stamp on them.  If we happened to somehow distinguish ourselves, we quickly snapped back into place, like rubber bands” (10).

Stargirl has been homeschooled all her life, and arrives at MAHS blissfuly unaware of the expectations placed on students to conform to certain social stereotypes. She is mysterious, strange, and completely outward-focused. She has personal files on everyone in town, tracking likes and birthdays. She sings happy birthday to students every day in the cafeteria. She leaves kind anonymous notes and gifts. Over the course of the year, she goes from unknown alien, to the most popular kid in school, and back again to social pariah in a backlash following a game in which she cheered for both schools’ teams. In the midst of this, she and Leo begin a tentative relationship.

Stargirl creates a constant tension between the characters’ longing for acceptance, and the desire to remain truthful to their individuality. The “just be yourself!” message so common throughout young adult literature is often quick to count the benefits of that kind of attitude, but slow to count the real-world cost. Stargirl’s eccentricity allows her to pursue many passions, make friends young and old, and explore her creativity. But as her character is revealed there is a tangible sense of loneliness surrounding her. That same loneliness may actually be a benefit, providing Stargirl with time for the quiet meditation and growth that define her. But loneliness can become disheartening.

“I had never realized how much I needed the attention of others to confirm my own presence” (126).

The choice is not an easy one, and the tension in Leo and Stargirl’s relationship builds until she drapes a sheet in front of the school with large letters reading “STARGIRL LOVES LEO” and Leo caves under the pressure. In an effort to make him happy, and in part to regain some of the friends she has lost, for a brief time Stargirl becomes simply “Susan,” blending into the crowd with everyone else. But she soon snaps back. Her and Leo drift apart. She makes a final, memorable appearance at the prom, and then disappears forever. Leo writes from years later, when the story of Stargirl has become legend, and former students that shunned her now remember her fondly. Leo concludes with the hope that they might someday meet again.

In many ways High School is unique. It’s a time when the need for acceptance his more overpowering than perhaps any other point in life. But in many ways it’s completely representative of adult life: people have essentially the same insecurities, the same predisposition toward self-centeredness. There's a reason similar books have captured the imagination of children; "Stargirl Societies" now exist in schools across the country, inspired by Spinelli's character. Media and literature like Stargirl develop resonant themes of individualism, kindness, open-mindedness, and persistence that kids can take from the stage of adolescence to apply throughout the rest of their lives.

"Stargirl Sketch" by Hannah, 17 years old.

Unit One Film Analysis

 Time Bandits

EVIL: God isn't interested in technology. He cares nothing for the microchip or the silicon revolution. Look how he spends his time, forty-three species of parrots! Nipples for men!
ROBERT: Slugs.
EVIL: Slugs! HE created slugs! They can't hear. They can't speak. They can't operate machinery. Are we not in the hands of a lunatic?

Time Bandits (1981) is the first installment of Terry Gilliams’ loose and named-in-hindsight “Trilogy of Imagination,” followed by Brazil (1985) and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988). It’s the story of young Kevin, who joins a larcenous band of dwarves on their journey though time to steal history’s most valuable objects. It’s marked by the kind of surreal, often dark imagery and absurd humor that Gilliam began developing in his Python days, which has since become his trademark. It’s episodic, following the band as they are pursued by “The Supreme Being,” leaping from historical time periods, to fantasy settings, toward an ultimate showdown with Evil. As an adventure, it’s wondrously bizarre tale who’s chapters might not exactly sum up to a cohesive whole—which might make it the perfect coupling of form and content for film about childhood dreams. It’s a fantasy about the power of imagination unleashed as a child’s means of coping with a perplexing and superficial adult world, and his disillusionment to hero worship.

IIn a vaguely dystopian suburban setting, Kevin observes his greedy parents obsessively compare their latest household appliances to those of the neighbors. Throughout the film, technology is vaguely associated with evil. After they order him to bed, Kevin sees a horsed knight burst through his closet door and ride away. Some time later, we see a knight appear among dozens of Kevin’s drawings on the wall. Gilliam’s filmmaking is marked by a certain refusal to intellectualize, and we’re never sure if Kevin’s adventures are real or imagined.

A much later sequence is representative of the adventure as whole. Kevin and his friends land aboard an ogre’s ship, fix his bad back while he wife makes fondue, and toss them overboard. The Ogre’s cough then creates a wind that blows the ship across the water, which turns out to be sitting on top of a giant’s head. They escape the giant by finding a sleeping potion on board, tearing a hole through the ship’s floor, and injecting it into the giant’s head using fireplace bellows. This entire sequence takes place in less than five minutes.

What unfolds is plotted as if by child’s logic, told from a child’s perspective, in a dreamlike haze. Much of the dialogue seems almost like it was written stream-of-consciousness. The cameras remain low for the entire film, a kid’s-eye-view just three or four feet from the ground. The character Evil is a child’s-cartoon version of the Devil. When great moral questions are presented, they’re answered offhandedly by authority figures who seem to be barely paying attention to the question. In the end, the Supreme Being—a suit-wearing, schoolmaster-type God—appears out of nowhere and quickly defeats Evil. He then reveals that the events, including lives lost, have been a part of his plan all along. Kevin asks him, “But why does there have to be evil?” Distracted, he replies “I think it has something to do with free will. “

What begins seemingly as simple escapism soon evolves into something more, as one after another of Kevin’s heroes begin to disappoint him. Robin Hood is an upper-class, narcissist twit; Napoleon comes up short, and Agamemnon declines to teach Kevin sword fighting in favor of “much more useful” magic tricks. In Kevin’s world, he has to learn that adults don’t have the answers. Kevin returns home in the midst of a house fire. His parents are scrambling to remove their most valued appliances. From outside, the mother yells,“I’m going in for the toaster!” After ignoring Kevin’s warning to not touch a bit of evil goo, they spontaneously explode, leaving Kevin alone with two billowing pillars of smoke. The film ends on that traumatic note. Though disturbing, Kevin has learned through his adventure of taking care of himself.

Time Bandits is part adventure fantasy, part social satire, part childhood existential nightmare. It was appropriately tag-lined “it’s all the dreams you’ve ever had, and not just the good ones.”  It’s certainly a child’s film—though whether or not it’s actually for kids is definitely up for debate—and the ease with which Gilliam accesses the childlike mindset it quite brilliant. Ideas are free-flowing, and sometimes a child’s solution truly is the best. Though often fantasy, adventure stories can help children learn about and cope with difficult realities.

“If I’d actually learned any of the lessons, I wouldn’t be making films anymore. I try not to learn. I spend most of my life unlearning.”
Terry Gilliam

Week Two

 Morality

The Jungle Book (1967), Directed by Wolfgang Reitherman

"I have long felt that the way to keep children out of trouble is to keep them interested in things. Lecturing to children is no answer to delinquency. Preaching won't keep youngsters out of trouble, but keeping their minds occupied will."

- Walt Disney, "Deeds Rather than Words"

In Walt Disney's The Jungle Book (1967), based on stories by Rudyard Kipling, a young boy name Mowgli is raised and shaped within a world full of danger around every turn. His story is about his reluctance to leave such a world and enter what we might call normal, secure civilization. This was the last film Walt himself produced, though he wouldn't live through its completion, and his proclaimed "entertain first, preach second" philosophy didn't stop him from injecting this film (and many others) with definite moral undertones. Children's media has always been seen as an opportunity to present moral lessons, and many of the most memorable media experiences from my childhood are shining examples of that.

The Giving Tree (1964), Written and illustrated by Shel Silverstein

In the same essay quoted above, Walt Disney talks about the importance of exposing children to portrayals of both light and darkness in media. The same must happen to the characters. In The Jungle Book, Mowgli is confronted by danger and temptation on every side. In order to make choices and develop, there is a necessary exposure to evil. Or, to put it more scripturally, and in a father's words to his young son:

"For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things. If not so, my firstborn in the wilderness, righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad..."

- 2 Nephi 2:11 

Portrayals of morality can be subtle or overt. Walt Disney's comments serve as an interesting question: what responsibility to we have to include good morals in our stories for children? And to what extent do we expect the kids to "get it," or just be entertained? One of my favorite films growing up also happens to be one of the most barefaced, Old-Testament-punishment-style morality tales I know of for kids, but I'm still not sure if I came away from it having learned anything, or just with a craving for chocolate:

Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971), directed by Mel Stuart.

Like Charlie's adventure through the factory, Mowgli's reluctant journey for civilized society is very episodic in nature. As they run the proverbial gauntlet they meets a number of distinctive characters and situations that test or challenge him in some way. In the case of The Jungle Book, the climax of the film is Mowgli's showdown with Shere Khan, but the film doesn't have just one solitary villain, and they all have something to teach him in one way or another. If you were so inclined, you might even begin to break down the colored cast of characters Mowgli encounters into, say, embodiments of the seven deadly sins:

Wrath: You have Shere Khan the tiger, who hates man and wants to destroy him at any cost.
Gluttony: Kaa, the cobra, who is driven only by appetite.
Envy: King Louie the ape, who aspires to be like man and have everything he does.
Sloth: Baloo the bear, the friendliest of the bunch, living by the philosophy that what you need in live will just "come to you." Though not a villain by any means, he might be the greatest threat of all to Mowgli, because he represents Mowgli's own desire to shirk responsibility and just stay in the jungle.

If we wanted to force the comparison further we could probably identify an embodiment of pride (like Colonol Hathi the elephant), and perhaps even lust. But the more important point is that each encounter gives Mowgli a chance, doctrinally speaking, to exercise his agency; to transgress and pay the consequences, or to "choose the right" and progress on his quest. As in all morality tales, characters' choices bring about either good or bad consequences. Mowgli's eventual shows of courage and resourcefulness lead him safely to his destination, while the wrath of Khan (see what I did there?) is is downfall--there's room for a William Blake joke in there somewhere, about Tygers burning bright, but I'll wrap this up.

Portrayals of morality in children's media can range from overt, to subtle, to practically non-existent (like in Tex Avery's Red Hot Riding Hood that we watched in class). Questions about what responsibility, if any, we expect from children with regards to the media they see, and what responsibility is expected of the producer's of that media, are ones that I hope to explore further in this class. But teaching and entertainment in children's media need not be mutually exclusive. We only need to decide which to prioritize.

Week One

Intro to Children's Media

The White Balloon (Panahi, 1995); E.T. (Spielberg, 1982); Boyhood (2014, Linklater)

I’ve often heard it repeated that everything we need to know, we learned in kindergarten. In my case I’ve found that to be pretty accurate, and the rest of my life has been spent in the (often failed) application of those lessons. For the sake of simplicity, let's say that children's media can be defined by one of four camps: media for children, media about children, media by children, and all the media children are exposed to whether they’re meant to or not. Son of Rambow (2007) manages to be and explore a bit of all these at once.

Still from Son of Rambow (2007)

Trying to define children’s media in the first place is difficult, but I think Son of Rambow is at least indicative of what the best children’s media should attempt to do. For children, it can serve as a jumping off point for adventure and discovery while also teaching some of those essential formative lessons—to have passion for a goal, to play well with others, to overcome challenges. And for grown-ups, it can act as a point of access for the rediscovery of things that have are often forgotten, and desperately needed. Music, films and stories are made so often with this kind of attempt in mind. Here’s one of my favorite examples:

The White Stripes, "We're Going to Be Friends" (2001)

I think what Jack White is trying to do here is important, and it's the same thing Son of Rambow accomplishes. While we shouldn’t necessarily put childhood on a pedestal, it’s even more important that these kinds of stories aren’t told from above, looking down. First of all, kids can have a pretty good idea of when they’re being force-fed some kind of lesson. And second, it’s a period of time to learn from, not scoff at. The adventures of Will and Lee Carter are told from their perspective, and treated as no less real or daunting than the challenges facing the adults in the story. The lesson is that it’s okay to be smart, creative, and even a little rebellious at times.

And like the best stories of any type, even our hero is allowed to make mistakes. Will is swept up in his power and newfound ambition as a filmmaker and is cruel to the first boy he befriended. There are real and nearly deadly consequences, and Lee Carter ends up in the hospital. There are some heavy themes at work in Son of Rambow: there’s guilt as Will struggles to reconcile his family’s faith with his passion for creation. There is unrequited love for family as Lee Carter silently craves the affection of his older brother. The biggest realization I had during the screening of the film was this: good children’s media isn’t afraid to deal with big issues and ask important questions. There’s something kind of magical and liberating for children and adults alike when we recognize that while we do our best, adults don’t have all the answers either. Doubt, fear, shame, loneliness, loss—these things affect all of us regardless of age. Children’s media is where we can find common ground and ask universal questions. There we can find meaning in the experiences that transcend age, time, or place.

Scene from The Little Fugitive (1953), Dir. by Ray Ashley