Horror History: Coraline (2009)

“Coraline” is a groundbreaking stop-motion masterpiece full of haunting visuals and a profound exploration of childhood fears and identity.

There’s a madness to it, really.

To incrementally move a figurine, mere millimeters at a time, and then to take a photo—to then repeat this process hundreds of times in a day for a few measly seconds of footage… come back the next day and do it all again. Then, to do that for several years to see the completion of just one film. How could you describe the medium of stop motion as anything but a kind of compulsive mania?

This excruciating pace helps to explain why, with the comparative ease of CGI, most studios decide against the use of stop-motion animation. Ray Harryhausen and his fantastical creations now have a special place in our hearts, but you could argue that his craft arose from nothing more than base necessity.

There was no CGI available for 1953’s The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, and very little even for 1981’s Clash of the Titans, at least not in the photo-realistic sense that we tend to think of CGI today (think more about 1982’s Tron and ‘The Grid’).

Without a labor-light alternative, Harryhausen had no choice but to go with the laborious one, and many would agree that the world is much better for that non-decision.

With that necessity now gone, as filmgoers, we can sometimes overlook the care and attention that goes into the medium of stop motion.

While the recent—and, frankly, crap—CGI of Disney and their ilk create an alienating distance between the audience and the cinematic world, there is something in stop motion that, despite its uncanniness, feels entirely human.

Perhaps this is because, unlike CGI, despite its very literal physical presence, it never purports to be “real” and, therefore, never stoops to simple mimicry.

Or maybe, as an audience, we can sense those human hands carefully at work, even though they are never caught on screen.

While Wes Anderson, Tim Burton, and Guillermo del Toro have dipped their toes into stop motion recently, Laika Studios has been committed to it from their inception in 2005. And in all of their movies, you’ll find that same sense of uncanny humanity.

You could argue—as I am now, actually—that the studio’s first full-length film, Coraline (2009), is still their best.

This is not to question the quality of other Laika hits, such as 2016’s Kubo and the Two Strings, 2012’s ParaNorman, or 2014’s The Box Trolls, all of which have that same warmth and, at times, jaw-dropping beauty.

Somehow, though, none of them quite captures the wonder of Coraline’s grounded adventure, a wonder that is brought to life by Bruno Coulais’ delightfully mischievous score.

The story, based on a Neil Gaiman* novella, is pure Alice in Wonderland: a bored young female protagonist follows an animal into another world in which everything is just a little bit askew.

Despite the familiarity of that premise, what really enlivens and distinguishes Coraline is the eccentricity of its characters—all of whom are, despite this eccentricity, somehow entirely relatable.

Whether it be the at-times pompous, at times kind, but always a bit dotty Miss Spink and Miss Forcible, or the entirely pompous but plainly insecure Bobinsky, every character in Coraline is endearingly absurd but with a humanity that overcomes caricature.

The intricacy of Laika’s models plays a large role in their relatability, as does the excellent work of all the voice actors in the film, with Keith David and Terri Hatcher both delivering stand-out performances (and that’s saying something in a movie that features Dawn French, Jennifer Saunders, and Ian McShane).

Coraline may not be the most interesting character herself, but we empathize with her situation and see through her eyes; we understand her sense of teenage entrapment and enforced tedium because we’ve all felt it ourselves.

In fact, one of the fun things about the film is that as you age with it, you begin to see both perspectives and relate to Coraline’s parents just as much, if not more so, than the protagonist herself.

These two are bound to mundanity through financial and familial demands, but their fun-loving sides, which Coraline believes can only be accessed through a magical door, are there all along if only they were blessed with the time to let them out.

The deeply-felt sense of being more than our obligations is relatable for anyone who has had to shoulder the responsibilities of adulthood, but just as Coraline’s parents can be as silly as their otherworld counterparts, so too does the movie itself tap into our inner child and allow us to feel pleasurably silly too. Because there is nothing wrong with being silly—scarier is the thought that the silliness will stop.

Despite all of its hardships, stop motion also channels that childish sense of play—who else could spend hours on end making the inanimate animated but a child?

I said at the start that stop motion has a way of uncannily showing us humanity, but I could just as easily have said that it shows, through that same method, our childish potential once more realized.

Coraline opens the door and goes down the tunnel, but she (and us alongside her) comes to learn that the magic is already there, where we started. What stop motion proves is that dedication itself does not have to equate to ‘adult’ or ‘mature’ pursuits.

In fact, sometimes giving into that dedicated mania can lead to the most pleasurably immature experience of all.

Perhaps that is what the members of the audience feel as they sit down with eagerness to watch the cinematic equivalent of their childhood action figures once more brought to life.