There is always an air of sadness about puppets masquerading as humans. The team addresses this phenomena to a point when the young man’s hand falls off at an inopportune moment (there’s never a good moment!). The young would-be lovers gaze out their shop window set to see a real life couple embrace in the square after the man has proposed to the girl. This ignites an intention in the puppet man’s head. The film’s opportunity to communicate a sense of pathos in how dolls view bona fide humans is missed as this film avoids such grandiose claims. Instead, the film’s charm comes through its archetypical character traits: gentle foolery, the over-earnest suitor, and the occasionally coquettish girlfriend.

I have covered many student films on my Animation Blog, but this is my first from Malaysia. The 3D work is very competently handled—the characters brightly lit with clever points of view. What is interesting is the choice of France as a location. We are well used to French movies of charm from such animation establishments as Gobelins L’Ecole de L’Image or Valenciennes’s Supinfocom. Le Mannequin has something of that look, though it owes just as much to the inimitable Pixar style. It’s a genuinely stylish piece with a light touch however, and for those who like happy endings, don’t miss the action as the credits roll.

Place the family round the dinner table, include the grown up kids and grandparents – nine guests in all plus dog – provide ample red wine, alcohol-free for the grandparents, place the digital voice recorder on the table and let things roll. Such is the technique of Tom Senior, final year student at the Farnham campus of the UK’s University of the Creative Arts (UCA), a fine institution boasting three Oscar winners amongst its illustrious alumni in Daniel Greaves, Michael Dudok de Wit and Suzie Templeton.

Before discussing the animation technique used let me say that the sheer naturalness of the dialogue is a delight. Meals in my home are not unlike this and, whereas accents the world over fluctuate, I recognise something of me in at least one of the characters. The tiny conflicts and moments of alcohol -(or is it just happiness) fuelled daftness strike a chord, the dialogue being full of the myriad irrelevances of real speech, occasional tensions, the peaks and troughs of real life. As the food goes down a treat, not to mention the red liquid, dad licks his spoon, then gets tired and, the central event of the piece other than simply eating, the taking of the family photograph cannot be put off any longer. So dad pulls himself together, sets the remote control and, hey presto, the family is preserved for posterity, all smiling for (or is it because of ) the camera.

Now to the technique. At first sight I thought Tom had rotoscoped the action. In fact the drawings are all digitally hand drawn, 2D computer images, the animator’s quick hands and eyes for detail tracing the essential action and character. Thus the food glides from plate to mouth, the youth stretches, the dishes accumulate by the sink, the table cloth devours the serving plate, the faces are satisfied and full. The backdrop is a sketchily dabbed stroke or two of predominantly yellow watercolour and sometimes the artist focuses on the mouth as a barest disembodied confusion of lines, gyrating busily as the food is devoured. It is all very sketchily done, lovely semblance of watercolour throughout, with that minimalist attention to form you just know is beautifully done. It matches the meandering quality of the dialogue to perfection.

Made in 2005 Tonnelage commences in a prison cell where an old stager is sitting at ease with himself in his rocking chair. For company he has something green, tiny and cute. It could conceivably be a pet bird. All is disrupted by the summary arrival of a little guy pushed into the cell by a giant blue finger. Intent on escape our man explores every exit possibility, a task made both easier and more infuriating by the repeated incursions of white fish on legs who devour the titbits left by that green, tiny and cute possible bird. They enter and leave with an adroitness denied the would-be escapee. The giant ventilation shaft, with the assistance of the old guy and a plank, offers hope of an early departure. There is a sub-plot. A solitary lamb stands outside a house in the darkness and bleats, shepherded by three white birds. When it attempts to abscond the kindly souls flutter down and carry the white fluffy thing back to base. There are all sorts of prison.

Part of the fun of watching one of Ivan’s films is the sheer innocence of his world. His characters go about their business suffering setbacks but never harm, as in the best tradition of Disney. There is always a character such as the original inhabitant of the cell who pursues his own life oblivious of what is happening to the main character; but is there to help if needed. The incongruous occurs routinely. The director is the master of timing. I once watched a master English comic, the late Tommy Cooper, simply enter and leave a stage for ten minutes, each entrance exquisitely timed, absurd, and yet accompanied by roars of laughter from an adoring audience. Watch the little guy here crawl into his tunnel and at exactly the right moment, see him return again. Ivan uses a graphics tablet with the fine skill of a natural draftsman, using shading and subtle colour to present a location or quirky character. He also chooses his music well, with a regular associate, Ilia Kocherzhuk, providing a melodic note, particularly with the violin at the close.

And there’s always a happy ending.

Fifty years old and working at VGIK, the film school in Moscow, Ivan is also one of the kindest of men. Some time ago I wrote about him in my animation blog, requested some extra information and received so very much more than I had asked for. That kindness is embedded in his work.

In a funny opening sequence one sees, in full colour, the beast devouring the beauty, only to track upwards to the girl reading her comic and picking her nose. The sisters of the title are seen through their photo albums, their life revealed in an initially warm and joyous series of escapades as Bella steals the toilet tissue, their parents greet them at the peel of the school bell and the pair grow to womanhood amidst flowers. The mature women laugh riotously over the snapshots of their younger selves, red wine served in copious amounts. The mood changes abruptly with the arrival of the long haired young man on an excursion with the pair. His attention is diverted from one to the other, leaving one sister in raptures, the other seething on the long drive home.

The mood swings are reflected in a variety of styles incorporated in the one movie, the different forms somehow harmoniously, and always ingeniously, grouped in a movie of rare depth. Borge moves through shades of grey for the past, judicious use of colour elsewhere, whilst metaphor is used for the men as bees fly from their hives to the pubescent girls, very shapely now in mini skirts; or watch the girl circle the moon when the bee has landed! The animation is effortlessly drawn because, first and foremost, Borge is a consummate artist able to catch the moment—the two old ladies rolling around in glee, or clutching a sister’s arm as memories cause pain. There is also a dramatic scene towards the end that is riveting though the conclusion is not to be spoiled here. In under 8 minutes Borge moves from laughter to tears to… well, watch this warm  movie yourself. The YouTube link was posted by Anne-Mieke, Borge’s daughter.

Borge is a warm human being. He has just sent me a DVD of his work and, on discovering my secret past, swaps theatrical stories. He has lived in the Netherlands for many years though he was born in Denmark. He enjoys communicating with fans, of whom I am pleased to be included.

All writers know the block, the periods of inactivity when the creative process simply dries up. Budapest, a city poet Billy has never visited, is the title of Julian Grey’s response to the challenge of Sundance. A hand clutching an old fashioned pen—the sort with a sharp nib that needs to be dipped into an ink pot—is seen like some disembodied beast with a mind of its own. With the camera low, cast in a blue hue, it scribbles in desultory fashion, page after page, the passage of time denoted by a change of arm from green sweater to plaid shirt,. The pen also acquires a mind of its own, requiring a little firm handling. Overlaid animations complement the live action and stop motion as insects crawl from the nib, a bird drinks from the puddled ink. In a nice touch during the close, we see the blue momentarily change to sunset yellow as, through a window, golden Budapest appears to be reflected in the now 3D puddle of ink, a distraction and relief both.

Billy Collins is a tad more accessible, not to say enjoyable, than some Poet Laureates from some other countries I might mention. He reads his own poems with a weary assurance that suits his subjects to perfection. Canadian animator Julian Grey has contributed two other poems, of which Forgetfulness is a moving response to waning powers. He and partner Steve Angel founded the award winning Toronto-based Head Gear in 1997.

Should you delve further and wish a pick-me-up, do view Today from the remarkable Californian studio, Little Fluffy Clouds or, in a different mood entirely, No Time from New York’s very distinctive Jeff Scher.

She’s naturally enough concerned for her son in all respects, even including the possibility of his eloping with the Moonies. Moms worry themselves with things like that. Or flying saucers. She (and he) put down his problems to transferring from Catholic School to Public School. Traumas like that have a debilitating effect on one’s adolescence. Back to the disease. How exactly he acquired AIDS is not exactly clear, though it appears to be largely the responsibility of a contaminated hamburger consumed in the classroom. Hamburgers are the root of all evil and guilt for a good Catholic boy in a non-Catholic school.

Some homespun advice from Mom and semi-official advice later leads to further neurotic behavior: a period where they abstain from the cup at communion and instructions to her boy to stay clear of sharp toys. All goes well until he has cereal at his friend Ryan’s house. Ryan loses his trousers and throws a puppet at the boy’s face. It’s AIDS time again, and this time almost too much for mom and son to bear.

Made with Mirage, now TVPaint, the hilarious mix of styles—real images of hamburgers, paired with black and white movies contrasting with gaudy coloured animation conspire to share one modern nuclear family’s guilt. You’ll love it. Suburban angst.

Score: 7/10
A Sundance 10/10 film: now online

The film moves effortlessly between passages of time, tracing the break-down of the relationship precipitated by and relived through an obsessive requirement to record events the two have shared. The greater Rob’s fear of losing her the more desperate is he to preserve Alice’s image.

The narrative is presented in flip book animation and live action. Narrated by Rob (Simon Perry) we watch as Alice attempts to wrestle him back to reality. “Can you just STOP for one minute to talk about this?” she writes. I can scarcely conceive of a form of flip book ignored in this classy film: conventional, hand machine operated, toilet tissue unravelled, images discarded on the floor, cascading in the air, even, at one stage, pasted to the London Underground wall behind Alice as she sits alone with the possessions removed from their apartment.

If the use of animation is extraordinary, the filming is subtle with a curiously detached quality about it. Many of the shots of Alice are full on portraits, reflecting her partner’s obsessive need to record their relationship. The walls of the apartment itself are white and at times it is as if the director has drained much of the colour from the action so that it echoes the flickering white paper of the flip books. Technically and artistically accomplished, Adjustment is beautifully edited, cutting from past to present almost as if the photographs and drawn images are shuffled into a different order, as indeed they are in the film.

The movie formed part of Ian’s graduation from the Royal College of Art in 2006. He also studied and taught Computer Animation at Bournemouth University. He is one of the UK’s young directors with huge potential.

The ten minute movie opens as a lone swimmer makes his way to an island in the “wide blue sea where people hide away”. Caroline uses a rich blue emulsion here though the next frames are engraved onto black as we meet the two reclusive sisters, Marie and Viola Ge. Seated in darkness, to the background sound of a ticking clock, family cat and Viola’s typewriter, the pair converse. Marie is clearly the dominant one. The entry of the stranger fresh from the sea throws the women into panic. Viola’s talent for writing compensates for a facial disfigurement, though the meeting with her greatest fan changes the dynamics of the home. The elder sister has hidden Viola from the outside world and fights to continue her role as protector. Harsh words are spoken, the fragile harmony of the island broken.

Using the visual themes of light and dark, this richly allegorical tale has dialogue written by Grant Heisler that resonates with symbol and inference. The gradual unraveling of the women’s situation is paralleled by the light forcing its way into their previously dark world, in a classic animation that is both compelling drama and work of art.

28-year old Marta Mackova is from the Czech Republic though she graduated from the Edinburgh College of Art in 2006. Café was her graduation capstone. Marta has an eye for the etiquette that governs such manoeuvres between the sexes and the skill to suggest a yearning with the merest shift in the shoulder line—though subtle is not a word to describe the reaction of the little man to the large woman.

There is a well-tuned sense of timing in her work—the comedy of the situation unravels at its own pace. She has worked with some skilled people in Prague, obviously learning her craft well prior to her arrival in the fine city of Edinburgh, my grandfather’s birthplace. Café is coupled with a collection of movies by other young Scottish animators that are well worth a look. Marta has her new website up and running and Café is featured there as well.

The movie commences with an alarm clock and scream as our hero awakens to discover that inadvertently and inconveniently he is a she. The effect of such a life changing experience is the subject of this hilarious romp through Parisian cafés, nightclubs and pavements. Arthur’s febrile wit encompasses the distracting effect on Geraldine’s relationship with his girlfriend, the impact his red headed good looks and curvy frame has on men whom, in a previous existence, had been work colleagues or soccer opponents. It is also the tale of a man’s reconciliation with the inner woman that lurks within. Well perhaps not.

Geraldine does however come to terms with his real self and capitalize on his fame, as celebrity, champion of women’s rights, politician, red carpet walker. There is even a frantic scene at the end as his ex-girlfriend tears along country roads to get him to the altar on a motor cycle. But does she want to lose him?

Viewing the film again for the review I am struck by the beautiful simplicity of Arthur’s drawing, the strong use of colour and the panoramic vistas of the Parisian landscape seemingly effortlessly rendered by use of Flash and After Effects for compositing. Each frame has the appearance of a well-crafted comic postcard.

There is a real zip to the tale, as for eight minutes or so the ramifications of the bizarre scenario are explored with the satirical touch that works so well because Arthur does understand his world. His later movies, L’eau de Rose and La Revolution des Crabes, are well-regarded in the festival circuit and recommended viewing for fans of animated shorts, particularly the latter which has much to say of revolutionaries and is also very funny. Arthur is also a contributor to the monthly comic magazine Fluide Glacial.

Watch Geraldine online at: ArthurDePins.com | YouTube

It commences with a giant stork-like, metal bird, beautifully crafted—there can be no other word for all the prop and puppet design here—sweeping down over a wooden carcass of a ship, the struts and frame boat and the skeletal system of a giant animal. The ship is floating on strips of wood, like complex pedals of a vast cathedral organ, the gently undulating lathes forming the sea. We become aware of a bespectacled figure immersed in the innards, studiously working on the cogs and wheels of his wooden clock. When the bell rings it is with the resonance of the giant metal bowls in the heights of Notre Dame. There is no Quasimodo figure however, just an old man hard at work, the passage of time and the disease revealed in his transparent, emaciating figure. The soundtrack is the bells and ticking of the clock.

Visually, this stop-motion movie is stunning even in the reduced quality available. Building the set and puppets took one year alone. The studio set is remarkable—artfully lit, providing ample scope for the camera to pan around. We see the clock-maker from different angles—his face sculptured from wood cast in the warm glow from his lantern; or we look down from above and marvel at the symmetry of the boat beneath.

Veteran actor Barry Otto narrates the story of Dik’s relationship with his father with such sincerity I believed, until I read the credits, that it was the director himself speaking. It is a complex work involving guilt over the death of his younger brother, John, who died at the age of five, 14 years before Dik was born. The consequent sadness in the family was one from which Dik felt excluded. Unlike the sudden death of a road accident the slowness of cancer allowed the son to say goodbye and “hello”. When his father dies his ashes are buried with those of his long dead son. In a moving passage of commentary the difference in quantity of the ashes between the two, boy and man, achieves both reconciliation and a release.

Dik was courteous in replying to questions from one of my students, Adam Fadra, in an extended interview for my school website last year and provides ample detail about the production. For example, the “hero bird” was assembled from brass, aluminium and bits of one of his father’s clocks whilst the process involved Dik constructing a thousand moving parts and making 22,000 images.

I see a lot of animated movies. Dad’s Clock stands out for a number of reasons, its candour being one. I have never seen a set of this complexity, a work of art in itself. The supreme craftsmanship allows Dik to form striking tableaux: the skeleton figure peering into his telescope out to the stars on top of the symmetrical alignment of timber, figure and ship viewed in front of the backdrop of the cosmos. When the old man descends for a final time into the machine and the mechanism closes around him it is an obvious metaphor but an effective one.

Dik’s personal and dignified tribute deserves greater recognition than it has received other than the director’s Australian home. His design and architecture company Studio 505 is situated in Melbourne.

Meghana uses her ink sparingly. The drawings are sketched out in minimal detail, perfectly composed. She eschews colour, musical soundtrack, even, with the barest possible exception, voice. Instead she uses subtitles, pared down to the essential thoughts of the child. The soundtrack is one of sighs, movements and breathing. The animation flickers along with a grainy quality. Our focus is entirely girl and grandmother. It is a refreshing, innocent world where the girl is a tiny speck on a rolling landscape of bed, quilt and adult. Performing cartwheels, blowing bubbles, taking a boat journey, walking with imaginary friends and, ever present, the sound of the old woman’s breathing. When there is silence the granddaughter’s world changes. She waits with her family by a towering telephone, returning up the steps to a room that is very empty.

Meghana has a talent for encompassing the world of the child in a few strokes of her pen: the looming, intimidating forms of the older children, the waves of the sea becoming the hair of the old lady, the clutching hand that lifts the child from the boat into her protective arms, the bubbles that become clouds over the girl’s head. Imaginatively and conceptually the movie allows one the privilege of entering an innocent world of childhood. In our busy civilisation the grandparent has a huge role in the upbringing and support for children. A Journey Across Grandmother pays homage to the woman and, in a sense, the institution.

Born and brought up in Bangalore, India, Meghana obtained her first degree from the National Institute of Design before moving to the UK to obtain a masters degree in animation in 2006 from the celebrated Royal College of Art. A Journey Across Grandmother was Meghana’s graduation degree. She has been commissioned for various collaborative projects for Channel 4 and is currently undertaking research in India for what hopefully will be her next individual film. Her website is well worth a visit and I have written about her work on the www.animationblog.org.

Viewed as allegory or truth the consequent sense of grief and a longing for the return of the father is so intense that one attaches an individual interpretation or significance to the movie, be it a lost father, child or love. In the creator’s own words it is about “longing” that never diminishes despite the passage of time, defeating all logic.

The landscape of the Netherlands with its wide skies and tall poplar trees is the backdrop to the movie. The sky and landscape is a delicate colour wash of brown, grey, sepia, sometimes hints of green or blue. The drawing is pencil and charcoal, the drawings scanned and colour added digitally. Remarkably in a film that deals in emotion, there is no facial detail whatsoever. Often the figures are drawn in silhouette. This can be remarkably effective in conveying mood: the old woman toiling up the hill, the flapping arms of the child, the teenager gliding down the slope on her bike, which in another later scene will simply not stand upright. Always the brushwork is spare, perhaps a stroke that transforms into a slender girl or a smudge for the squared old woman. Each shot is exquisite: the long shadows of trees or bicycle; seascape and sky, vast and empty. The seasons change with a rustle of leaves or the girl struggling up the hill against a wind that bends trees. The music by Norman Roger is sympathetic to the theme, essentially a lilting tune but arranged with tone and depth.

This astonishingly accomplished and poetic movie fulfils in every sense. Michael Dudok de Wit was born in 1953 and educated in Holland. In 1978, he graduated from the West Surrey College of Art in England. His films include Tom Sweep (1992), The Monk and the Fish (1994) and The Aroma of Tea (2006). You might also have seen the rather classy commercial for United Airlines, A Life. Given his draftsman-like qualities, Michael is much in demand as an illustrator for books. My Christmas present from my family, and well recommended, was Best of British Animation Awards Vol.4 that includes Michael’s Oscar winning short.