The Secret of Kells (Tomm Moore)

The Secret of Kells has at its heart the story of the real-life Book of Kells, the illuminated manuscript created more than a millennium ago in a seemingly remote Irish abbey. The monks working on it live under the impending threat of Viking invasion, and in his narrative director Tomm Moore imagines the life of a 12-year-old boy, Brendan, who joins the community’s desperate attempts to improve its inadequate defenses.

However, Brendan’s life is transformed by the arrival of Brother Aidan, a master illuminator, who initiates him in the art and uncovers a hitherto unrecognised talent. The Book of Kells, a fantastically edition of the Four Gospels, is both one of the greatest works of medieval illumination and the best-known symbol of the Irish illuminated manuscript tradition. He befriends Aisling, a mysterious sylvan waif who shape-shifts at will into a white wolf, who aids him in his quest, Between gathering inks for the book and battling a strange Irish monster known as Crom Cruach, Brendan has to deal with his uncle, the stern leader of the abbey, who is hopelessly trying to save the abbey from destruction.

It must be admitted that The Secret of Kells somewhat short-changes Brendan's Christian world in relation to Ireland's lingering paganism. The Faerie world is matter-of-factly depicted as living, magical and powerful, Christianity is mundane and limited; nothing to evoke the extravagant miracles of the saints that are equally a part of Irish lore. The film teases us with the alleged powers of the Book, which is said to have the power to blind sinners who gaze upon it, but when this is put to the ultimate test, it's the artist and not the book that has the upper hand.

Inspired by the pages of the Book itself (which is today on permanent display at Trinity College, Dublin), the look of the film is simply ravishing. The highly stylized images – of a tumbling, tangled forest, ravenous wolves and flights of black-as-night crows, shimmering snowscapes, the geometric lines of the advancing hordes – are all realized with a gorgeous intricacy. Using the vivid colors and delicate illustrations of the Book of Kells for inspiration, he establishes a surprising and completely persuasive link between the ancient art of manuscript illumination and the modern practice of animation. Everthing about this film, every frame, could easily be placed in a museum; each shot of the film is laid out with stunning attention to detail and a surreal and magical beauty that permeates the film.

The Secret of Kells is a perfect synthesis between childhood exuberance and grown-up restraint, creating a singular and sensational animated work that needs to be recognized as a great achievement.

The Triplets of Belleville (Sylvain Chomet)

One of the things I enjoy about animation is the amount of freedom directors have with the look of the film. Though the rise of technology has allowed live-action directors to create whatever they want, be it alien invader or sprawling metropolis, the audience can usually tell the difference between a real life city and acting in front of a green screen. Though technology has allowed directors to stretch their imaginations like never before, there's something about good old hand-drawn animation that appeals to the artist in me. But I'm getting ahead of myself.



The Triplets of Belleville, an animated film by French director Sylvain Chomet, tells the story of Madame Souza, an elderly woman who must rescue her grandson, Champion, who has been kidnapped by the French mafia. Along with her obese hound Bruno, her journey takes her all the way to the city of Belleville, where she comes across a trio of sisters, music hall singers from the 1930s who aid her in her quest. As Souza's investigation deepens and she learns the purpose behind her grandsons kidnapping, it becomes even more imperative she free him as soon as possible.

It's the whole package deal of fantasy metropolises, dream versions of Paris and New York drawn like something you'd find in a classic and especially charming comic book, and song and dance and bizarre humor and tender affections and mythical mysteriousness. It's like the Marx Brothers and Fred Astaire and Tim Burton and the people who make romantic, old-fashioned postcards of great cities collaborated on a nearly silent tale of love and adventure. With all the finger-snapping music, you hardly notice that there's hardly any dialogue, that the story is told almost entirely visually, marvelously expressive faces telling us all we need to know.



Though this is indeed a French film it features little to no dialogue; most of the characters actions are done in pantomime or song, and one doesn't need to know much about French culture to get what's going on. With all the finger-snapping music, you barely notice that there's hardly any dialogue, that the story is told almost entirely visually, marvelously expressive faces telling us all we need to know. You want to drink in and savor every peculiar face, fond caricatures all, and every fantastical neighborhood we travel through because they're all so unexpected and delightful.

Weird and wonderful, repulsive and beautiful film, The Triplets of Belleville is an experience in animation, a testament to Chomets skill as a director and a visionary of his craft.

Paprika (Satoshi Kon)

There's a quote from Christopher Nolan's latest film, Inception, where DiCaprio's character is introducing the newest member of his team to the world of the dream. "Dreams feel real while we're in them, it's only when we wake up that we realize that something was actually strange." It got me thinking about the similarities between movies and dreams; they both ask us to forget everything we know or understand and follow the director on a journey into a brand new world. It's only after the credits roll and the lights come up that we can really look back on it and see it for what it was, or at least, that's their intention. This is probably the best way to describe my reaction after watching Satoshi Kon's fourth feature film, Paprika.



Unlike Inception, Paprika doesn't dwell on giving it's audience any real answers or long-winded explanations for the "rules" of a dream. While Inception took place in a more "grounded" dream scape, this film takes the concept of a dreamworld and runs with it.The fact is that dreams don't have rules, they don't make any sense and there's no rhyme or reason to any of it. This is what I think of when I think of dreams: pure unfiltered imagination, and it's in that respect that Paprika succeeds.

The movie begins with the invention of the DC Mini, a device that allows doctors to see inside their patients unconscious thoughts through their dreams and diagnose their otherwise baffling condition. One of these doctors is Atsuko Chiba, the head of the program who has been illegally treating psychiatric patients using her alter-ego, Paprika, a spirited red-headed woman and the polar opposite of Atsuko. However, the DC Mini is still in the development stage when an unknown thief manages to get their hands on three of the prototypes and, worse yet, because of their unfinished nature the culprit can access anyone's mind, whether they be dreaming or not. Dr. Chiba is charged with locating the other prototypes, investigating clues as both Atsuko and Paprika, as a mysterious force begins to merge the collective subconscious of the world, and the line between what is real and what is not begins to blur.

The characters of Paprika are as deeply layered as the dreams themselves, and not every character is as clean cut as they might appear. The genius inventor and child-at-heart who's open to anything and doesn't believe in the morals of adults. The police detective, his mysterious relationship with movies and the recurring dream that never ends. An old man, obsessed with guarding what he believes is the last true haven from the evils of science and, last but not least, the dichotomy between Atsuko, her alter-ego Paprika, and how she ultimately learns to accept herself.

Filled with incredibly fluid and expressive animation, Paprika contains fantastic images ranging from gorgeous to disturbing and everywhere in between. In particular the parade sequences, as they march from dream to dream, contain all sorts of surreal visual gems: walking furniture, a marching band of frogs, duck shaped bowling pins, giant oni masks and a float full of creepy porcelain dolls. Even the Statue of Liberty makes an appearance. On top of that the music compliments the movie perfectly; an eerie, artificial, almost hypnotizing soundtrack permeates every inch of the film, perfect for a movie that plays fast and loose with the concept of reality.

If you're in the mood for a new movie experience you can't go wrong with Paprika. Just don't expect to understand everything the first (or even the second) time you watch it. Haunting dream or beautiful nightmare, this movie has definitely captured my attention and piqued my interest in other films by Kon. On a side-note, I enjoyed Inception immensely. I thought it was a true stand-out in an otherwise fairly standard season of run-of-the-mill summer movies. In fact, if it wasn't for Inception I never would looked further into movies that dealt with dreams and I'd never have discovered Paprika or any of Satoshi Kon's work. For that alone I'm grateful.