Fantasia is Disney’s third animated feature, yes. But it is
more appropriately observed as a sole, one-of-a-kind offering. Not only does it
(for the majority of the film at least) diverge from the formulaic Disney norm,
it is without question one of the greatest pieces of animation in film history.
Naturally upon its release, Fantasia was met mostly with confusion and
indifference, most likely because it represented something with which its
audience was totally unfamiliar. Sadly these feelings of alienation have
carried over to some extent into the 21st century. I have spoken to
a number of people, whose opinions on the programme remain surprisingly
conflicted. Some people even outright despise the film. Somehow. I will admit
that the layout of it could possibly be conveyed as a tad pretentious. I
personally think the formal presentation suits it well, but Deems Taylor’s
introductory pieces are a little drawn-out at times, and unnecessarily so. I
don’t mind some background detail on the pieces – some behind-the-scenes facts
– but Taylor often just seems to dictate to us everything we’re about to see,
which is not only pointless; it spoils the surprise. Presentational issues
aside, the film is masterfully crafted. Have patience and Disney’s most
impressive contribution to animation will prove exceedingly rewarding. There is
indeed nothing quite as fantastic as Fantasia.
What I think alienates a lot of viewers watching Fantasia is
its surrealist approach to animation. The opening sequence, for example, takes
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor by Bach and basically presents us with what is
essentially a visual representation of music. As our host Deems Taylor informs
us, not all of these sequences maintain a definitive story, and this is one of
those, which he refers to as ‘absolute’ music. It instead serves to capture the
images conjured in the collective minds of the animators, which, if you think
about it, is a pretty innovative concept. Images of conductor Leopold Stokowski
and the orchestra become engulfed by colour and before too long, the visuals
succumb to some very abstract artistry. Back in 1940, when this was first
released, this would undoubtedly have perplexed audiences and it is, quite
frankly, ahead of its time. Visual representations of music and imagination –
basically ‘visualising the imperceptible’ – was a very new thing. Today we have
music played out in visuals all the time, and conveyed through all types of
media, without even realising it. And I do have to admit, it does sometimes
look a bit like a Windows XP screensaver. While I certainly wouldn’t say that
the sequence is dated, I can understand why a lot of people are left feeling
cold by the opening, as rich in detail as it is. I honestly think it was pretty
daring – or maybe even stupid – to open the feature with this sequence. Sure,
it works – it serves as an appropriate welcome to Fantasia as we watch the
blending of the music and animation, as they gradually converge into one
another. But then again, this is arguably the most surreal piece in the
programme, and because of that I reckon a lot of viewers give up on Fantasia
within the first five or ten minutes, which is a real shame. Ultimately it is
remarkably done and immaculately presented – there is not one piece of
animation here that feels incongruous. For its time, it is surprisingly
abstract, and for many unsettlingly so, but this really only serves to
substantiate Fantasia’s relevance in media today.
The next sequence sees us move onto the familiar – utilising
music to dictate a story. Sort of. While not nearly as abstract as the previous
sequence, this one is nonetheless equally captivating. In this instance, it
takes Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite and turns it into a narrative conveying
the changing of the seasons, although admittedly while there is a story, it
does take a bit of a back seat again in favour of the visuals. Saying that, it
must be noted that the visuals this time around are far less obscure and adopt more
recognisable attributes. It begins with a group of fairies, delicately painting
the flowers and cobwebs with dewdrops. This is one of my favourite parts – the
colours and the delicate animation capture the piece’s ambient opening
flawlessly. The Chinese Dance is then depicted somewhat stereotypically with
some dancing mushrooms. Yeah, the less said about that the better… while Dance
of the Flutes sees some blossoms spring to life. The Arabian Dance is
beautifully animated – the movements of the fish are smooth, even sultry, and
the illusion that we’re underwater is reinforced by some mesmerising backdrops.
The Russian Dance follows, and sees an explosion of colour and vivacious energy
that serves as an almost complete contrast to the previous scene. The final
segment, Waltz of the Flowers, sees the return of the fairies, who guide us
through the transition from autumn to winter. Seamlessly blending stop-motion
snowflakes with painstaking cel animation, the segment is one of the most
meticulously crafted as the browns and golds of autumn are washed away and
usurped by the blue frosts of winter. This sequence is, without a doubt, one of
the feature’s many highlights. The animation and the music combine perfectly.
Now, I hate to maintain a dissenting opinion, as I really
don’t like to cause any kind of controversy, but the next sequence, the
infamous The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, is actually my least favourite. That is not
to say that it isn’t good. For what it is, it’s fantastic – the direction is
nothing short of sublime. But I don’t perceive it to be quite on the same level
as the other sequences, and it is further undermined by the presence of one of
the most prominent of corporate mascots. Saying that, without this piece, we wouldn’t
have that iconic dream sequence in which Mickey Mouse conducts the heavens, and
Fantasia itself might have struggled even more so to find an audience had this
familiar face not been present in the movie at all. Do I think Mickey’s
inclusion in this feature was necessary? Honestly, not really. It is a nice
touch, and it does feel appropriate to include him, Mickey and Disney being
pretty much synonymous with each other. But I can’t help but feel as though
some of the illusion is lost in this sequence because of his inclusion. That’s
just my opinion. Anyway, the sequence adapts The Sorcerer’s Apprentice by
French composer Dukas, and blends it with Goethe’s poem Der Zauberlehrling,
upon which this composition was initially based. The story maintains a moral
undertone, as the apprentice – in this case, Mickey – surreptitiously uses his
master’s magic in order to lessen his workload, but things get out of hand
fast, and the sorcerer has to step in at the last minute. There’s not a lot to
complain about here – the music and the animation, once again, combine near-perfectly,
and the colours, angles and general direction serve to make the piece
incredibly dramatic, tense, and even ironically humorous at times, in a
sinister kind of way, if that’s entirely possible. Or maybe I’m just a bit
sadistic, I don’t know. Ultimately though, I find it strange that this is
perceived to be the most memorable of the sequences as, in my opinion, it
doesn’t come close to plumbing the depths of some of the more complex and imaginative
pieces we’ve already seen. The conveyance of a story here is welcome, but it
doesn’t surprise or captivate like the others, in the sense that it’s fairly
predictable.
Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring follows, and again, we’re
presented with a definite story - this time one of life and death. In the
beginning, it depicts, well, the beginning – the emergence of the planet Earth
and its inhabitants. The creatures evolve and grow until they sprout legs and
crawl on land. Then the main narrative concerns the rise, reign and fall of the
dinosaurs. This sequence is not only wildly imaginative but with the
accompaniment of Stravinsky’s piece you really get a sense of scale, and the
combination of the visuals and the music bizarrely works really well, save for
one or two moments that, in my opinion, don’t work quite so well. Admittedly
I’m being nitpicky here – they are minor grievances at best. One scene that
immediately springs to mind (see what I did there?) is the scene in which all
the dinosaurs witness the death of the stegosaurus, ruthlessly killed by the
imposing Tyrannosaurus Rex. The music immediately following the Stegosaurus’s
death simply sounds too upbeat to me – even comical. But this is just my own
personal opinion. Despite this, this sequence undoubtedly ranks as one of my
personal favourites. And I’m not certain if this has been acknowledged by
anyone else, but the plot of this sequence is incredibly similar to Disney’s
Dinosaur, released in 2000. Compare and contrast the sequence with the T-Rex
with the Carnotaur from the film’s opening, and the journey of the herd across
the desert to the nesting grounds with the drought scenes depicted here. Of
course, this sequence expectedly has a far more morbid ending, the dinosaurs
having succumbed to their inevitable extinction. Culminating in one of the most
dramatic climaxes this feature has to offer, there is not one scene from this
sequence that is less than memorable.
INTERMISSION
Upon our return, the orchestra warms up and Taylor
introduces us to ‘the soundtrack’, paving the way for more surreal visuals
derived from the many sounds and idiosyncrasies of various instruments. I take
it the idea of this was to once again ease us into the programme after the
intermission.
Next up is Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, and I have to
admit I’m not so enthused about this one. I do adore it, don’t get me wrong,
it’s just not a favourite. It’s masterfully crafted and the colours are
vibrant, and I do like the focus on figures from classical mythology, but the
story concerning the centaurs and centaurettes finding love just isn’t all that
compelling to me – which is a problem when this sequence is one of the longest.
It’s beautiful to look at, and the animation quality, as usual, is nothing less
than sublime, and the visuals more than make up for it. That, and similar to
the Rite of Spring sequence, I can’t help but feel that it inspired later
Disney films – tell me Zeus in this doesn’t remind you of Zeus from Hercules. A
scene worthy of note is the wine festival, in which the centaurs and
centaurettes dance alongside Bacchus, the god of wine. It is the most lively
scene in the entire sequence, and Bacchus’ inebriated fooling about features
some of the funniest character animation in the feature. Ultimately, however,
the sequence feels a little tame compared to the uninhibited surrealism
conveyed in the opening sequence, and the dramatic nature of the one that
preceded it. It is immaculately constructed, well-animated and supremely
imaginative, but it fails to appeal to me as much, possibly due to its focus on
what I perceive to be some surprisingly mundane characters. As I said, the
setting is a brilliant concept, but there’s not a lot that they accomplish with
it. Zeus doesn’t make an appearance until nearer the end, and the
beautification of the centaurettes by the cherubs seems to dominate the
segment. Interestingly, too, this sequence is infamous for having erased a
racist character – the African American centaur Sunflower, who in the film’s
original release was shamefully seen polishing the hooves of the other
centaurettes. She’s not been seen since the late 60s, and many would think this
is all for the better, although the advertising of recent releases as ‘complete
and uncut’ might invite complaints from animation enthusiasts. Such depictions
are indeed wrong, but as a product of its time, one might argue that such items
should be preserved in some form. In any case, her presence doesn’t impact on
the sequence greatly. It’s still the dullest sequence, despite its visuals.
Ponchielli’s Dance of the Hours sequence is a little more
straightforward. It’s no less creative, of course, but abides by the structure
of the ballet itself, depicting times of the day – only the dancers are a wee
bit more unconventional than you might expect from traditional ballet dancers.
None of the animals we see are known for being particularly dainty or even
mobile, and that’s the irony here. There’s little more to the humour besides
that, but in its attempts to be amusing it does succeed. The piece begins with
ostriches representing ‘Morning’, a hippo for the ‘Afternoon’, elephants in the
‘Evening’, and alligators representing ‘Night’. The animals eventually all come
together in a final dance which eventually sees the palace crumble under the
pressure. The use of colour is particularly significant, especially during the
Night segment. It’s essentially a parody of serious ballet, and it works. I do,
however, feel as though it falls a little short in terms of visualising music.
Comedic elements aside, it is a dance, which as an accompaniment to a ballet is
hardly innovative. It accomplishes what it sets out to accomplish, but is the
only piece in the programme that maintains little appeal besides its comedy.
Night on Bald Mountain opens the final sequence, which sees
the devil Chernabog awaken and summon evil spirits who frolic in a disturbingly
obscure fashion. Backed by Mussorgsky’s imposing composition, this is arguably
one of the darkest scenes in Disney history. There’s little more menacing that
the imagery of uninhibited evil, engulfed in flames of orange and purple. The
sequence builds to a spellbinding crescendo as Chernabog’s celebratory taunting
is interrupted by the angelic sound of distant church bells, which ironically
see the evil beings retire as dawn breaks. By complete contrast, the final
scene of the programme sees a procession of monks journeying to a cathedral
accompanied by Schubert’s Ave Maria. This sequence is arguably the most
powerful (though it admittedly has a great deal of competition for that title),
and it’s evident as to why these were selected as the film’s concluding pieces.
Ultimately Fantasia’s grandeur in its every sequence precipitates what is
undoubtedly a satisfyingly drama-infused and explosive finale, followed by a
subdued restoration of equilibrium at the programme’s absolute climactic
moments. It is so very nearly perfect, and I’m thankful this feature was
produced at a time when animation art was not so strictly inhibited by
censorship. There’s imagery in this sequence that is genuinely unsettling, and
in that respect, I think that it is, again, ahead of its time. As of 1940, and
heck, even arguably to date, this is the darkest moment in Disney animation
history – so significant that it has inspired a movie.
Ultimately I can’t comprehend why anybody would think this
is a bad feature. If it’s not to your taste, that’s one thing, but to denounce
it entirely? That’s sacrilege. This is one of the finest pieces put to film –
and I’m not just talking animated film here either. Maybe those who do denounce
it have a hard time appreciating the painstaking effort that has been invested
in its every frame – which individually must have taken hours to complete. And
for it to turn out as immaculate as it did, this programme is beyond criticism
of any form. Keep in mind, too, that this was produced four whole decades
before computer animation, and that it is only the third animated feature in
Disney’s extensive canon. That is a remarkable feat in itself. Whether it’s to
your liking or not, I fail to comprehend anybody who can proffer the notion
that this is poor quality. Heck, Fantasia 2000 isn’t a patch on this, and
ironically due to its reliance on computer animation, it’s actually aged
horribly by comparison. Fantasia is Disney at its finest, its most daring, its
most beautiful, and beyond anything, its most imaginative. How anyone can
perceive this to be a bad filmic experience beggars belief. It is, in a
nutshell, a showcase of what traditional animation is truly capable. This is
not just a cartoon. This isn’t even just a movie. This is art.
