Fish

Nemo is one of their livelier features, close to the level of their Toy Story movies. It follows the over-protective fish Marlin (voiced by Albert Brooks) on an odyssey to find his son, Nemo, who has been taken by fishermen and placed in a dentist’s fish tank Marlin encounters various characters on his way, most notably the cheerful Dory (voiced by Ellen De Generes), who suffers from short term memory problems. This simple story is saved from predictability (and its inherently episodic structure) by the vividness of the characterisation. Brooks replaced William H. Macy as the voice of Marlin during production (a change apparently due more to script changes than Macy’s performance), and he perfectly communicates the fretful angst that rots away at his middle-class domesticity. The film’s central theme – that fear should not stand in the way of enjoyment of life – is strong and timely. Director and co-screenwriter Andrew Stanton apparently conceived the film in exploration of his own relationship with his son, but the message is solid enough that it has applicability outside of the context of parental relationships. The film gently underlines this point without laboring it: Marlin doesn’t just learn not to coddle his son, he also learns to engage with the world outside of his local neighborhood (the reef is deliberately portrayed as classic American middle suburbia).

It is the attitude of Marlin’s companion on his journey, Dory, that is most responsible for this widening of the film’s theme. Dory could have been a one-note character, but De Generes’ good humour in the role nicely offsets Marlin’s grief and apprehension: she is the voice of hope and trust. He fears all the inhabitants outside of his corner of the reef (even those outside of his own house): she trusts them. When Marlin sees the dark silhouette of a whale in the distance, he assumes it is hostile, while Dory assumes it is benign and can be communicated with. (It is more than a simple plot point that Dory is the only character who can read, as the whale sequence makes clear – Dory’s weakness is her memory, but her special skill is her knowledge of foreign languages).

This sense of engagement with the world is gently reinforced by the depth of Australian talent in the voice cast, including Barry Humphries, Geoffrey Rush, Bill Hunter, Bruce Spence and Eric Bana. If I may sound a little parochial for a moment, it’s good to hear them: Humphries in particular does wonders with the suspiciously friendly shark Bruce (the name is presumably intended as a double joke, referencing both the old Monty Python sketch in which all Australians were called Bruce, and Bruce the robot shark from Jaws). The climax occurs in and around Sydney Harbour, which has been faithfully recreated and looks fabulous.

While the film does not build to quite as elaborate a finale as other Pixar films (such as the door sequence in Monsters Inc), it is probably the most visually impressive of their movies. The previous features had chosen central characters that were suited to the limits of the form (toys, insects, monsters), but here we have characters based on familiar real-life animals. Furthermore, fish are perhaps the least easily anthropomorphised of animals (even insects have legs). The animators and character designers have succeeded admirably in overcoming these problems, particularly in the animation of Dory. Their reward is that instead of the mundane environments of the previous films (suburbia, underground, an office building) they can here explore the brightly coloured, varied environments of a coral reef. They look stunning, showing off the vibrant tones that only computer animation can provide.

The ultimate irony is that the success of Pixar has endangered the classical form of animation: Disney has only two more traditional features in the works, in response to the perceived lack of interest in conventional animation. (That the Pixar films are more popular than Disney’s features because they’re better has apparently not occurred to the higher echelons of the Disney machine). But where now for Pixar itself? History would suggest that creative periods like this fizzle out after a few movies, and I suppose it is inevitable that at some point the run will end. Yet the studio is showing signs that it has learnt the lessons of the past. Unlike the Disney studio in the 1930s and 40s, it has carefully avoided placing one person at the centre of its creative team: John Lasseter has gently moved aside to let other directors (Andrew Stanton, Pete Docter, and Lee Unkrich) helm films. When it moved studio, it avoided creating a sterile, segregated environment as Walt Disney did when he upgraded studios in the late 1930s, instead designing an open plan building that encouraged the mixing of personnel from different departments. And it has also engaged in judicious talent spotting: Brad Bird, director of The Iron Giant (the only recent animated film that I prefer to those of Pixar) has been brought in to direct their next picture, The Incredibles.

I can’t wait.