#37 — Ratatouille (Brad Bird with Jan Pinkava, 2007)
When a new feature is produced by the artisans at Pixar, praise usually follows. Even after all their triumphs, there are still those who feel obligated to couch the praise in the disclaimer “It’s good for a kids’ movie.” It’s true that the single-digit set is a major part of the studio’s target audience. Eight of their ten feature film releases to date have received G ratings and the resulting DVDs line playroom shelves and get plenty of showings in the back of traveling family vans. But the backhanded compliment of those sorts of phrases is still poorly applied to Pixar’s output. These movies aren’t just sophisticated and smart within the category of kids’ movies or animated features. They’re sophisticated and smart when compared against fellow offerings in the far broader category of “Modern Films.”

Take just one example from Ratatouille: the ethereal Gusteau. Voiced by Pixar stalwart Brad Garrett, Gusteau is the deceased chef of a revered Parisian restaurant who begins appearing to Remy, the gourmand rat that serves as the film’s protagonist. Gusteau is Remy’s conscious and confidence, coaching him as he surreptitiously lifts a kitchen drone to star chef status. Gusteau is a full-fledged character, yet the filmmakers never lose sight of a key detail. He is also entirely a figment of Remy’s nervous intellect. There is no cheating, providing Gusteau with knowledge that Remy doesn’t have, for example. And, at times, Gusteau himself reminds Remy that he’s just a imagined manifestation. It elevates these scenes from, say, merely providing exposition–as when Gusteau quizzes Remy on the various roles in a professional kitchen–to actually providing deeper insight in our main character. We figure out who he is through what he needs Gusteau to tell him at any given point. That doesn’t mean it’s ponderous; it’s buoyant and playful every time Gusteau pops up.

It is one of the great skills of Pixar, perhaps a result of their deeply collaborative approach. Every bit of a movie is thoroughly thought out. All the details have something to convey, and the entirety of the work accumulates into potent storytelling. Brad Bird fits into this mission beautifully. Working with Jan Pinkava, director of the marvelous Pixar short Geri’s Game, he builds a world that is recognizably human, moving and keen-eyed as those in his prior efforts, The Iron Giant and his Pixar debut, The Incredibles. Remy, voiced with care by Patton Oswalt, is a rat, but his internal struggles are wisely conceived and portrayed. He is an outsider from his family because of his passion, because of what he is uncommonly good at. He is conflicted by this, but also enraptured by his own creative ingenuity. He sees cooking as its own reward, but also craves credit for the culinary achievements that he passes Cyrano-like to another. He has the instincts of an elitist, savoring complex flavors while his furry brothers gladly hork down any garbage that comes their way, and yet respectful enough of the full allure of food to realize that the best way to a punishing critic’s heart is by given him comfort food, a simple dish that will take him back to the soothing rewards of his youth. Remy is a tiny mass of contradictions, and all the more fascinating because of it.

Of course, this is all rendered expertly by the Pixar animators. Besides the visually striking design work, there’s a pristine fluidity to the images on screen. Remy puppet masters a mop-slinger into creating delicious dishes by tugging on tufts of his hair. At the most chaotic, this manipulated man bounds through the kitchen with rubbery grace, bending at improbable angles and he rapidly gathers up the necessary ingredients to rescue the compromised contents of bubbling pots. The smoothness of these scenes is giddily arresting. In general, Bird works with his team to fully exploit the limitless possibilities of working within an animated realm. The camera races with Remy as his skitters through the busy kitchen, looking for refuge from striding feet and spinning wheels, balancing kinetic imagery with perfect clarity. It’s like a ride in a spinning, skidding race car that you somehow emerge from with a perfect understanding of the physical dimensions of the track. And a chase along the Seine is rife with visual surprises and inspired camera angles that are almost unimaginable in a film created through any other means.

When the food critic Anton Ego submits his laudatory assessment of Remy’s cooking, he notes “Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.” Ratatouille proves that great artistry can be present in any sort of film, including a computer animated tale of a minuscule mammal with extraordinary taste.

(Posted simultaneously to “Jelly-Town!”)