Once Upon a Renaissance:
Recontextualizing Disney/Pixar Dynamics and Defining the Third “Disney Renaissance”
Garrett Ray Harriman
Senior Seminar
April 2014
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Abstract
As it exists today, the relationship between Pixar Animation Studios and Walt Disney
Animation Studios is the product of different eras of animation aesthetics, technological
breakthroughs, corporate organization, and creative storytelling drive. Each studio has lived
through periods of “Renaissance,” denoted and connoted by critical praise, strings of financial
success, and a defining collective spirit for crafting peerless entertainment. This paper sifts
through several layers of these companies’ internal and cooperative dynamics, cultures, and
histories, while simultaneously exploring if the concept of “Renaissance” is more than nominally
applicable to specific periods of their ideologies and output. In so doing, a new definition of
“Renaissance” is reached, one predicated on fluidity, transition, and active construction. This
renewed understanding lays the case for the most recent string of Walt Disney Animation
Studios films representing another “Renaissance” period of American animation, guided by
Pixarian principles, yet developmentally distinct from canons past.
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Contents
Introduction: “Be Prepared”……………………………………………………………………....4
Part 1: “The Bare Necessities”: Redefining Renaissance………………………………………..14
Part 2: “A Whole New World”: Disney Dogma (1932 – 2006)………………………..………..28
Part 3: “A Star is Born”: Pixar Paradigms (1995 – Present)…………………………………….41
Part 4: “Prince Ali”: The Power of Pixar Mythmaking………………………………………….58
Part 5: “You’ve Got a Friend in Me”: The Disney/Pixar Merger…...……….........……………..71
Part 6: “Something There (That Wasn’t There Before)”: Disney’s Third Renaissance..………..79
Conclusion: “Almost There”……………………………………………………………………..89
Acknowledgments……………………………………………………………………….……….91
Annotated Bibliography...………………………………………………………………………..92
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Introduction:
“Be Prepared”
So prepare for the chance of a lifetime
Be prepared for sensational news
A shining new era
Is tiptoeing nearer…
The Lion King, 1994
“Long Live the King”
Mufasa, the Lion King of the Pride Lands, has just exploded from a stampede of panicked
wildebeest to haul his battered body to the safety of a canyon outcropping. His son, Simba, is
safe from the herd on the canyon wall. From this vantage, he watches his father near the flat of a
precipice; in the shadows out of his sight, his covetous uncle Scar waits to pounce. Scar, slighted
the throne, watches Mufasa plead and struggle up the rock with an eerie coolness. Suddenly he
lunges. His claws sink into his brother’s exposed paws. He leans out from the shadows, ever so
briefly, and darkly hisses, “Long live the king.”
Mufasa’s eyes widen, unbelieving. Scar forces his brother into thin air. The Lion King
falls screaming to his death. Simba screams in unison, unaware in his fear and grief that his
homeland, his legacy, has irrevocably changed.
This tragic sequence of events, depicted in the 1994 Disney film The Lion King, is a
fantastic metaphor for the sea change following the advent of CGI animation, which happened
less than a year later on the release of 1995’s Toy Story. Of course, the results of this innovation
have been far from lamentable—it has given the world Pixar Animation Studios and their
pantheon of now-classic characters and films. At the same time, like Simba, Walt Disney
Animation Studios remained in the dark as to the eventual world-changing power Pixar’s
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technology would birth. Most groundbreaking shifts take time to process. In Simba’s case, he
needed to come to the realization of his true potential after years of self-imposed exile.
Luckily for the world, and for Disney, such drastic measures were not required.
The Divide
Three decades ago, after a year spent surveying technology companies and university
lectures, veteran Walt Disney animator Frank Thomas published a five-page summary of the
work and ambitions on parade in the nascent field of computer animation. The article reads as a
pedagogical artistic breakdown of the great divides separating computer generated imagery
(CGI) and traditional hand-drawn animation—divides Thomas felt could be bridged only so far.
The first subheading of the piece presages the hopeful, if unbelieving, tone of his conclusion:
“Can it be done? Should it be done?” (Thomas 20).
From Thomas’s perspective, one major impediment dividing the two mediums
manifested in a gulf of observational experience. For decades, Walt Disney’s best artists had
plied the mystery of movement via intensive observational efforts, culminating in an unfinished
awareness of the systematized nuances of motion. This hard-won knowledge included adapting
real-world movement into believable (if exaggerated) energy, the ability to create a “caricature of
important actions,” and defining the relationships between minute, interconnected bodily systems
(Thomas 21-22). Entire animation careers became protracted labors endeavoring to articulate,
exaggerate, and adapt the je ne sai quoi of real-world movement into a tenable and enjoyable
cinematic language. Thomas summarizes this impassioned humility: “the Disney studio…never
had even twenty animators who fully mastered the craft” (Thomas 23). Their task—connecting
audiences with emoting characters and richly-imagined worlds—proved ever uphill.
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By contrast, proponents of CGI seemed energetically ignorant of such hills. Investigating
the work of CGI animators, Thomas was chagrined to discover a prevailing attitude of
irreverence and overconfidence toward both matching the history of animation and perfecting its
future in half the time. There seemed no lack of bloated rhetoric on display in the character of
young techno-whizzes he and his colleagues encountered during the field’s budding years. He
recalls a newly hatched egghead circa 1968 estimating, “‘In six months, we will have “Snow
White Quality” animation capabilities’” (Thomas 20). Faced with such brazen hyperbole, it is
little wonder Thomas’s piece partly reads as an unflattering appeal for these upstarts to get a
grip.
There is a second, more quantitative reason for justifiably writing off CGI during the
mid-‘80s. Until that point, no legendary animator or animation fan could have predicted what
computer generated animation would become. During Thomas’s research, the future of the art
form was pure speculation, CGI’s influence doubly so, making Thomas’s words today seem
retrospectively sophomoric:
“Today’s computers can generate cartoon actors with rich personalities and put
them in story situations that achieve full audience involvement…It is even
possible to make the computer figures appear to think, but there it ends. The
subtle pantomime, believable dialogue, appealing drawings, and most of all that
personal artistic statement [emphasis mine] may be beyond our reach in the
mechanical area of electronic circuitry…” (23-24).
Refusing to defend the messianic attitudes of CGI wunderkinds and their undervaluing of
animation techniques is a retrospectively understandable defense on Thomas’s part. Yet it would
be all too belittling (and misconstrued) to peg Thomas for a gasping endangered animal on the
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cusp of its own extinction. CGI’s meteoric ascendency to its contemporary animation dominion
could not have been predicted. Experts lacked the foresight for what CGI would become.
Thomas’s argument instead defines what he considers the true divide separating handdrawn material from the characters and worlds of the CGI: a heedless, willing, and headlong
ignorance of the rich artistic fundamentals he and his colleagues cultivated during Disney
Animation’s first heyday. His fear is that something would inevitably, and even tragically,
become lost in the transmutation of pen strokes to keystrokes. Disparity lay not in computers’
power to emulate reality, but in the subtle artistic nuances such aped pixilation would forgo. On
this stance, the animator is unmoved: “Even today [July 1984] there is no electronic process that
produces anything close to ‘Snow White quality’” and, says Thomas knowingly, “there is little
reason to believe there ever will be” (20).
Of course, Thomas’s egghead’s prediction was not in the least bit wrong. The 2-D/CGI
divide was a chasm inevitably crossed, its forecasting merely eleven years premature.
The Stampede
Thanksgiving, 1995: CGI Snow White arrives with the release of Pixar Animation Studio’s Toy
Story. Critically and commercially, Pixar’s inaugural effort dominated foreign and domestic box
offices and overjoyed the public’s imagination. Audiences, critics, and computer science
prophets were each equally underprepared for the landmark title’s resonance and influence.
Ironically, the “personal artistic statement” of Toy Story was not “beyond reach,” but infinity and
beyond reach. Pixar’s first cinematic outing loudly proclaimed what full-length CGI was capable
of, toe-to-toeing with 2-D animated Disney films financially and, most importantly, aesthetically.
The world now knows this story by heart. CGI is the new animation standard, the new landscape
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to which all other animated efforts must adapt.
Since Buzz Lightyear and Woody’s first adventure, computer generated animated films
have become the new animation standard. Forbes reports that Pixar films have grossed over $7
billion dollars globally, each raking in top-tier critical praise and an average of $61 million
apiece (Pomerantz 2012). Even outside the studio Luxo Jr. built, CGI animated films explode at
the box-office, many grossing hundreds of millions of dollars and at far-expedited rates
reminiscent of Disney’s (and Disney’s competitors’) 1990s roaring animation floodwaters. 75
animated films (the majority CGI) have graced theaters since 2008, with an expected 13 major
releases this year (Varirer, LA Times). 10 out of 12 Academy Award nominees for Best
Animated Feature have been CGI productions, Pixar itself having won 7 times, plus garnering
dozens of other nominations for technical and writing awards (Wikipedia, Pixar Touch 265). In
addition, every entry in the Pixar canon has opened domestically at Number 1 (Inside Pixar).
The evidence is overwhelming. CGI animation can be done, has been done, and
continues to extend its financial, cultural, and creative dividends year by year, with Pixar ever at
the vanguard.
Thomas’s piece, printed on the eve of CGI’s crosspollination into traditional Disney
methodology, could not chronologically account for the art form’s techniques later splicing into
Disney’s collection of 1990s films, collectively referred to as the “Disney Renaissance.” CGI
had been financially and creatively viable, however, before Pixar’s full-length outing stole the
show. A case study of this hybridization is found in the now-classic film The Lion King (1994),
released less than a year before Toy Story.
The infamous stampede scene was only made possible through a computer-derived
system called behavioral modelling. Behavioral modelling allows animators to create dynamic
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crowds in their films via computer rendering—the wildebeest stampede in The Lion King, and
crowd shots in The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Mulan prime examples (Pallant quoting
Terzopoulos 1999, 38, Demystifying Disney, 98-100). This superimposition of large-scale
crowds with traditional foregrounded animation carried over into subsequent Disney films,
though special attention was paid to ensure the fidelity of the 2-D look. While CGI wildebeest
thundered down the African gorge, animators set distinctly 2-D parameters for this shot, treating
these creations with the same “2-D multiplane pan style” and giving animators room to finesse
the motion of individual constituents in a crowd (99-100).
Though behavior modeling bore its own limitations—crowds still demanded rigorous
post-production editing and the finessing of individual motions of members of a crowed—its
function in The Lion King (now celebrating its 20th anniversary) was more than ornamental, more
than an experimental usage of a timely aesthetic tool (Pallant, Demystifying Disney, 100-102). It
solidified one of the most exciting and dramatic scenes in a Disney film for a generation of
movie-goers, young and old. It functioned as a story device, enveloping audiences in Simba’s
desperate mental state. Essentially it overturned and amplified Thomas’s conservative hopes for
what computer generated animation could add to animation or accomplish of its own accord.
The stunning visual difference between Toy Story and The Lion King temptingly offers a
handy metaphor: Wouldn’t it be appropriate to hold the stampede as surrogate for the paradigmshifting CGI onslaught to come? Could there be a more fittingly morbid comparison for CGI’s
takeover of the industry than 2-D Mufasa shoved off a cliff into the insuperable rush of CGI
wildebeest?
As retrofittingly congruous (and morbid) a comparison this is, it simply is not the truth.
Subjectively, Mufasa’s death would not have been half as wrenching without CGI wildebeest
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flattening him into a rug, but Disney did not die in the wake of Pixar’s theatrical releases.
Readers familiar with the film’s story know good things arise afterward. Framed for patricide,
Simba flees his homeland, adopts a hedonistic lifestyle, abdicates responsibility of his regal
obligations, and is confronted by a cosmic vision of his father at a critical juncture in his life.
“Remember who you are” Mufasa admonishes. This advice is so stirring, so transformative,
Simba immediately races home to reclaim the throne from his evil uncle Scar.
Was Frank Thomas’s curmudgeonly stance toward CGI indicative of a breed fearing
extinction, or is there more than a modicum of truth in his lamentation of the Disney “Golden
Age” transmuting from pen strokes to keystrokes? The fear at the time was minimal, but
palpable. Who could have guessed full-length CGI could work developmentally and
commercially? And clinging to a canyon wall, somewhere between 2-D and 3-D space, Mufasa
is murdered by Scar, sealing a dark, barren future for the Pride Lands—“Be prepared!” he
bellows atop his foreboding spire. Desolation swiftly follows.
Yet the resulting surfeit of CGI animated films did not desolate, extinguish, or trample
the Disney name. Like Mufasa, Walt Disney Animation Studios (hereafter WDAS) continues to
live on in new forms, contemporarily fueled by the spiritual stylings of Walt Disney and the
creative, organizational, and ideological skills groomed by the gurus at Pixar. Though it has
strayed recently from its cultural and entertainment obligations, the living ghost of Walt’s legacy
continues its evolution under the newly tented precedents of CGI. As will become clearer,
though Disney waned from the Lion King’s cosmic advice, it is currently primed to follow a
modified version—“Remember who you want to be.”
Considering Frozen
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Frozen, released in 2013, follows the story of two Scandinavian sisters—one born with
magical icy powers, the other not—whose adventures teach them the meaning of accepting who
you are and championing familial love. Money-wise, the film has fallen in rank beside the
crowning heavyweights of Pixar and 1990s Disney. In descending order, the three top-grossing
animated films worldwide, as compiled by Box Office Mojo, are as follows: Toy Story 3
($1,063,171,911), Frozen ($1,049,743,000), and The Lion King ($987,483,777) (Wikipedia,
“List of highest grossing animated films). As one metric of success, Frozen’s surpassing of the
Disney Renaissance juggernaut The Lion King, and becoming one of only three billion dollarexceeding animated films, is itself telling of an invigorating new audience desire for WDAS
production (12 years a slave).
Of course, financial success is only one criterion of success, and not enough to dub the
newest Disney outing as “Renaissance”-worthy. Critically, Frozen has garnered tremendously
positive accolades. Critics have hailed Frozen as Disney’s best effort since 1994’s The Lion
King. “It's as if the studios have reversed roles,” reports Kevin Fallon, “with Pixar mired in
sequelitis and write-by-number scripts while Disney gambles on out-of-the box story ideas”
(Fallon 11/25/13). Jaime Bibbiani of MacClean’s writes, “Frozen really is a beautiful and unique
snowflake… reminiscent of the rest [of Disney’s canon], but really, there’s nothing quite like it”
(Bibbiani 11/17/13).
Frozen also won both the 2014 Golden Globe Award and Academy Award for Best
Animated Feature, the latter a feat Disney has never before obtained in the 14-year history of the
category. It also garnered Best Original Song for “Let it Go,” and has entered the fabled financial
territory of animated film Toy Story 3 and The Lion King to have earned over $1 billion dollars in
international box office (“12 Years a Slave”).
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Is this praise and adulation enough to designate Frozen a Renaissance-bearing Disney
title? It is reasonable to think this new “Renaissance,” if it exists, will bear striking resemblance
to the ones which came before—repeated financial and critical esteem—but there is a glaring
fallacy imbedded in this logic. The question is not “Will Disney, or is Disney now, in the midst
of a third animation Renaissance?” Instead, the more prescient question should be, “What is a
Renaissance, anyway?”
The Question Now
“Ultimately the breakthrough [for CGI animation]…will not be in an awkward duplication of
Snow White or Bambi,” Thomas says in his essay. “It will be something new and vital…The only
question now is, who will be the first to do it?” (23-24).
The answers to Thomas’s questions—“Can it be done? Should it be done?”—continue
being etched our living cultural wall. Pixar was the first, and over the past decade and a half of
releases seems to be cemented in a position of unimpeachable power. Moviegoers now reap the
benefits and gluttony of CGI artistry cascading from Pixar’s headwaters. Yet the recent postmillennial WDAS releases, financially and critically, bespeak another power shift, and possibly
another “Renaissance.”
I posit not only has Thomas’s disfavor of CGI animation has proven unfounded, but that
Walt Disney Animation Studios (hereafter WDAS) has learned, and continues to learn, from
Pixar’s output, ideology, and branding success. In lieu of Pixar’s presence and intercession circa
2006, WDAS would have continued to flounder in the now full moon tidal sweep of CGI
animation houses. This second wind has revivified the Disney name and, most importantly, has
imbibed the current suite of Disney animators and directors with the tools, leadership, and bright-
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mindedness required to define for themselves what quality means—what “Renaissance”
means—again.
Before continuing this paper, let me first outline what this paper is not. It is not a soapbox
meant to unilaterally gild Pixar over Disney in the eyes of casual fans or animation aficionados.
“Exuberance,” to quote Flaubert, “is better than taste,” and each company, rightly and for equally
credible reasons, deserves their most exuberant proponents (Flaubert, 72). Instead of polarizing
the ideals and craftsmanship of one animation giant over the other, I endeavor to show the ways
Pixar and Disney operate as individual companies and at a newly symbiotic level of creative and
aesthetic direction which, even now, nears watershed caliber. Framing and highlighting these
goals, I further hope to show the reader that the nominal categorization of films (and eras) as
“Renaissances” is a far more fluid label than our cultural assumptions typically consign.
This, I believe, is the crux of the question. Critical consensus and financial excellence
simply denote too little. Only after revised definitions are reached and chains of influence linked
can Frozen, and other recent WDAS offerings, be substantiated as bellwethers of a third “Disney
Renaissance.”
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Part 1:
“The Bare Necessities”: Redefining “Renaissance”
And don't spend your time lookin' around
For something you want that can't be found…
The bare necessities of life will come to you
The Jungle Book, 1954
“Take It Easy, Little Britches”
Baloo is a go-lucky jungle bear who adopts a the “man-cub” Mowgli. He starts teaching him the
rules of the jungle—what to eat, how to survive—and most of all, how to relax. Bagheera,
Mowgli’s black panther guardian, is not convinced in Baloo’s ability to teach the young wild
boy what he needs to know—in fact, his mission is to return him to his village before Sher Khan,
the jungle’s deadliest tiger, finds him trespassing in his territory. As comes to pass, both
Bagheera’s and Baloo’s advice see Mowgli involved in all kinds of trouble. It is when Mowgli
decides for himself what it means to be human, to be himself, that he is able to pay respects to
his mentors and look forward to the future (The Jungle Book, 1967).
What’s in a “Renaissance”?
Can the Disney animation throne be reclaimed in the new millennium, or at minimum polished to
a shine familiar to its most ardent supporters? Animation fans have wondered since the late
1990s if the company will ever again reach the fabled artistic heights of its “Renaissance” era, a
period extending from The Little Mermaid (1989) to Tarzan (1998). Their drive to once more see
the studio thrive is predicated on the belief that the reproduction of past successes, the absorption
and extension of previous merits, is all that underlies the term.
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This section will make clear the fallacy of “Renaissance” under this constrictive,
popularized definitional umbrella. Nominally and categorically, the term “Renaissance” evokes
the reclamation and advancement of past inventions and principles. Practically, the true nature
and defining characteristics of “Renaissance” all but guarantee the impossibility of a one-to-one
reclamation of past ideals. The construct itself is a far more fluid and exciting animal, capable of
more daring ticks than merely recapturing or emulating the effervescent aesthetic sprit of earlier
eras.
Understanding what the term truly connotes—and how it continues to morph—is critical
for approaching the question of the Disney Renaissance, Pixar’s influence in its development,
and for designing a solid, revised critical defense for Disney’s newest films fitting this definition.
Renaissance Clichés
What has “Renaissance” come to mean in the popular imagination? Is this conceptualization
accurate or representative enough of the historical period that spawned it?
The origin of the “conceptual renaissance” is generally attributed to 16th century art critic
Giorgio Vasari via his 1550 coinage rinascita, meaning rebirth, and who noticed that Tuscan
elites prized and valued objects of both literary and artistic merit (Findlen 86). Furthermore, the
term was first “singled out” as a discrete spiritual/philosophical age in 1860 by Buckhardt’s Die
Kultur der Renaissance in Italien, wherein the idea of a “Renaissance civilization” and culture
distinct from other timeframes was penned (Kristeller 451-452). It is from this latter
categorization that our modern compartmentalization of Renaissance, and the ideas and ideals it
spawned, sprang forth.
Since Buckhardt’s groundwork, the “public image of the Renaissance” has been
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extirpated from the hands of academics and collectors and disseminated across museums and
galas, TV documentaries, and everyday objects the world over, is one that can often be cited as
“a term of convenience,” but should be investigated more critically (Findlen 83). (My argument
demands just such semantic vivisection. “Disney Renaissance” has become a buzzword that only
superficially acknowledges the many subcutaneous designs undergirding, and justifying, such a
label. This reflects our long-held supposition and support for what the Renaissance (at least in
Italy) actually involved, and for the uncritical adoption of the term by Westerners at large.)
The history of Renaissance ideals and spirit has likewise stemmed from the study of
groups of thinkers during the age and connecting common threads between them, often from a
privileged or revisionist vantage. This lumping together has certainly made consensus thoughts
of the Renaissance more historically and critically approachable; at the same time, as a method
of convenience, the definition has filtered much of the nuance, and frankly truth, from what this
proscribed era was truly all about.
Nowhere is this oversimplification more apparent than the discrete categorization and
hierarchical molding of what bare necessities constitute Renaissance thinking. Much
Renaissance scholarship is preoccupied with establishing consensus of authorship among
relevant scholars. Efforts of this nature only reinforce and amend what “Renaissance” denotes
among critics and historians, further distancing the public from the true nature of the era by
allowing clichés to perpetuate unchecked outside of academic circles. Beginning this revision
requires unpacking these long-held Renaissance “themes,” which I do below.
Art and Nature
Florentine artists, such as Ghiberti, Donatello, and Brunelleschi, intellectualized art more
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than their predecessors, individualized experiences of mood and form, distancing art’s primary
Medieval function of religious exhortation into a sphere of wider public patronage, carving a
niche for highly sought-out talents. “The activities of these artists reflected the growing interest
in Ancient Rome and the new way of looking at it. Rome also lent their works prestige” (Leven
220-221).
Close terms these indispensable pieces of the Renaissance puzzle “commonplaces.” In a
larger arena of thought, most people are familiar with the concepts of art, nature, and the
classical trains of thought running through both. Close offers a more sizeable, nuanced definition
for both terms and their linked classical origins. Art, for instance, is “any rationally organized
activity which has a practical rather than a speculative end…and as the system of theoretical
knowledge or the intellectual expertise or the technical proficiency which such activities
presuppose” (Close 467). Nature is defined as a 5-tier concept: the powers/principles behind
change and growth; a “universal causative power”; the first and persisting ground of existence,
either cosmically/pre-Socratically via elements or Platonically via ideas; the form and function of
physical items/creatures; and “the cosmic scheme of the natural world” (Close 467).
It may seem obvious that the super-headings of “art,” “nature,” and “antiquity” extend
into nuanced territory beyond their blanketed cultural definitions. Yet it is precisely these
Renaissance “themes” that deserve deeper scrutiny, as their superficial definitions have guided
and cemented so much thought and interpretation of the timeframe. Close unpacks the
generalizations of these overarching Renaissance ideas as follows:
1. Art imitates nature: Technologies and institutions we invent always seem inspired/imitate
natural processes. (Close 469).
2. Art ministers to, complements, or perfects nature.: Art exists to fill in nature’s blemishes,
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and since nature is a teleological affair (forms follow a great chain of ever-better forms),
the cultivation of the arts ennobles the soul, which is man’s teleological end. Art is
therefore necessary for humans to reach their ultimate form of development (Close 472473).
3. Art is based on experience or study of nature: Plato describes how first the contemplation
and observation of nature and its true form/processes is needed before orators, doctors,
and other artists have any hope of imitating or complementing its function. Proficiency
can’t exist, and art likewise, without first observation (Close 474-475).
4. Art and nature in educational theory: Both Greeks/Roman philosophers (and thus the
Renaissance thinkers) felt that man had a certain talent endowed by nature, but that
education could better a naturally talented person and an unnaturally talented person to
varying degrees (Close 476-477).
5. Art makes use of nature’s material: Human art depends on nature to exist; however, the
“Universal Nature” of people makes certain arts and institutions conduits of a nature
already endemic to people (Close 477).
6. Art has its beginnings in nature: Art either “begins in nature” or is a rediscovery and
realization of the gifts which nature gives all men (Close 477-478).
7. Art is inferior to nature: Plato held this view because certain kinds of art try too hard to
fulfill the things the “divine art” or “soul’ of nature does more perfectly. To Aristotle, art
was inferior to the creator’s works not because certain fields try to jump their teleological
fences, but that the ultimate product works far less consistently or as well as nature’s. A
third view held that art, in itself, is worthless unless it endeavors to follow the lead of
nature and aid our moral development (Close 479-480).
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8. Nature is an artist: In antiquity, nature (or some or another divinity) vacillated between
the ultimate craftsman and the source and energy behind all moral/creative human
endeavors. This energy is that intangible “thing” which makes art art (Close 481).
These commonplaces persisted throughout Renaissance thinking in large part due to
Renaissance patrons’ avarice collection of all things ancient, their subsequent alterations, and the
lingering Middle Aged idea of what is God’s power/art as distinct from nature (Close 484).
Essentially, “..when the commonplaces are repeated…they often undergo development,
modification, or adaptation. It would be misleading to suggest that their manifestations [then and
now]…simply reiterate ancient and medieval ideas” (Close 486). This suggests rather fiercely
that the definition most Westerners carry for “Renaissance” is an oversimplified ideal, and that
our (re)construction of the era is drastically different from how, if at all, Renaissance people
defined their own time and values.
One artist and theorist, Vitruvius, resurrected the ideas of art and divinity from Rome.
His Neo-Platonic doctrine outlines that beauty is the “harmony” and order inherent in the divine;
artists are challenged to imitate this beauty as faithfully as possible; in their renderings, beauty
was therefore neither a “matter of taste” nor “trial and error,” but an attempt to trace God’s plans,
thus bridging the artist to the idea of the divine. However, as our tools and means are imperfect,
we always “corrupt” the nature we imitate—therefore it is necessary to imitate Nature’s laws
over her products, her “outward manifestations,” as the closest way to humanly praise the divine
(Laven 226).
Many Neo-Platonic artists were preoccupied with the “conquest of reality,” but a cadre of
others—Bellini, Mantegna, and da Vinci—started the tradition of tackling the ideas of
representing 3-D objects on 2-D planes, sowing impressionistic (how we really see and perceive
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the world), and cubist seeds (elements of the art project out of the frame). That is, a distinct draw
toward a hyperreal extension of the capacities and exigencies of art (Laven 233).
“The Renaissance,” Findlen writes, “continues to symbolize the very definition and, to a
lesser degree, origin of culture” typically under the large-scale categories presented above (84).
The profusion of this way of thinking has given rise to the idea that there is an essential “sprit”
that defines Renaissance thinking and philosophy, some common denominator that binds these
differing thinkers together and thus their way of life.
But like all zeitgeists, Renaissance Italy is a many-headed creature (Kristeller 450). What
are the discrete parts, separate from our convenient conceptualizations of art, nature, and a
reverence for antiquity, that truly represent these centuries of Italian history? The following
sections outline these traits.
Education and Innovation
What of Renaissance education, innovation, and the image of the “Renaissance Man”?
In many respects, Renaissance education was far different that Medieval education. Most
texts and teachings to boys during Medieval times were intended to instill hatred toward all thing
secular, with the primary focus on education channeled into spiritual and religious “goals.” Only
later on in Middle Ages, when technical skills were needed, was secular education tolerated for
pragmatic ends (allowing people to subscribe to jobs commensurate to their social standing), and
Roman and classical texts were “tolerated” as “a means to an end” (Black 316-317).
Renaissance education was a humanist overhaul of this old system. Its purpose was to
teach the pupil how to live and create morally, with special regard given to the unity and freedom
of choice inherent in all humans and their works. The rediscovery of texts from antiquity was a
Harriman 21
realization of the “fullness” and breadth of human knowledge and development, a “discovery of
man as an individual entity, historically concrete and determinable” (Black 317 quoting Europa
102). Man thus became a tool not for some larger institution, but for all humanity.
Ultimately the “revival” of teaching ancient texts facilitated self-actualization through the
only avenue possible: the knowledge and experience gained by inhabiting another’s perspective.
Knowing the greats allowed students to “know themselves,” developing their whole personhood
in ways that the conscripted Medieval education system denied (they studied texts for a decided
religious endgame, not for their content and perspective alone) (Black 317-318).
This notion sounds intimately familiar, yet there are contrary claims to this Renaissance
educational story. Instead of fostering a scholastic exploration, whereby pupils at all levels of
schooling during the fifteenth century (Latin to schoolboys, semantics for university,
technical/artisanal skills for specialists), much evidence shows that most Renaissance learning
was rote memorization of these ancient texts with little if any time granted for open debate.
Under this view, humanist’s doctrines were widespread and successful not because they were
heretical or truly prompted whole-personhood, creating a feedback loop of innovation and
reform, but because they relied on rote memorization and utilitarian dogmatism to past ideals
without promoting critique (Black 318-320). Thus Renaissance teaching was that of antiquity,
but whether for scholastic or humanistic goals (and how successful either was) is still the debate
today (Black 322).
This unresolved distinction, embedded within the larger distinctions between Medieval
“scholastic” education and Renaissance “humanistic” education, actually has many more
overlaps than the contemporary, nominal categorization of the time lets on (Black 325).
Medieval classics remained at the core of study and university expansion from the fifteenth
Harriman 22
century onward (including Aristotle, Cicero, Ptolemy, Galen, and Euclid). From 1300 to 1600,
the structure of Italian schooling, the types of Italian schools, hadn’t really evolved from
Medieval set schemes. Quickly however, Black writes: “The widespread dissemination of
schools of Christian doctrine…the emergence of vernacular reading, writing, and arithmetic
(abacus) schools…the appearance of specialized calligraphy and writing schools; the
predominance of free education in the communes—these were all developments of great
importance and even innovation…which fundamentally altered the structure of Italian education
in the sixteenth century” (Black 327-328).
Different forms of pedagogy also took root, with medicine and technology courses
cultivating a more hands-on instructional mode. “The growing interest in first-hand observation
and the consequent willingness to question works that had previously been held as
unquestionable authorities,” was an ideological sieve filtrating much Renaissance thought
(Laven 177). Many professors in Padua circa 1446 began their own dissections in schools
“Whilst the students handled bits of the bodies.” First-hand experience and knowledge-gaining
from close observation rapidly replaced “the bookish aloofness of traditional methods” across
much of Renaissance Italy (Laven 192).
Much of Renaissance “findings” were not so much original creations as refurnished and
expanded nuances and applications of previous Greek/Roman medical discoveries. This new
attitude of reaching to the past to erect a better present helped to resuscitate and implement
antiquarian ideas and ideals into the scientific and artistic spheres of Renaissance Italy (Laven
186-187). Kristeller makes the argument that Renaissance thinkers applied Medieval learning to
their current problems, and that “the Renaissance presents no sharp break with the past, but
rather the significant use and reconstruction of firmly established [Medieval] traditions”
Harriman 23
(Kristeller 458-459).
Where does this leave the “Renaissance Man” ideal? In far murkier waters. The wholepersonhood may not have been an explicit educational pedagogy during the time period. In an
effort to consolidate and make sense of the complicated interplay of classical education and
contemporary innovations, the idea of the “Renaissance Man” became a simplified surrogate for
these complex interactions. There was a continued claim to “build character,” but evidence
shows Medieval carryover curricula and “philological teaching methods” were retained, and
often rotely enforced, from Medieval times (Black 331).
The conflicting historical evaluations of pedagogical mores of the time make pegging
Renaissance instruction far more difficult than the popular story of ceaseless innovation and
historical disavowal problematic. It can be agreed, however, that education was of utmost
importance to those fortunate enough to receive it during the 15th and 16th centuries.
Possession and Knowledge
Ownership is not typically associated with the images of spirited innovation and uninhibited
cultural celebration the Renaissance conjures, yet the singular possession of the past is a
trenchant fixture of Renaissance activity. The flighty notion of shared historical ownership and
preservation was the product of the same materialistic drive evident in Western society today.
Good trade after the Middle Ages, coupled with a rise in artisanal craftsmanship and wealth
comingling with nobility, fueled the desire of Italian patricians to adorn their abodes with
rarefied objects evocative of the past (Findlen 86-88).
For some collectors and antiquarians, owning an archaic object was commensurate with
owning the part and ideal of human history it was extracted from. The humanist Francesco
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Petrarch emphasized that the knowledge of art in Renaissance culture was equivalent to knowing
a great deal about many subjects. At the same time, one could curate a more “superficial
possession” of a desired piece of art should he or she get some value not generally held by the
artistically articulate. There were therefore many ways one could come to possess art and confer
it meaning during the Renaissance (Findlen 90).
As a collector himself, Petrarch describes his own “craving and consuming [of] culture”
while simultaneously disparaging the elites who “decorate their rooms with furniture devised to
decorate their minds” (Findlen 91). This feverish hoarding and rediscovery of artifacts prompted
the “possessing intellectual objects [to become] a metaphor for the acquisition of knowledge”
(Findlen 92-93). Owning is not knowing, of course, but this became a placeholder, a stepping
stone, to true intellectual mastery, one both covetous and necessary in the eyes of Renaissance
collectors. Possession is thus a two-pronged idea during the era: first, to physically possess
something is paramount, and it thereby followed one would become possessed by the
knowledge, history, or promise composing it.
Preservation and Reproduction
“Italian humanists” believed the past to be “an embodied presence,” and so ruins of art
and statuary from antiquity, specifically Rome, became the focal point of reverence and a
“conditioned” sense of value toward modern objects developed (Findlen 95). In essence, the
“shared qualities [of Renaissance and antiquarian artwork] created a continuum between past and
present,” and collectively formed a sustainable picture of culture (Findlen 97).
The atmosphere surrounding this Renaissance aesthetic reverence was coupled by
atmospheres of patronage, collecting, and stockpiling current and Greco/Roman artifacts for their
Harriman 25
intrinsic and extrinsic value, often to the detriment or damage of the artifact. Findlen writes,
“preserving culture became an obsessive concern for Italian Renaissance patrons, scholars, and
artists”—but why? (97).
The accruing of antique works gave impetus to the fervent idea of preservation—
specifically, the gluttonous, superficial, and negligent air of possessing previous artworks led to
the depletion, and often defacement, of the original/exhumed works themselves. As more and
more “real” artifacts were culled and spoiled, becoming harder and harder for anyone but
wealthy patrons to own, copies and derivative works, as well as the art of the time, became as if
nor more vaunted than legitimate pieces of antiquity.
When the works of the collected past had reached the bottom of the barrel, Renaissance
patrons began treating their current artisan’s works with the same dire reverence. The more
elusive or damaged authentic ancient artifacts became, the more collectors and Italian humanists
strove to preserve and share in galleries the artists of their own era. They did not want the same
“imperilment of its artifacts” to befall their own artists’ works, and strove to insure the pieces
and fragments of the past they’d mined would remain for others to see and appreciate in their
own time. By the 1550s, a “specifically cultivated appreciation for modern things, either as an
extension of antiquity or as a replacement for it,” was in full swing (Findlen 103-104). Come the
mid-1600s, “the desire for authentic [Renaissance] objects still competed with the growing
acceptance of cultural reproduction” (Findlen 112).
Findlen describes this process as the definition of culture expanding due to the rarefied
hoarding and desecration of antique works (100-103). Entertaining this view, culture is the
reproduction and preservation of past and present human works. Specific to the Renaissance, this
definitional adoption evolved after decades of selfish hoarding bequeathed a damaged legacy of
Harriman 26
works for the next generation. What we consider the Renaissance, the very culture of the time,
was the product of a fervent backpedalling meant to preserve the works of their own era from the
damages of singular collecting.
Culture was thus shared and disseminated partially out of fear—fear of being written out
of history altogether by their own hands. Public collections were disbanded caches of private
collections. The estimation of certain artists over others was thus at the mercy of esteemed
collectors who, by virtue of their own predilections, tastes, and subsequent donations, decided
which artists and styles were the high watermarks worthy of preserving for posterity (Findlen
108, 111). “The Renaissance was not simply a label for an artistic movement,” Findlen
concludes, “but also described a dynamic cultural process that has much to tell us about the
making and remaking of the past” (113).
Redefinition
“What is most striking about the Renaissance, in the popular imagination, is its legacy as a
reproducible past. Our consumption of this particular past is an expression of our own
identification with its material richness…it is a legacy to be admired, publicized, copied, and
even [re]invented” (Findlen 85). Embedded within Findlen’s words is the public hope that each
“Renaissance” will resurrect some golden nostalgic pixie dust from the past, conferring on the
contemporary landscape both highly original and spiritually derivative artistic works that
legitimize our current cultural epoch for posterity.
This hope is but one component of popular thinking surrounding the Renaissance,
routinely classified as either a full schism from both scholastic and humanistic thoughts
preceding the period—that its great leaders and thinkers provided relentless innovation under the
Harriman 27
scruples and guidelines of either school—or else codified as the last breath of the great pedagogy
of the Medieval past, a final cord severing from antiquated thinking to more enlightened,
“naturalistic” thinking and “intellectual independence” (Kristeller 450-451).
From the evidence presented above, “Renaissance” is more transition, it seems, than
definite period. The Renaissance was neither a time of unparalleled innovation nor of dogmatic
adherence to the values and lessons of times past. It was rather an era of incremental influences
and a willingness to change, somewhat arbitrarily, definitions for what value and culture meant.
It was a time spent preserving and extolling contemporary artists while avoiding the mistaken
decisions that quickly eroded the hoarding of older Medieval doctrines and artifacts for often
superficially aesthetic reasons. It was not a time for completely retracing past achievements, but
also not a total divorcing from all surviving pedagogies and ideals. This refined information
contradicts the storied ideal the Western world perpetuates for the period.
Such being the case, what was it, then? What are the “bare necessities” that define these
centuries of Italian history? I propose a one word redefinition: transition. The Renaissance was a
transitional period, one of revisionary and fluid conceptualizations, at once possessive and
reverential, innovative and conservative. This, I believe, is a far more fitting definition of the era,
and should be kept near to mind as we further probe the cultural dynamics of Disney and Pixar.
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Part 2:
“A Whole New World”: Disney Dogma (1937 – 2006)
A whole new world
A new fantastic point of view
No one to tell us no
Or where to go
Or say we're only dreaming...
Aladdin, 1992
Magic Carpet Ride
Visiting her balcony under cover of night, Aladdin, the eponymous hero of Disney’s 1992 film,
spirits Princess Jasmine away for a starlit tour of Agrabah and beyond, courtesy his magic flying
carpet. Jasmine is astounded by the world she’s been cloistered away from, though not enough to
be rendered speechless. She and Aladdin share a duet, lauding the “unbelievable sights” and
“indescribable feelings” inherent to their romantic discovery of the beauty and promise the wider
world holds. Everything is new to the princess’s eyes—“It’s all so magical,” she sighs—and the
experiences they share that night reflect “an endless diamond sky” of potential (Aladdin 1992).
This movie moment would not have been created without the Walt Disney Company,
whose pioneering aesthetic and technical innovations from the 1930s onwards etched an
indelible cultural and artistic mark on the field. The animators and craftsman under Disney’s
employ truly discovered and created worlds as they went along. The history of their efforts has
culminated into a global animation empire, and has bequeathed a legacy of design and spirit
seemingly without peer in the animation universe. Detailing the history, innovations, and “eras”
of Walt Disney Animation Studios (WDAS), the “Disney Renaissance” included, is essential to
decoding what “Renaissance” connotes and how Disney both embodies and deviates from the
Harriman 29
movement.
“Classic Disney”
The history of Walt Disney’s film legacy properly begins in the 1930s. This “Classic” era of
Disney Animation references an eight-year span of time for the studio, during which Snow White
(1937), Pinocchio (1940), Dumbo (1941), and Bambi (1942) (Pallant, “Disney Formalism,” 342).
It was during these fabled years the aesthetics and standards held for decades, and still vaunted
today, were established. Walt strove to make the most lasting animated contributions imaginable.
His ideology “prioritized artistic sophistication, ‘realism’ in character and context, and above all,
believability.” These formative (and transformative) stylistic components will be discussed
promptly (Pallant, “Demystifying Disney,” 38-39).
One of many precedents these early films set was that of an adherence to certain
storytelling tropes. “Classic Disney” has since solidified into a synonymous evocation of the coopting of fairy- and folktale tropes, princes and princesses, as well as a “legion of identikit
orphans” who go through Campbellian monomyth adventures—the call, the rise, the fall, the
return. Of course, not every Disney enterprise subscribes to this template, especially more recent
Disney outings discussed later. (Pallant, “Demystifying Disney,” 35-37).
A second precedent involved combining and advocating art and technology, and taking
personal investment to see such innovation sustained. Walt Disney himself personally bankrolled
and Disney’s financial investment, his personal bankrolling, during his early years always flowed
back into his animation division and their tools and technologies, which, during Depression-era
animation, was unheard of. He “immediately reinvested in a continual attempt to raise the quality
of the Studio’s animation” (Pallant Demystifying 38-39). Ed Catmull, CEO of Pixar Animation
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Studios, echoes Disney’s sentiments: Walt Disney “believed that when continual change, or
reinvention, is the norm in an organization and technology and art [commingle] together,
magical things happen.” He was as much an inspiring artist as a technology advocate, being the
first animator to pair animation and sound, to use color, and composite live action with
animation (Catmull 7).
These are the facts of the “Classic Disney” era—Walt’s proprietary school of animation
and his personal investment in artistic and technological innovation. In considering the
redefinition of “Renaissance” as it applies to WDAS, however, it would be wise to extrapolate
on the nominal makeup of this time in Disney history as “Classic.” In short, what are the “broad
connotations of classic” when discussing current Disney film evocation of earlier aesthetic
ideals? (Pallant, “Disney-Formalism,” 342).
As established earlier, “Renaissance” as a term reflects a fluid categorization process, not
some impenetrably defined frozen-for-convenience designation. “Classic Disney” imbibes this
same fluidity. As Pallant summarizes, “the concept of ‘Classic Disney’ has evolved in recent
years, developing from a seemingly straightforward term featured in numerous discussions of
Disney, to one which lacks the specificity required to support ‘shorthand’ critical engagement”
(Pallant Disney-Formalism 341). In fact, there has been an ongoing shift, depending on
perspective, of what “Classic Disney” means. In the 1960s and 70s it was used to periodize the
pen-and-paper animation efforts as separate from the animation/live action hybrids coming out of
the studio, for example Mary Poppins. The eighties saw critics extolling the “Classic” period for
its myriad technical and animation evolutions.
In more recent times, the video market of VHS, DVD and BluRay releases has
commodified the term as a way of re-releasing older offerings, with monikers ranging from
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“‘Gold Classics’, the ‘Masterpiece’ collection, and the ‘Platinum’ range” (Pallant Disney
Formalism 343). , “Classic Disney” can mean the studio’s adherence and morphing of fairy-tale
narratives and tropes to the screen, as well as a certain periods in the company’s history—that is,
“classic” films were the ones Walt invested in before the global multimedia conglomerate
Disney has now become (Pallant Disney Formalism 344). Even Disney scholar Pallant’s
neologisms of “Formalist-Disney, Neo-Disney, and Digital Disney,” used to further partition and
reencapsualte certain timeframes of Disney output, bespeak both a categorical partitioning of
persistent aesthetics and values and a need to historicize and time stamp a host of innovators,
filmmakers, and ideologues (Pallant, “Demystifying Disney,” 52).
Clearly “Classic Disney” is an amorphous designation roughly affixed to Disney’s
original four theatrical features and the animation principles and technological leaps pioneered
during their creation. While the nominal categorization remains in flux, the specific animation
contributions and ideologies cultivated during Walt’s early years are more static qualifiers of the
time.
Hyperrealism
Irrespective of nominal fluctuations or reimaginings, there remains a certifiable,
unchangeable node planted during “Classic Disney” days that continues bearing the envy and de
facto standards for much of Western animation today: the aesthetic of hyperrealism.
Disney’s “artistic paradigm” of hyperrealism spawned during Snow White, and was a
response and refutation to earlier “Squash-and-Stretch” animation Walt beget with Steamboat
Willie (Pallant, “Demystifying Disney,” 40; Thomas 22). Hyperrealism strives for believability
of motion over real-world fidelity. The Golden Age Disney animators internalized this goal,
Harriman 32
though the paradox of their practice forbade such one-to-one correspondence.
What is this paradox, and what drove Walt to circumvent its pull? In essence, the magical
paradox of animation (according to animation theorist Paul Wells) lies in the rendering of reality
using an artificial-to-life medium. It is “predicated” on fakery, and its challenge is manifold: to
convince the audience there are real people or creatures on the screen although, by virtue of the
medium itself, this is impossible.
To divert this paradox, the WDAS animators resorted to “cute” their characters to better
convey motion and emotion, which quickly became the sweeping standard among competing
animation studios (Pallant Demystifying 42). During a production meeting of Snow White, for
instance, the entire crew was told to refocus on her eyes, mouth, and facial movements, to avoid
the distracting “squash-and-stretch” animation style previous Disney shorts embodied, and also a
different idea than the wide-eyed protagonists of recent Disney outings (Tangled, Wreck-ItRalph, Frozen) (Pallant Demystifying 40-41).
Veteran WDAS animator Frank Thomas explains further: “Real action was too complex,
too mundane, too lacking in focus, too restrictive…To be convincing, the believable had to be
based on the real” (Thomas 21). This reframing of reality was always a finely drawn line away
from mundanity. The “Squash and Stretch” aesthetic was foregone for the hyperreal, and the
hyperreal was born from field observations. It was ever an uphill battle to avoid the stiffness of
reality, and to continue to define the differences between real world movement and “principles of
animation” the Disney team strove toward (Thomas 22).
In essence, Disney and his company made a conscious artistic choice to dodge the
“metamorphosis” and “plasticness” of his earlier shorts and other contemporary animation
houses, deviating from what film theorist Sergei Einstein describes as “freedom from
Harriman 33
ossification…primal protoplasm, not yet possessing a ‘stable’ form” (Pallant Demystifying 4344). In so doing, Walt championed “believable movement,” the controlled distortion and
proportion of reality translated onto celluloid. Aesthetic in hand, there was a “drive for
perfection” from Pinocchio onwards, with Bambi considered the high-water mark of all Golden
Era outings (Pallant Demystifying 44).
Disney himself further insisted on animals in his films looking “as real as possible,”
going so far as to corral deer on the lot for animators to observe, even going so far as to present
for the animators deer carcasses that they would strip, layer by layer, to understand how the
animal’s musculature and inner-systems worked (Pallant Demystifying 49-51). As Thomas says,
“flesh is supple and stretches,” and rarely does the entire body move as a single unit. There are
nuances of systematic interaction. He further describes the “phenomenology” of early Disney
animators: “Eventually we shot our own home movies in order to understand the actions that
eluded us…We took film of each other doing the actions we were trying to draw, and we shot
endless footage of animals doing everything” (Thomas 21).
This hyperreal aesthetic, laudable though it is, demanded a fervent devotion of time and
energy, so much so that during the years of WWII it no longer became consistently feasible.
Bambi alone took six years to make; the financial reality of the war years prevented a guaranteed
return to this high-investment precedent (Pallant Demystifying 50-51). In a very tangible sense,
subsequent WDAS animation, including today’s contemporary Disney canon and the films of
Pixar, either try to replicate or pay homage to these early four films and the rigors and leaps they
cultivated for the industry. As one Disney animator remarked, “all cartoon animation that
follows the Disney output [between 1933 and 1941] is a reaction to Disney, aesthetically,
technically, and ideologically” (52).
Harriman 34
“The Age of Not Believing”
Animation is at the core of everything Disney. Michael Eisner, long-time CEO of Walt Disney,
once called animation the “soul, heart, and most of the body parts” of what Disney is. Starting in
the 1950s, however, Walt himself gravitated toward more live-action and television projects, as
well as overseeing Disneyland and Epcot. Consequently, the singular emphasis on quality
animated features waned (Waking Sleeping Beauty).
It was thus by increments that Walt’s hyperreal aesthetic, a lauded animation division,
and the generations of followers it inspired, eventually ran aground, both internally to Disney
and externally. In 1984, traditional animation at Disney was all but given up for dead, with the
over-deadline, over-budget, and underwhelming The Black Cauldron spelling the epitaph for the
storied animation division (Waking Sleeping Beauty). This era of Disney films and their dive in
quality, according to Pixar director Brad Bird, was “like a Cadillac Phaeton that had been left out
in the rain. It was this amazing machine that was beautiful but old and getting a little
decrepit….The movies were still well executed, if uninspired” (“Innovation Lessons” 8).
Furthermore, there was a sense of dread in the executives after Walt Disney passed of not
using their supreme technology to keep innovating, but to try their hardest not to mess up the
legacy as it stood, which dampened creative innovation (Innovation Lessons 8). Money was
rerouted toward Disney amusement parks and the rereleasing in theaters—and subsequently on
VHS—of “Classic Disney” films, staggered every 7 years out of the “Disney Vault.”
The 1980s was, pivotally, the critical and commercial nadir for WDAS. Ironically, the
sole division of the company that foundered was the one that began it all—animation (Waking
Sleeping Beauty).
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The “Disney Renaissance”
As if by magic, the arrival of new animation leaders to the Disney Studios prompted the birth of
what has colloquially been dubbed the “Disney Renaissance.” Disney scholars attribute 1989’s
The Little Mermaid the Renaissance’s opening number, and say it concludes with 1998’s Tarzan
(Pallant, “Demystifying Disney,” 93-95).
There are two flagrant benchmarks that delineate this era: artistic innovation and
critical/financial success (Pallant, Demystifying Disney, 97-98). This bookend makes sense
financially. The ten films of the Disney Renaissance grossed an average of $140 million dollars,
while the three subsequent outings (Fantasia 2000 (1999), The Emperor’s New Groove (2000),
Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001)) together averaged $80.7 million (Pallant, Demystifying
Disney, 93-95). Not until recently has Disney mustered such numbers and accolades.
It also makes sense critically. When Beauty and the Beast won the Golden Globe for Best
Musical or Comedy and was nominated for 6 Academy Awards, including Best Picture, the
feeling among Disney animators was that “animation [was] no longer at the kids’ card table in
the kitchen” in terms of getting high public reception and distinguished respect (Waking Sleeping
Beauty).
After Beauty and the Beast, the emphasis and spending on the animation division soared.
A new building was erected, there were raises and a panoply of new pressures to be perpetually
great, each film “becoming bigger than the last.” The animators were “living the dream” once
Disney became, once again, an animation mecca. In five years’ time, the animation team
expanded from 150 people to over 500. And after the wildly successful release of Toy Story, the
focus in the department shifted from working on one film at a time to five films.
Harriman 36
There were downsides to such a meteoric rise, too. As one animator put it, “Everybody
was spread too thin” and there was constant worry, and even repeated stress injuries, for
animators to forsake other parts of their lives and meet critical and commercial expectations
(Waking Sleeping Beauty). One animator on The Lion King, Tom Bancroft, shared some insight
into the “impatience” for unending success as lower yields after his film in the 1990s: “Any
company that goes through a huge boom of success goes through [a perceived identity
crisis]…There was a disappointment in everything after Lion King” (Weinman 2013).
The “Disney Renaissance” remains a heady hash mark on Disney’s timeline. As Richer
Turner of The Wall Street Journal wrote, the animation division at Disney during their 1990
upswing could be defined in four words: “collaborative, confrontational, extravagant, exacting”
(Waking Sleeping Beauty).
From CAPS to Deep Canvas
A major ingredient of the “Disney Renaissance” was the investment in (and gambling on)
nascent CGI technology.
There are four major advancements that integrated with traditional animation and made
possible the technical and artistic achievements of the Disney Renaissance: 3-D modeled
backgrounds, the CAPS system, behavioral modeling, and Deep Canvas. While Disney had been
experimenting with CGI in the mid-80s with their developmentally treacherous film The Black
Cauldron, the most defining use of both 3-D environments were first seen by audiences in The
Great Mouse Detective (the clock tower finale) and Beauty and the Beast (the ballroom scene).
Then along came CAPS—computer aided production system—allowing animators to create 2-D
animation and subsequently digitally composite and color the final result. The Little Mermaid
Harriman 37
and The Rescuers Down Under were the first to employ CAPS, which remained a staple
throughout the Renaissance (Pallant, Demystifying Disney, 95-97).
CEO Michael Eisner defended this expensive choice as healthy for the whole animation
division, harkening back to Walt’s earliest values: “CAPS didn’t save [Disney] any money…its
costs quickly rose to $30 million. But it did open up vast new avenues for our artists…In a short
time, CAPS technologically and artistically revolutionized the archaic method by which
animation movies had been made since Snow White” (Pallant quoting Eisner 1999, 180, 96).
CAPS was gestated by none other than Pixar, then a cadre of brainiacs developing imaging
technologies (including MRIs) deep inside Lucasfilm, who, even at the beginnings of the
“Disney Renaissance,” had their innovations near to the Mouse’s hand (Waking Sleeping
Beauty).
Behavioral modeling and another system known as Deep Canvas bejewel and complete
crown of “Disney Renaissance” technological leaps. Behavioral modelling allowed animators to
create dynamic crowds in their films—the wildebeest stampede in The Lion King described
previously, as well as crowd shots in The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Mulan (Pallant quoting
Terzopoulos 1999, 38, Demystifying Disney, 98-100). This superimposition of large-scale
crowds with traditional foregrounded animation carried over into the remaining DR films,
though special attention was paid to ensure the fidelity of the 2-D look. Lastly, Deep Canvas
allowed artists’ “brush strokes” to be mapped fluidly onto the frame (think about the junglesurfing scenes in Tarzan). “Not only did the Renaissance witness a qualitative revival in the
Studio’s animation,” it also proved how CGI and animation could blend and expand on one
another (Pallant Demystifying, 100-102, 110).
A final note of interest to the breakthrough of the DR is the relative “centrality” of this
Harriman 38
tech’s integration into their features. For the press, its instantiation was collectively
“downplayed,” a far cry from the publically disclosed innovations of Disney’s “Golden Era.”
(Pallant, Demystifying Disney, 102). Although Disney had sought to “hire animators who had
been schooled in computer-aided animation, its animated product[s] still looked quite
conventional—deliberately so—and it continued to be marketed as consistent with the long and
popular tradition of Disney cartooning” (Pallant quoting Telotte 2008, 162, 102).
This secreting of the very things which rallied the Disney troops to new artistic heights is
itself in conflict with both the clichés and realities of the Italian Renaissance ideals denoted
earlier.
“Neo-Disney”
In the eyes of critics and moviegoers, the “Disney Renaissance” did eventually come to a close.
The “Neo-Disney” period (1999 – 2004), coined by Pallant, followed this creative glut, and is
proof positive that eras, including Renaissances, are singularly watery creations.
The string of films of the Neo-Disney include Fantasia 2000 (1999), The Emperor’s New
Groove (2000), Atlantis: The Lost Empire (2001), Lilo and Stitch (2002), Treasure Planet
(2002), Brother Bear (2003), and Home on the Range (2004) (Pallant Demystifying 111). These
films, with the exception of Lilo and Stitch, were mostly major losses for the company. For
instance, its lowest financial performer was 2002’s Treasure Planet, for which the company had
to “take a $98 million write-down” (Barnes 2008).
Money-wise, “Neo-Disney” films were lame ducks. However, this era of Disney output
consistently deviated from Walt’s “Classic” hyperreal aesthetics in exciting ways, aesthetics
competing animated 90s films took underwing (Don Bluth films in particular). These films
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remain “the most consistently experimental in the Studio’s history” as both a reaction to CGIs
(i.e. Pixar’s) encroaching dominance and in an effort to stay relevant culturally (Pallant
Demystifying 125).
What exactly separates this Disney fare from “Renaissance” and “Classic” staples? Storywise, they are more “self-reflexive” in terms of fourth-wall breaks and homages to film
characters/genres (Pallant Demystifying 120). Story structures and characterizations also
morphed from established designs, allowing the presence of morally questionable characters,
cartoonish animality, protracted action-scenes in place of musical numbers, and progressive
representations of female form/pregnancy (116, 121). Their musical numbers morphed from
sudden outbursts of song to more overlaid tracks and montage sequences (120-121). And new
genres such as sci-fi and western were explored, as well as totally deviant art styles, including
the angular faces in Atlantis, the Tex Avery-inspired cartoon physics of Emperor’s, and a more
pre-Disney hyperrealism roundness aesthetic in Lilo (114, 119, 121). Only two of these NeoDisney outings, Brother Bear and Treasure Planet, sought to replicate “the studio’s established
conventions of [hyper]realism” (Pallant 116), and both were financial underperformers. Disney’s
first forays into full-CGI animated film territory, Chicken Little (2005), The Wild (2006), and
Meet the Robinsons (2007) likewise were continuations of these experimental, self-aware
aesthetics. All three films proved lukewarm entries in the Disney canon.
Summary
This portion of my paper has sought to unfurl a greater contextual backdrop on the carry-over
ideals of Renaissance Italy—its clichés as well as its redefinition—as applied to WDAS. Walt
Disney’s “Classic” style of hyperrealism and his integration and acceptance of new technologies
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fits many clichéd molds of “Renaissance.” The slump of the 1980s captures the permeability of
adhering to such conditional definitions for too long, while the boon and “Renaissance” of 1990s
Disney animation gives renewed testament, and further innovation, to “Classic” ideals. By
comparison, “Neo-Disney” outings collectively display a decided break from either prepackaged “Renaissance” values or the values of the company itself.
The salient point is not that certain aspects of Disney history, development, or innovation
“match up” with preconceived ideas of “Renaissance.” By degrees many do, but this is not the
product of new critical understanding—rather, it is a generous, lazy elbowing of well-trod
definitions and categories. I refuse such finessed shoehorning. If anything, these arbitrary eras of
Disney lore are prime examples of my revised definition of “Renaissance”—a time of
transition—marked by success and innovation for the whole person (or company) and
complemented by failures of equal, if not greater, measure.
Transitions are neither all positive, nor all negative; neither all progressive, nor
conservatively, or slavishly, devoted to preceding values. Please hold this concept close, as the
next section performs the same definitional vivisection of Disney’s foremost modern rival, Pixar.
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Part 3:
“A Star is Born”: Pixar Paradigms (1995 – Present)
He's a hero who can please the crowd
A star is born!
Come on everybody shout out loud
A star is born!
Hercules, 1997
“He Was So Hot…Steam Looked Cool”
There is a fantastic montage set to fast-paced gospel music in Disney’s 1997 film Hercules. It
follows on the coattails of our demigod hero, after a trying adolescence and years of training, at
last proving himself a champion capable of defeating evil monsters in the eyes of a dubious
public. He seems to have fallen from the sky, can “do no wrong,” and comes to bask in the
accolades and fame his unparalleled skills afford him. Hercules believes his fame and winnings
are enough to grant him renewed audience with his parents on Mount Olympus, Zeus and Hera.
It is not until the film’s finale, however, that Hercules learns the true measure of a hero: it is “by
the strength of his heart,” not his deeds and fame alone, that make him a “true hero” (Hercules
1997).
Pixar Animation Studios has followed a similar trajectory. From its humble origins as an
underrepresented faction of Lucasfilm designing computer imaging software, the company has
since solidified itself as the preeminent animation house of the past 15 years. Not only did its
singular success appear to descend from the heavens unannounced, but it has internalized the
value of “heart” needed from the outset. Their technical innovations, storytelling prowess,
legendary success rate, and of course that certain Pixar “something,” has insured the animation
studio a permanent and beloved spot in the history of Western animation.
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Like the previous section did for WDAS, this section will uncover the history and
ideologies at work at Pixar. Our redefinition of “Renaissance” is woven throughout every facet
of the company’s sprit and culture, and thus is necessary to understand for the merger and
transition that has since come to pass between both companies.
Pixar: Where Story is King
Alex Woo, a story artist at Pixar, succinctly describes the company’s guiding motto, one that has
entered popular conceptions of the studio, for the past 20-plus years: “Story is king” (“Learn
why… 2013). What exactly does this mean, and is it as innovative a system as WDAS’s?
The first component of this creed reflects the Pixarian notion of protecting, reworking, and
sanctifying story. Writer/Director Brad Bird says at Pixar, “stories are protected, challenged,
nurtured…given all their vitamins and iron and goodnight’s sleep” (The Incredibles
commentary).
Pete Docter, director of Monster’s, Inc. and Up, talks about “camouflaging and
disguising emotional ‘set-ups’” in Pixar films, specifically things, items, details at the very
beginning, usually during the first ten minutes, that have the potential for great, circular,
rewarding impact later—this includes “talismans,” such as Carl’s blue balloon (Up commentary).
Pixar films also carry what director Lee Unkrich refers to as “Matchstick Moments”—
that instant when all hope seems lost and that, when the solution or turn becomes apparent, it
feels organic and inevitable. This staple of Pixar features spawned from the literal matchstick
moment of the first Toy Story film, where Woody reignites the match that lights Buzz
Lightyear’s rocket and jettisons them back to Andy (Toy Story 3 commentary). Lee Unkrich
references another Lasseterism tied to matchstick moments: at Pixar, “we sand the underside of
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the drawers” in terms of on-screen detail and story beats—even the most fleeting lines or design
choices must add layers and weight to the world(s) of their films (Toy Story 3 commentary).
Pixar’s culture is so defined by perfectionism, “Our films,” says Pete Docter, “are never
finished, they’re just released.” Sometimes animators will push for more time to perfect details
that the audience will never notice, but these changes and finesses will be addressed if their
omission or half-completed state will take the audience out of the story (D23).
Dailies—the presentation of the day’s work and shots—are used at Pixar. Unlike other
film studios (including Disney), where an elite group of top execs gives Commandment-style
notes to directors, Lasseter learned from his ILM days to include everyone, the entire animation
team, in on the viewing. Unfinished pieces are put side-by-side with more polished pieces. Since
there is no pressure for perfection during dailies, the whole crew can be informed by the director
and inspired and charged by each other’s work. There is no “wasted effort” during Pixar dailies
of rallying everyone together at separate times (Catmull 7).
On top of this, every three to four months during production, the whole movie crew
watches the film. This includes rendered scenes, finished scenes, and the interspersal of rough
storyboards with finished compositions. The movie is stitched together as it stands and
withstands the ire and critique of its creators every step of the way (Seton 95). This collaborative
aesthetic was embodied in the experiences John Lasseter had at California Institute of the Arts
(as well as the input of investor Steve Jobs) and later working at Lucasfilm, where collaborative
discourse and open discussions were the norm. Lasseter used to improvise his lines and jokes
while employed at Disneyland as a live performer, as well, all experiences that “informed his
subsequent animation practice” and which, because it is encouraged, informs every other
animator’s sensibilities
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Lasseter talks about the story crafting process in more detail: “Everything in the
beginning of a Pixar film is all set up for something later on…but none of it feels like a set-up,
it’s all just there,” which makes the final ten percent of the production a necessary time to make
those. Stanton bounces this notion further along, saying that sometimes you lack the intelligence
and vision at the start of a project to realize what the “punchline to your joke” is, and because
end sequences are generally the last to enter production at Pixar, these final revisions can
routinely be turned around to create a better vision (D23).
Furthermore, Pixar encourages 11th hour changes to productions; if the case can be made
for the story being stronger, what Pixar producer Darla Anderson calls the “poetry and symmetry
of storytelling” Pixar cultivates (Toy Story 3 commentary), usually the whole crew rallies
together and works overtime to make this happen. By example, Andrew Stanton knew the third
act of WALL-E needed to be altered considerably (originally it was EVE, not WALL-E, who was
crushed and needed saving). Stanton describes story development as an archeological dig, one
where, should you find a bone late in construction that throws the whole skeleton out of
proportion, will you have “the guts” and initiative to see that the thing is put together correctly?
Thankfully, Pixar puts story on a pedestal above all else, and the changes were implemented
(WALL-E commentary).
Bird gives insight into servicing the story, even if technology has to be rewritten late in
the game. On Ratatouille, the rats had been “articulated,” given specific muscle movement, to
only move on four legs, which took the animators over a year to complete. Brad fielded
complaints as to why he wanted them to be able to walk upright and on all fours: “This movie is
about a rat who wants to enter the human world….If we have this separation [bipedal vs
quadrupedial] as a visual device, we can see the character make his transformation…he can
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become more or less ratty, depending on his emotional state. This brings the audience into the
character’s mind” (“Innovation Lessons”4-5).
While the story-development process is full-bodied and painstakingly scheduled, Pixar
leaves plenty of room for free-form creation. Docter and other Pixar directors often just give
“beats” for animators and their scenes, a general idea of what an action is without belaboring
specificity. This is part of the discovery process, which when reworked enough times, gives the
feeling of “springing fully formed from somebody’s brain” (Up commentary). Lassester also
says in every Pixar film “There’s one thing in the story that we need to do that we don’t know
how to do when we start the project” (Inside Pixar). For instance, Sully’s hair in Monsters, Inc.
needed a whole system to be written for it, as well as the underwater effects in Finding Nemo
(Pallant, Demystifying, 103).
That tailored sense of “completeness,” formed from both zealotous, start-to-finish story
changes, coupled with spontaneous inspiration and problem solving, is the Pixar stamp of
approval. That intangible, core something people refer to as Pixar’s “secret ingredient” is
actually a process of transition, collaboration, and perpetual development.
Simplexity and Hyper-realism
John Lasseter, now Chief Creative Officer at WDAS, has a famously-quoted axiom: “Art
challenges technology, technology inspires the art” (Inside Pixar). At heart, this is true for what
constitutes “Pixarian” aesthetics and history. Director Pete Docter echoes Lasseter’s sentiments
and appreciation of design and technology limits, as they restrict what you can do one way, so
you must flex your mind and creativity another way (Up commentary).
What is the main differences behind Pixarian and WDAS aesthetics? Whereas Walt’s
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formalist aesthetics lied in hyperrealism, where artists tried their hardest to replicate reality
within the paradoxical dynamics of the medium (often involving the “cutening” of characters to
achieve as high a degree of verisimilitude as possible), CGI has the opposite problem: computers
can render life to such photorealism that it become distracting to the eye and thus less believable,
what 1970s Masahiro Mori called the “uncanny valley” phenomenon (Pallant Demystifying 131132).
Pixar, aware of this CGI conundrum, tend to dispense with true photorealism and instead
pursue more believable and “expressive representation[s]” in their characters and films;
essentially, through what Docter calls “Simplexity” in Up, is giving a credence and I-Buy-It
quality without being so distracting (Up commentary). Pixar and other CGI animation houses
must constantly “self-regulate” their style to not be so photorealistic. However, some effects,
such as water in Finding Nemo and hair systems in Brave and Monsters, Inc., try to get as close
to reality as possible (Pallant Demystifying 135-136).
John Lasseter gives a defining example of hyper-realism in action, talking about that Army
soldiers in Toy Story movies. Instead of giving the soldiers rubbery use of their legs to walk, they
were made to waddle on their molded plastic platforms. “I call myself the logic police,” says
Lasseter, “because everything in our films has got to be logical—for the world we’ve created. Not
realistic, but believable…In an animated film you can do whatever you want, but that doesn’t mean
you should do everything you want” (Woods 2009). Lassester knows a Pixar film succeeds if
audience members say, “‘I know it’s not real, but boy it sure feels real!’…that’s the goal of a
Pixar film. Feeling like you can reach up and touch something…that’s part of the entertainment”
(Seton 95).
Hyper-realism also relies on the creation of 3-D “sets” in the computer that are often
rendered and lit with near-photorealism. Live-action film qualities are given play in films to add
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to sense of realism within a caricatured world. Pallant uses the example of focus shifting and
zooms in WALL-E. While still doing physically impossible camera shots from time to time, and
concludes his analysis by saying that current Disney features tend to foreground most of their
creations, whereas Pixar continues to manipulate “eye-catching ‘camerawork’” as another
stylistic difference (Pallant Demystifying 139-141).
Get Into It
One of Pixar’s core animation techniques actually extends beyond the computer to solve
problems and tackle tough animation challenges: “embodied…life experiences” and
“phenomenological experiences” are a huge part of their animator’s repertoire. These “embodied
experiences, improvisations and collaborations are significant aspects of Pixar’s workplace
culture” and extensions of WDAS’s early animators’ naturalistic observation of animal behavior
(Seton 94).
Brad Bird is a big advocate of animators learning and implementing their own tics and
physicalities into the role. “Too many animators,” he says, “study only other animation” when
they should be personalizing their digital performances from their lives (The Incredibles
commentary). Pete Docter and Lee Uncrich give direct examples of upholding this value, both
saying that the child drawings found in their films were pieces their own children drew (Up
commentary, Toy Story 3 commentary).
Animators commit “bodily” to the story-crafting process, putting on storyboard
performances to help sculpt “audience feeling” because they are audiences to each other. When
animating, animators use mirrors to embody the character and emotions they are working on,
often filming themselves in isolation acting out the scene, which is both a vulnerable and
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“revealing” process of tapping into character (Seton 95-96).
The integration of animators’ lives and personal stories into their work is essential for
forging creative legacies in-house. Lasseter talks about meeting one of the original cel painters
on Snow White who is fiercely proud of the minor stamp she left on animation history. John
wants his employees to always do work that will make their family and friends cherish their
legacy and contribution to the medium “for the rest of their lives.” In addition, “the injection of
our lives…into the projects” defines Pixar, as John and other animators field questions from
everyone in the company and bounce demo reels off their children at home to gauge reactions
(D23).
Another side to embodiment, a darker side, does exist. During the final three months of
production on Toy Story 2, crew members succumbed to “repeated stress injuries”: to avoid this
ever happening again, Pixar hired a full-ergonomist and had physical therapists visit the office
several times a week. They value their animator’s bodily involvement, both for character and
workload, at Pixar (Seton 96).
One final facet of bodily commitment involves travel. According to Andrew Stanton
(WALL-E commentary), if you have directed a Pixar film before, the first year is really R&D
time—time for turning over the rocks of your ideas and seeing if there is life, time for an excess
of story meetings, and research trips. For instance, the crew behind Up toured several tippuis in
South America, while Brave’s masterminds visited Scottish highlands and ruins. On-site
experiential learning completes the bodily and personal life detail integration trifecta of Pixar’s
phenomenological culture.
Creative Culture
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“Everybody will protect [Pixar’s] culture with their lives” says John Lasseter (Inside Pixar). Brad
Bird echoes his spirited defense: “[Pixar is] a collection of brilliant people really trying their
absolute hardest…the hardest working group of people on the planet…they do not ever take
these films for granted” (The Incredibles commentary).
But what does Pixar culture actually entail? Aesthetics and story-crafting processes remain
only small parts of Pixar’s inner-workings. It is also an ever-changing emphasis on creativity that
fuels its leaders and animators. Ed Catmull, CEO of Pixar Animation, offers invaluable insight
into how the ability to “Foster Collective Creativity” is the main lifeblood of the studio. What
follows is a handful of Pixar’s most pertinent and dynamic creative customs.
1. Investing in People
Pixar also fosters lasting and emotional ties between animators and projects. For
example, Lee Unkrich rallied “the best of the best” from the first two Toy Story films to return to
their characters for the final installment. Darla Anderson, producer, says this gives the films the
same “design language” in both big and subtle ways (Toy Story 3 commentary).
Furthermore, Catmull believes collaborating with “smart people” is better than any single
“good idea,” and had seen in the studio an average team unable to pull off a great concept, yet an
amazing team transforming a mediocre idea into something treasured (Catmull 3). The only way
to make good films “is to create a healthy and vibrant community of filmmakers,” says Catmull.
This is antithetical to how most film companies operate. “Pixar has become the envy of
Hollywood,” reports Taylor “because it never went Hollywood” (2006). The general paradigm
runs as follows: actors, directors, and tech teams rally behind a script, hash out the fine print, do
their work, and “disband” to other projects. Pixar’s community is more akin to a circus troupe
touring together, perfecting acts and skills night after night, before ultimately hiking up the tent
Harriman 50
for good only to unfold it and begin again, together, on the next project. This flexibility comes at
a cost—loyalty—which Pixar flies in the face of. Pixar employees are “long-term collaborators”
who try to push each other with every project (Taylor 2006).
2. Risks and Uncertainty
Creativity also means taking risks. Brad Bird rallied the troops during production on The
Incredibles with criticisms that his project was too ambitious. “If there’s one studio that needs to
be doing stuff that is ‘too ambitious,’ it’s this one. You guys have had nothing but success…do
something that scares you, that’s at the edge of your capabilities where you might fail”
(“Innovation Lessons”5-6).
Risk and reward is a cornerstone dynamic of Pixar ideology. “Unlike most other studios, we
have never bought scripts or movie ideas from the outside,” continues Catmull. “All of our
stories, worlds, and characters were created internally by our community of artists…We must
constantly challenge all of our assumptions and search for the flaws that could destroy our
culture” (Catmull 2).
Catmull emphasizes that the “high concept” of stories, what it’s “about,” is only one of
thousands of decisions reached by creative risk and consensus. And as Pixar audiences have
grown accustomed to “see something new every time” Luxo Jr. hops across the screen, the
process “is downright scary.” Rather than prevent risky scenarios, execs at Pixar encourage
investing in risks: “If you want to be original, you have to accept the uncertainty, even when it’s
uncomfortable” (Catmull 3).
John Lasseter offers a metaphor of the scientific method to defend Pixar’s belief in the power
and payoff of risk. “In science, there is experimentation. Experimentation—nine times out of ten,
ninety-nine times out of a hundred—the experiment fails. But you do that, it’s part of the
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process” (Inside Pixar). Risk is an perennial and essential part of Pixar orthodoxy.
Risk also took the form of hiring outside the company’s original founders when looking to fill
leadership positions. Brad Bird says one radical thing different about Pixar as opposed to other
animation houses was that, even in 2000 when he joined, and after they’d had nothing but hits,
they were terrified about becoming complacent. Lasseter even told him they don’t want to “[feel]
like we have it all figured out. We want you to come and shake things up” and introduce “fresh
blood” (“Innovation Lessons” 2; Catmull 9). Constantly stirring the pot, in terms of the people
present and the radical ideas inside such people, is another Pixar axiom.
3. Quality
Quality carries a special meaning at Pixar; it call to mind their earliest efforts and their
collective decision to avoid spiritual compromising. During Toy Story 2, Pixar culture firmly
planted itself in the minds and hearts of its earliest masterminds. Disney wanted TS2 to be a nontheatrical DVD-only sequel, which was their way of keeping characters and franchises alive
while knowing going in the quality would be lesser. As co-financers and distributors of Pixar,
they asked Pixar to follow suit. “We realized early on, however that having two different
standards of quality in the same studio was bad for our souls,” says Catmull, “and Disney readily
agreed that the sequel should be a theatrical release” (Catmull 4).
As most senior heads (Lasseter, Uncrich, Stanton) were working on A Bug’s Life, a second
team took over TS2. The core story concept was retained, but the crew couldn’t understand how
to ratchet the drama of Woody’s decision to abandon his toy family and live in a Tokyo museum.
With only 8 months left before release, Jessie’s song scene was added and major story revisions
followed. This became “the defining moment for Pixar…If you give a good idea to a mediocre
team, they will screw it up; if you give a mediocre idea to a great team, they will either fix it or
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throw it away and come up with something that works” (Catmull 5). This also set precedent for
the studio of only making good films, not good and mediocre ones: “it became deeply ingrained
in our culture that everything we touch needs to be excellent” (Catmull 5).
At the same time, this perfectionistic mindset had its pitfalls—ratcheting up production time
and budgets, for instance. On this topic, Brad Bird helped reroute thinking significantly at Pixar.
There was always a creative solution on his film The Incredibles, “cheats” he used for shots in
solidifying camera movements early on so that the team could focus on making more sets. As he
taught the perfectionist Pixarians, “Not all shots are created equal. Certain shots need to be
perfect, others need to be very good, and there are some that only need to be good enough to not
break the spell” (“Innovation Lessons” 2-3). By treating certain shots as less important than
others, a bigger sense of scope could be achieved in the same amount of time.
Postmortems—analyzing with the group what went wrong after the production wraps and
how to eschew those pitfalls on the next outing—also ensures quality control. Most people dread
these, but Pixar upends the formula by keeping track of quantifiable creative/time data (its
neutrality prompts discussion and feels less didactic) and also ask people to list Top 5s of things
that were good/bad during production. Balancing the yin and yang of self-critique is key
(Catmull 9-10).
The Brain Trust
Pixar is a culture of peers, open communication, and permeable pecking orders. Nowhere is this
more evident than in what the company calls “The Brain Trust.”
The Brain Trust consists of eight in-house directors (Andrew Stanton, Brad Bird, Peter
Docter, Bob Peterson, Brenda Chapman, Lee Unkrich, Gary Rydstrom, and Brad Lewis). These
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leaders act as the senior in-house patriarchs of Pixar values, story creation, and teamwork. The
origin and first roll call of the brain trust happened during Toy Story, when “John, Andrew, Lee,
and Joe” developed close personal relationships and grew to totally trust one another’s input
without fear of probation or censure (Catmull 6).
How does The Brain Trust function today? Whenever film directors needs help, they are
able to secure a two-hour ego-free session with the Brain Trustees. It is up to the directors
themselves to implement or ignore their advice, to effectively decide what to do on their
production: “There are no mandatory notes, and the brain trust has no authority,” Catmull
explains, which truly makes the asking for advice and the giving of it devoid of secondary
pecking-order agendas. The insights and expertise of these eight leaders is always freely
available to short film and feature film creative leads.
An offshoot of this accessible pantheon of Pixar superstars is the company’s approach to
film cooperation. Pixar bets big on one or two creative leader’s visions, then assembles
“incubation teams” of artists, animators, rendereres, etc., who all develop and pitch ideas and
strategies good enough to convince John Lasseter and other Pixar sages that the movie will be
good (Catmull 5-6). In essence, where most other movie houses work the story via executives
and filtered down through development department decisions, Pixar’s is wholly given leeway to
have modular creative bubbles directed by a director/producer duo, while the executives hang in
the background to offer advice when things really run aground. Leaderships is given to creative
leaders with “unifying visions,” not subdivided among a bottom-line committee. The rest of a
film’s crew is hand-selected to work well together and field ideas and criticism among one
another without fear of recrimination (Catmull 6).
Catmull describes Pixar as “a director-and producer-led meritocracy,” and realizes that
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talent is not spread equally among all people. At Pixar, they adhere to several guiding principles
surrounding communication: 1. “Everyone must have the freedom to communicate with
anyone.” This means doing away with the ivory tower-ness of decision-making as separate from
the overall communication superstructure, that managers are better to not micromanage leads and
give them power to sort things out, and that progress happens when “proper” channels of
communication and idea-bouncing are subverted. And 2. “It must be safe for everyone to offer
ideas” (Catmull 8-9).
A more personal take on the Brain Trust design comes from Brain Trustee Pete Docter,
who talks about the democratic ownership of ideas at Pixar: Films and ideas never just pour
through the “pipeline.” According to him, “It doesn’t matter whose idea it is,” so long as the best
ones eventually germinate. By the same token, Brain Trustee Mark Andrews, director of Brave,
recalls sitting at a story meeting next to Steve Jobs, who raised concerns about the flying
velocipods in The Incredibles to which Andrews turned and said, “Those are mine, Steve!” Steve
immediately backed off. Feedback is fielded from everyone on a daily, hourly, basis, from top to
bottom of the chain. Open communication and freedom of expression is tantamount to Pixar’s
creative dynamism (D23).
Pixar University
One final noteworthy facet of Pixar culture is their in-house education, available free to all
employees. Pixar University is “a knock-off of old-school, Walt-era 1940s Disney,” whereby
anyone in the company has the opportunity to learn things outside their specialty as pertains to
film. (“Innovation Lessons” 6-7).
Randy S. Nelson is dean of Pixar University, their on-site “education and training
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operation,” which emphasizes investing in people over ideas, and creating loyal “lifelong
learners” that allow animation teams embroiled in 4-5 year commitments to films to learn thing
together, and thereby stick together when the pressure increases on their projects. “We offer the
equivalent of an undergraduate education in fine arts and filmmaking” Nelson says. From payroll
to kitchen staff, every single Pixar employee is encouraged to attend. and he reiterates the
importance of cross-integration of ideas and learning being beneficial to the entire company
(Taylor 2006). The Latin mottos of PU—Alienus Non Dietus (Alone No Longer) and Tempus
Pecunia Somnum (Time, Money, Sleep)—together encapsulate Pixar’s model of failing and
achieving together while keeping their energy and reputation intact (Taylor 2006).
“Ongoing experiences of learning, improvising, failing and trying alternatives” are built
into the working culture at Pixar, and thus extended through Pixar University. The importance of
cross-integration of both ideas and people is beneficial to the entire company as a whole (Taylor
2006). Nelson explains the idea behind the project beautifully: “Why are we teaching
filmmaking to accountants? Well, if you treat accountants like accountants, they’re going to act
like accountants…if you treat everyone in the studio as filmmakers…[it] helps everyone
understand each other and communicate better.” Ed Catmull advocates that the greatest benefit
of PU is the active interaction of people in the company who wouldn’t normally see each other
during daily production schedules, which creates great team dynamics and broader social circles
that lead to innovation (Seton 96).
By having people of all backgrounds and skill levels coalesce together under the PU
banner, failure and mistakes become less critical, less localized to any one department or person.
This makes soliciting advice and help easier and gives impetus for Pixarians to push themselves
and “grow constantly.” As Bob Peterson, co-director of Up, says, “every day…probably 90
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percent of everything I create, draw, or think of will be thrown away—by choice. That’s just as it
should be to make a fine film” (Seton 96).
Summary
Pixar is renowned for its amazing library of films, yet it is the processes and ideals their culture
cultivates that lead to their films’ resonance. Their storytelling systems, hyper-real aesthetics,
and bodily investment in animation are extensions and continuations, not exact reproductions, of
Walt Disney-era ideals. Furthermore, their purposeful championing of allowing unfettered
communication and learning opportunities showcases both sides of “Renaissance” thus explored
in this paper—the pat idea of a well-rounded person being educated in many disciplines being
the most obvious.
The core of Pixar’s superstructure, however, lies not in the forced categorical analogs of
its culture compared against Renaissance or WDAS cultures, nor in the advancement of its
precursor’s values rewritten to suit its time and needs. Like WDAS and the Italian Renaissance,
its innovations and success are more transitions than derivatives of the everlasting ideals of
Renaissance culture. It is precisely because Pixar and WDAS remain active, vibrant entities that
any Renaissance ideals they are pigeonholed with cannot be fixed in place. They continue to
change, evolve, innovate, and reincorporate a myriad of influences form their own cultures and
each other.
Until these companies founder into obscurity, or their individual cultures are inflicted
mortal blows, their “Renaissances” are incapable of reaching the clichéd critical stasis popular
thinking associates with the “Renaissance”; even then, such labeling would be presumptuous and
under-representative of their true values. My next section sheds light on a different side of
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Pixar’s culture—the stories it tells and perpetuates about itself. Their metanarrative exemplifies
the fluid reconstruction of history, and by extension the fallibility and transience of immovable
definitions of “Renaissance.”
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Part 4:
“Prince Ali”: The Power of Pixar Mythmaking
Prince Ali, mighty is he, Ali Ababwa!
Strong as ten regular men, definitely!
Aladdin, 1992
Elephant Rider
To win the heart of Princess Jasmine, Aladdin summons his Genie to make him a prince. With
ostentatious ado, Aladdin, aka Prince Ali Ababwa, parades into Agrabah with a retinue of
worshipers, wild animals, and riches. Aladdin sells himself as the grandest prince of all time, one
whose advances any princess would be crazy to ignore. As comes to pass, Aladdin’s over-the-top
lie catches up with him; the story he makes for himself crumpled under the weight of its own
design. There is a happy ending, of course, but not without lessons being learned along the way
(Aladdin 1992).
In recent years, Pixar has begun selling its own image to the nth degree. Numerous
books, films, and television specials all seek to highlight the legend of the little tech company
that broke new ground and usurped, by some estimations, the animation crown from WDAS. The
process of “Pixarification” is both generated in-house at the studio and recapitulated by its more
public figureheads, and then further transmitted culturally. In no small way, Pixar’s story of itself
is as potent an example as any other era selling itself too much, or being “told” in a particular
way so frequently, that the details are subsumed or forgotten underneath the popular narrative of
the entity itself. This section delves into the story behind the story of Pixar—what’s true, what’s
exaggerated, and if these distinctions influence the current and future image of the company.
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Pinpointing Pixar
John Lasseter says Pixar films have “all been successes—more than that, they’ve all really touched
people. Everybody wonders, how do you do it? Well, how do you not do it? You just work hard”
(Wood 2009). Wood describes how many of Lasseter’s kernels of advice sound like oversimplified
platitudes. The powers that be at Pixar have made a second career of touting their unique
approach to design, collaboration, and storytelling. These “Pixarisms” are an integral imageconstruction tool and a powerful cultural reinforcer both in-studio and in the minds and hearts of
critics and fans.
When asked what the “Pixar Element” is, John Lasseter has responded “Heart,” citing the
feeling he got as a child and adult from watching Pinocchio on Pleasure Island, Dumbo rocked to
sleep by his mom, and Bambi’s mother dying, citing these “classic” Disney moments as the
central fuel funneling through Pixar (D23). Andrew Stanton, director of Finding Nemo, uses the
term “wonder” to describe this same quality: “You can’t fake wonder; you either earn it or you
don’t,” saying that Pixarians are wonder junkies who constantly try to create moments that bring
them, and the audience, “back to when you first felt that [wonder]” (D23).
Nebulous, feel-good answers like these spark a palpable nostalgia for times in WDAS’s
past. However true these feelings may be to Lasseter and Stanton personally, there is more to
Pixar than an internalization (and deviation from) past Disney tropes and values. Pixar is a brand,
a label. Just as “Renaissance” and “Disney Renaissance” constitute labels and brands, they must
sell themselves into the warm embrace of popular imagination to stay alive, relevant, and to have
any hope of becoming standardized. How, then, does Pixar sell Pixar?
Packaging Pixar
Pixar’s brand history is a fascinating, serpentine topic all on its own. For the purposes of this
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paper, I will provide an overview of the transitions the Pixar name has undergone and how said
transitions have affected its public image and following.
Referencing the work of Douglas Holt on cultural branding, McCullough articulates that
a brand is in flux, relies on the authorship and telling of the brand’s meaning, history, and key
players, and how these stories, when repeated enough times, establish themselves as a singular, if
shifting, understanding. McCullough finds that even as Pixar’s “critical reputation has been
firmly established” and thus repeated throughout the culture, “most of the time these anomalous
discourses are subsumed by the broader studio narrative, which purports to guarantee quality and
innovation at every turn (McCullough 16, 18). McCullough’s research tracks the fluctuating
critical interest and reporting of what Pixar has meant across its entire history—from start-up
Lucasfilm ILM subdivision to the film studio it is now, and continues to be post-merger. As the
company evolved, its branding and self-presentation of its own story evolved with it.
One anecdote on the fallibility and fluidity of branding in Pixar creating its own identity
sees both John Lasseter and Ed Catmull pinpointing the moment Pixar shifted from a tech
company to a company devoted to making the first CGI film—when Luxo Jr. was created.
However, McCullough’s research fails to find this internal shift mentioned in critical writings of
the company at the time—the public’s image of the company at large was still as a tech firm, not
an animation innovator, regardless of whatever internal dialogue and self-identification took
place.
Even more interesting, “Pixar” itself was a fake Spanish word meaning “to make
pictures,” developed by a cadre of tech workers at Lucasfilm in the 80s. Semantically, they felt it
fit in with what Pixar was at the time—a digital imaging company, sounding more akin to “laser”
and “scanner.” However, McCullough writes “the value of hindsight” that Lasseter and Catmull
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display when storifying their company shifts the term Pixar to mean a “portmanteau of ‘pixel’
and ‘art’” (McCullough 40-42). Though a very semantic argument, the semantics of
“Renaissance” must necessarily be the product of clone branding/labeling processes.
McCullough proceeds to birddog the Pixar brand name through analysis of critical views
and reviews at different points in time of its development. As an upstart tech company, its
widespread tech was too adaptable to be conscripted to a central brand, and mainly gained steam
from its “branding by proxy” association with George Lucas and Steve Jobs (McCullough 5859). It coasted and gained critical traction as more than a widely-dispersed tech start-up on the
coattails of these branded individuals.
Funnily enough, Pixar’s branding story as an animation company began when it was an
unknown pet investment project of WDAS. One would be tempted to think that the novelty of
Toy Story being the first-ever CGI films would be enough to sell the thing itself. The novelty
helped, but thanks to the state of Disney’s animation division circa 1995, the median year for the
Disney Renaissance, Pixar’s name was downplayed and subsumed under the Disney brand. As a
result, it was only later that credit was “reapportioned” to Pixar and that its inner-members came
to reiterate the story that it was Pixar that made Toy Story, not “Toy Story that made Pixar”
(McCullough 93-94). Throughout the “Disney Renaissance,” the Pixar brand and story existed in
total synchrony with the marketing and regained clout of WDAS.
As early as 2003, however, the tide, as previously described, had shifted for Disney.
Critics praised Pixar as a “reliable” producer of entertainment incapable of striking a wrong note
or chord with audiences or critics. The problem with this stance is that there is very little
empirical data to redouble the often hyperbolic claims of what Pixar is, means, or is composed of
(McCullough, 9-10). McCulloch summarizes this consensus-sans-evidence well: “the extent to
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which audiences trust the Pixar brand, or as what values they see as being most integral to it—is
largely unknown, and therefore less significant than the fact that his rhetoric is repeated so often.
The more a particular narrative of success or failure is alluded to, the easier it becomes to share
in that belief; the prophecy is essentially self-fulfilling” (McCullough 11).
Toward the waning of the “Disney Renaissance,” Pixar and Disney “were discursively set
against each other” as entertainment providers, their qualities and merits dubbed critically
distinct (95). Pixar received more branding boons from the 1990s through Michael Eisner’s illfavored company mongerings. The negative press Eisner and the Disney name fielded at the end
of the “Disney Renaissance” for becoming “greedy” and losing “its creative edge” did little to
dampen Pixar’s closeness with the studio. The negative press served to solidify the “tangential”
dividing of the companies, their aesthetics, and their images (McCullough 109-110).
McCullough writes, “The coverage of the conflict and incongruities between the studios
ultimately encouraged the emergence of a series of discourses that had been building for some
time, and reinforced the Pixar brand in the eyes of the journalists” (McCullough 110).
Not without irony, McCullough points out another shift in their branding ascendency—
their own “branding by proxy” via their distribution deal with Disney further gave impetus for
more critical appraisals, comparisons, and brand assertions, becoming both a part of Disney and
decidedly different, even subjectively better, as time passed (McCullough 60).
McCullough further argues that the lion’s share of Pixar’s post-millennial rebranding was
the doing of John Lasseter’s rise to seat the public human logo for the company. His own
knowledge of animation and Disney admiration, distinct from the computer science roots of the
company, helped mold the company’s Disney-esque sensibilities palatable to a wider audience:
“Once [Lasseter] emerged as the figurehead for the studio, the company was set on a course to
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become known as the talented…cool, family-friendly studio” they remain today (59). And as
mentioned in previous sections, John’s deceptively simple soundbites in regards to Pixar
ideology, and his the selling of his own personal story of firing-from-to-now-running-Disney (“I
can go to Disney and become a director, or I can stay here and make history”) crisply rings in the
ears of devoted Pixar devotees (Woods 2009).
“Shall I Compare Thee…”
Pixar’s brand only further self-identified itself upon the release of other competing CGI
studios’ fare and the inevitable critical comparisons drawn between them. The “story” as told by
critics during the Neo-Disney timeframe was that Disney’s own quality was wavering and that
rival studios were getting stacked against the Pixar brand, exemplified by McCullough’s
breakdown of DreamWorks Animation’s How to Train Your Dragon as essentially a side-by-side
quality comparison of the two studios’ outputs; it is essentially the “othering” of Pixar that critics
began to rehash (McCullough 129).
“The fact that directors and writers are discussed far more frequently in reviews of Pixar
films than those made by other studios also seems relevant,” McCullough muses. Entering the
critical discussion were quality comparisons of either the auteur-quality of Pixar’s output, the
critical parsing of films intended for certain age groups (most CGI fare) versus those made for
everyone and appealing to the widest swath possible (Disney/Pixar) (McCullough 130-132).
Having a positive estimation of a company/brand and prediction of its ascendency, then, are
points of view formulated on quality comparisons after the brand has established itself.
Also notes general thoughts on sequels: “Sequels frequently struggle for critical praise,
both due to inevitably being judged against previous installments, and to the connotations of
unoriginality,” a pattern Pixar eschewed for most of its studio run (McCullough 131-132). In a
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way, Pixar, being the “storied” first company/studio to create a full-CGI film, something that
was universally beloved and extolled, loyalties are in its favor. It is the original, the progenitor of
the art form, and thus is put on a special critical and expectational pedestals. In essence, all CGI
outings apart from Pixar are sequels and derivatives of its original conceit and prototype; this,
however, does not guarantee Pixar’s lofty advantage as time passes.
Two things happen with successful institutions and new hires; either the new person is
ostracized and outcast (avoided at Pixar thanks to phenomenal culture), or the “awe-of-theinstitution syndrome,” which happens with Pixar. Catmull makes it a point to talk to new hires
directly about the problems and lessons Pixar has learned. “My intent is to persuade them that we
haven’t gotten it all figured out and that we want everyone to question why we’re doing
something that doesn’t seem to make sense to them. We do not want people to assume that
because we are successful, everything we do is right” (Catmull 10).
Believing a certain time to be uniformly free of missteps or blemishes only makes the
popular conception of that time more immutable and picturesque. Nostalgia is beyond reproach;
a process, however, the true goings-on beneath the labeling of a certain string of animated hits,
allows for criticism of past decisions and an inlet into the lines of influence that have become
twisted from the term’s overuse.
Anti-Pixarism
As we have seen, the branding and storifying of the Pixar name is predicated on inner and outer
influences, the conditional revising of the intermediary steps on its path to success, and the
personal intercession and life stories of certain key Pixar players. In tandem, these pieces create a
collage, however truth-stretched, of the studio Luxo Jr. built. But what if the company, its
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oeuvre, and its story are inherently unappealing to you? What if you are not a fan, however
casual, of Pixar? How is your estimation of the company and its history altered?
McCullough writes, “Pixar has come to represent something far more profound and
accomplished than any of its contemporaries” (McCullough 155). Yet it is precisely these gilded
sentiments McCullough seeks to research against. Specifically, he sought what it means to be a
non-fan of Pixar in the critical and commercial climate of extolling its virtues. In his words:
“What are the implications of criticizing a brand that everyone else appears to adore?...to what
extent has this criticism impacted upon Pixar’s reputation?” (McCullough 152).
Like all other brands and film studios, Pixar does have its detractors; not everyone is a
fan, though it is a given in American culture that slighting or piliaring Pixar is taboo. One such
critic is historian and animation expert Michael Barrier. While he does agree that CGI was the
logical future heir of hand-drawn animation, he believes the rate of stylistic growth in the last 16
years of CGI animated films is lacking when compared against the 10 years separating
“Steamboat Willie” and Snow White. “I think that's an extremely compressed [growth] that I
don’t think computer animation has nearly approached. What you have instead in computer
animation is a continuing elaboration on texture and surfaces…without anything comparable for
characters” (Zakarin 2011).
Barrier also contends that while animation has always been a large group product, the
flagrant artificiality of CGI has made this process more apparent. He expresses disfavor for the
palpable “disconnect” felt between an image birthed from a hand-drawn animator’s hand versus
the final flourishes an animator completes in CGI. His main complaint, of Pixar specifically,
concerns the alleged affective showboating of their films:
"I think they [Pixar] are emotionally manipulative [emphasis mine] in a
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fundamentally dishonest way. I don’t think the people making the films are
necessarily dishonest, but they don't seem attuned to what their stories are saying.
One example, in the opening montage of 'Up,' you're essentially being strong
armed into shedding tears about Carl and Ellie…to me, it was grotesquely
sentimental and a lot of people were looking for an excuse to break into
tears…most Pixar pictures…are very manipulative and completely unconvincing
to me. They are congratulating their audience for feeling these synthetic emotions
and, to me, that's offensive" (Zakarin 2011).
Barrier’s estimation of Pixar stems from fundamentally artistic and even esoteric
arguments on animation style. Other non-fans take on larger audiences less acquainted, perhaps,
with the vagaries and influences of animation.
Reviewer Armond White discovered the wrath an anti-Pixarian attitude can conjure in the
public sphere after the release of his much-loathed review of Toy Story 3 on
Rottentomatoes.com. Maligned by online film communities for his supposed “contrarian” and
“trolling” reviews, White was one of three critics to give Toy Story 3 a negative review on the
site. He wrote that the film’s product placement overturned any emotional or imaginative value,
and referred to the entire trilogy as kid’s fare, a “sap’s story” (McCullough 164).
More fascinating is the heated backlash Armond received on the comment section of his
review blurb. While most reviews land less than ten comments per review. Armond’s review
accrued 850, many personal invectives and threats for desecrating the perfect trilogy record of
the Toy Story films (McCullough 166-167).
It goes without saying that these professionals are entitled to their opinion, yet the
backlash they receive for expressing dissent toward Pixar speaks to the fervent loyalty and value
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moviegoers place in the company and its output.
Location, Location, Location
Detractors and extollers of Pixar’s story and films are a single cog in the larger branding
machine selling it to the world. Another is Pixar as an ideal, paradise workplace. McCullough
writes, “…Emeryville plays an integral role in the discursive construction of the Pixar brand, and
that writing about the studio space itself demonstrates the need to explain and locate the brand’s
core so that it may be replicated” (McCullough 136).
How integral is Pixar’s physical environment be to its cultural saturation? On most Pixar
DVDs, one or several special features are dedicated to showing “behind-the-scenes” glimpses
into the Pixar building, its offices and atrium, the Monster’s, Inc. DVD showing director Pete
Docter guiding viewers through Pixar on a scooter and interacting with a chimpanzee
(Monster’s, Inc.). So beloved is the output of the studio, people need to attribute its success to
other aspects, including the composition of the workplace itself which, admittedly, is unique.
McCullough brings this argument full-circle, stating that brands cannot exist without
products to support their story and allure. Citing many a reporter’s venturing into the Pixar
campus, “the features of the Pixar brand…cannot be grasped unless one can engage with
something more tangible,” i.e., the campus or the creative “Disney-funded” Cal-Arts college
where so many of the Pixar “Brain Trust” first congregated (McCullough 149). The “critical
consensus” encapsulating Pixar is thus largely dependent on the story of the studio lot, but,
McCullough argues, less dependent on the place’s special features and more symbolically as a
site “for the reification of the brand’s intangible qualities” (McCullough 150).
To begin with location, Brad Bird describes the actual layout space at Pixar as fostering
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creative agency—animators have carte blanche to decorate their office fronts however they
like—Hawaiian, sci-fi, old west—and the open floor plan, designed by Steve Jobs, gives impetus
for random encounters from everyone in the company. The cafeteria, mailroom, and only
bathrooms in the place are smack-dab in the atrium; interaction is essentially bottlenecked to
happen (“Innovation Lessons” 6).
The Streak
Another details, so to speak, in the overarching story of the Pixar is the reflexive need by its
admirers to see that its “winning streak” is untarnished.
He talks first about Cars and the negative reviews it first garnered. Later, however, many
detractors, casual and critical, rescinded or at least tempered their original pans of the film. Why?
The idea that Pixar’s “streak” of successes hitched with a critical dud of Cars but then regained
traction with Ratatouille and WALL-E followed it, leaving some critics who previously gave
lukewarm or only aesthetically pleasing reviews of Cars to emphasize Pixar’s “streak” as
something worth preserving (McCullough 154-156). As McCullough argues, the dip in quality
many felt Cars represented, and the studio’s subsequent return to form would “effectively be
erased from the studio’s historical narrative” (McCullough 155).
While many people called the streak as over, others still showed praise for the studio’s
overarching narrative, its story of success, and thus hope (and immediate retraction) of lukewarm
praise when three more fantastic films followed. McCullough summarizes and reinforces his
argument for critics’ collective reframing of Cars: “Pixar had often been the subject of effusive
critical praise in the past, but these three movies [Ratatouille, WALL-E, and Up] were seen to
exemplify everything that the brand stood for in the eyes of critics: cinema that was original,
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creative, daring, and ruled by the pursuit of artistry rather than marketing reports” (McCullough
182).
The same sequence of events followed suit with reviews of Cars 2, including slights
against its blatant commerciality. Before, this hadn’t been a problem for other Pixar offerings.
Why was this cause for an alarum of poor Pixar reviews? “[Pixar’s] brand has effectively made
creativity into a commodity, with the studio name having come to represent not just consistent
entertainment, but newness and uniqueness. Sequels, franchises and merchandising are, quite
simply, antithetical to Pixar’s reputation and historical narrative” (McCullough 185).
The distinction, at least among Pixar’s canon, seems to indicate that so long as a film is
artistically meritorious, it is fine for it to be commercially viable, too. The message is that Pixar’s
overall story of success “overpowering narrative of success” these negative reviews—their story
has too much traction now to slow it down. “Under the right conditions,” negative appraisals of
something so beloved can actually work in its favor and bolster its adherents’ resolve, even
zealotry, to its brand (156-157, 153).
Pixar can apparently do no wrong, the reason being its untouchable status as an unerring
producer of certifiable hits. Their misfires and lukewarm entries are therefore granted immunity
from a sinking of the brand, and its story, as a whole. McCullough concludes by saying, “Pixar
still seems to be in a position where its failures will constantly be discursively displaced onto
other brands or authors…further strengthening the reputation of the studio’s earlier work in the
manner of ‘Classic’ Disney films. It almost feels as though this story has already been written”
(192).
Summary
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The story of Pixar and its success is a story of effective branding. While the studio has many
virtues and thrives under a stirring, collaborative culture, it is impossible that it cannot misstep
along the way. Its branding choices and singular metanarratives has been so effective that even
its minor failures fade from the collective critical and public perspective of the studio’s infallible
inner-workings. The pleasing power of the Pixar story remains ever not just the result of a
quantifiable level of quality and animation ascendancy, but in decisive, intentional choices to
market its head-honchos, its physical campus, and its “winning streak” as inseparable from the
Pixar story in general.
“Reputations and brands thus need to be considered from the perspective of narratives,
with trajectories and key ‘plot elements’ which are constantly in a state of flux,” McCullough
writes (McCullough 186). The Renaissance, Disney, and now Pixar, as entities and points in
time, are equal parts ideological truth and metanarrative devices perpetuating fabled qualities of
their arbitrary eras. Understanding the storification and commodification of these terms is an
effective transition to our next topic—the transitional changes and power of the Disney/Pixar
merger.
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Part 5:
“You’ve Got a Friend in Me”: The Disney/Pixar Merger
And as the years go by
Our friendship will never die
You're gonna see it's our destiny
You've got a friend in me…
Toy Story, 1995
Andy’s Favorite Toy
Sheriff Woody is Andy’s favorite toy. This makes him the de facto leader of his owner Andy’s
collection of playthings. One fateful birthday, the ultra-cool Space Ranger toy Buzz Lightyear
“crash lands” in Andy’s bedroom and swiftly takes the bulk of the child’s affections. The
remainder of Toy Story’s (1995) plot witnesses these two mismatched characters become lost and
found, both literally and figuratively. After harrowing ordeals, they make peace with their
“place” in Andy’s world, peace with who and what they are, and most importantly work
together, despite their differences, to return to their owner to fill him, once again, with joy.
Though admittedly an easy comparison, Toy Story’s central dilemma eventually became
the creative and commercial dilemmas a waning post-Renaissance WDAS faced in the wake of
Pixar’s phenomenal success. The old standard became less enviable compared to the new kid on
the block, public-sentiment wise and financially. The culmination of their rivalry and continued
coexistence as “Disney/Pixar” was a time of tumultuous transition for both parties. It behooves
me to shed light on the merger and the reservations and changes it brought to the fore. Transition
is the crux of what “Renaissance,” at heart, expresses, and Disney’s acquisition of Pixar deserves
special attention to substantiate this claim.
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Mothers Know Best
The numbers were exciting or sobering, depending on your point of view. By 2004, 45% of
Disney’s income was the product of Pixar films and merchandise. Its own in-house brands could not
compete with the billfolds or brain folds of Pixar’s legion fans (Woods 2009). Even before this
statistic dropped, Pixar had developed into more than just a brand or offshoot of Disney (reasons
explained in the “Neo- and Digital Disney” section) and had ascended to become the dominant
creative/financial force behind the company. By 2006, a survey of American mothers found that
Pixar’s brand was held in higher regard, judged to be of higher quality, than anything originating
from an original Disney brand (Pallant Demystifying 128-130).
It appeared that the House of Mouse had been invaded by a beneficent breed of pest—
one that provided tremendous dividends for its parent company yet had usurped, in a decade’s
time, the inestimable King of Animation’s staying power. The truth runs deeper than this surface
assessment of the early millennium’s Disney/Pixar dynamics, however, and ends in the
immediate aftermath of the momentous merger of the two companies.
2006
From 2006 onward, Pixar has been the “heart” and “main driver” of contemporary Disney
Animation Studios (Inside Pixar). What led up to the merger of these animation giants? Were
whiskers pulled? Have the cost-benefits outweighed the risk of blending Disney and Pixar
culture?
To clip these question marks, a short history lesson is in order. Disney and Pixar first
contractually came together after Toy Story’s release. The terms stipulated a 3-movie deal,
although, as previously noted, the “Disney Renaissance” CAPS system was the brainchild of
nascent Pixar technology—the two had been covertly and technically inseparable since The Little
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Mermaid (Pallant Demystifying 128). In 1995, then Disney-head Michael Eisner, helming the
desk during the Disney Renaissance, was thought even by Roy E. Disney to have lost touch with
the company’s main motivation. He had actively had begun schilling out old characters with
direct-to-video sequel after sequel, prompting Roy Disney to declare him the mastermind behind
a “rapacious, soulless” organization looking for the bottom-line and quick dollar (Haley and
Sidky, 1-2). This ruinous mining of past treasures (does this sound familiar?) was too much for
the influential underlings at Disney to stomach.
Brad Bird reflects on Disney’s stance: “Walt Disney’s mantra was, ‘I don’t make movies
to make money—I make money to make movies’…It seems counterintuitive…for imaginationbased companies to succeed in the long run, making money can’t be the focus” (“Innovation
Lessons” 8). Eisner forsake the lessons and values of six decades of Disney animation. This was
all the more abhorrent and scandalous as the “Disney Renaissance” was in full-bloom.
Meanwhile, Pixar films had all proven critical and commercial golden children. By the
time Finding Nemo was released, Eisner, after attending a pre-screening, dubbed Pixar’s latest
effort lacking, “nothing special.” Roy was steamed that Eisner refused to retain “constructive
relationships” with its “creative partners, especially Pixar.” For the sake of my argument, let us
say Eisner refused the transition taking place (Haley and Sidky, 1-2). Michael remained of such
obstinate character that he actively refused to admit, in both financial terms and public opinion,
that Pixar had pulled ahead of Disney (Pallant Demystifying 128-130).
Bad blood was stirred. After botched contract renegotiations in 2004, Steve Jobs
publically denounced Eisner and drew up plans for Pixar to disengage all ties with Disney.
Concurrently, a decade of “Beloved Disney Characters For Hire” business strategies ran abreast
with Eisner; the drama of excising Eisner from the Disney board of directors flooded media
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outlets. Public and private support for Disney plummeted (130-132).
Pressure to oust Eisner paid in spades: he ducked out of the company by in 2005, a year
before he was obligated to (Haley and Sidky, 1-2). He was succeeded by Robert Iger, who, like
Roy, believed Disney Animation to be the most valuable aspect of company, and who proposed
not just renegotiations with Pixar, but a complete corporate merger. The stakes could not have
been higher: “If, at this juncture, Iger had allowed the Studio’s partnership with Pixar to come to
an end, not only would it have immediately weakened Disney’s animation production potential,
but it would also have been seen as the Studio passively acquiescing to Pixar’s ascent to the
summit of Western animation” (130).
In 2006, Disney bought Pixar for $7.6 billion, the equivalent of what Pixar had made
worldwide for Disney at that point in time. Bog Iger then asked Catmull, Lasseter, and other top
Pixarians “to help him revive Disney Animation Studios.” (Catmull 2-3). Pixar was “tasked”
with supercharging WDAS, then still struggling to carve an admirable stance for itself in the CGI
arena. Catmull, CEO of Pixar, gave a bold directive for the fruit he hoped the merger would bear:
“Disney has had two major heydays [1930s and 1990s]. We’re going to make a third” (Eller
2006).
The Cultural Tightrope
Many analysts predicted the merger would end “abysmally” as most do, the most-imagined
scenarios being “either Disney would trample Pixar’s esperit de corps…or that Pixar animators
would act like spoiled brats and rebuke their new owner” (Barnes 2008). “Most acquisitions,”
says The Pixar Touch author David A. Price, “are value-destroying as opposed to value
creating,” which the Disney/Pixar merger, as will be made clear, has eschewed (Barnes 2008).
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Over 70% of mergers fail, 85% of the reason attributable to unsuccessful cultural integration. “At
the very center of this lies the task of creating a culture of learning, based on shared values, where
continuous interaction with internal and external environmental changes take place and necessary
adaptations made” (Haley and Sidky 3).
How, then, are successful merger’s pulled off? Mergers are based on trust and
accountability: trust first has to be erected between the leaders for the merger to work (Haley and
Sidky, 1-2). Successful mergers further depend on keeping the creative heads of either party at their
posts during the transition to foster collective will and bridge cultural gaps between companies. This
learning extends beyond how to cope with the merger itself—ideally, the experience of the merger
leads to new projects getting tackled together. The ultimate goal of merging is to foster a
collaborative spirit. The hope and endgame is for each company will learn and value the other’s
assets and technology, learning together how to make them better (Haley and Sidky, 4-5).
Physical and symbolic proofs of the merger’s fruits are seen in the details. For instance,
the Pixar main gates have not Disney markings; Pixar employees were permitted to keep their
health benefits, their email addresses, and neither had to sign yearly contracts with Disney nor
spend an orientation day at Disney World. This merging was meant to maintain as much
autonomy of the Pixar culture as possible. To encourage autonomy and creative freedom further,
each studio retains full rights to the characters and stories they create (Fritz 2007; Barnes 2008).
Disney culture, however, was scheduled for a makeover. By all accounts, this is what the
Disney/Pixar merger accomplished in 2006. Bob Iger talked candidly to Pixar staff and Brain Trust
about his past merger experiences, good and bad, and rekindled a sense of trust that Eisner and
Jobs battled with three years prior. With renewed congeniality, this “merging of two cultures”
was and has remained unchanged from the initial takeover. Iger’s philosophy ran counter to
most mergers—that being to do so swiftly and to avoid giving the new talent a chance to spread
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their wings and expertise to other company divisions. Iger ensured the opposite approach was
skillfully managed. Lasseter credits much of the merger’s success to CEO Ed Catmull, who
throughout ministered an “anti-bureaucratic, artist-driven, bottom-up management style” (Eller
2006). It was the unorthodox nature of the “takeover” that has kept the Lamp and the Mouse
linked at the arm for eight years now.
Leaders and Legends
After the merger announcement, Catmull and Lasseter set to work immediately and laid several
precedents for the new-and-improved WDAS. They also mollified doubters. Just one day after
the merger went public (January 25, 2006), the duo flew to WDAS, where Ed said the following:
“We’re not here to turn Disney into a clone of Pixar. What we’re going to do is build a studio on
your talent and passion”: cue whooping and hollering from all gathered (Eller 2006).
Quotes from seasoned WDAS animators attest to the convivial spirit the Pixar team
ushered in. “It’s like somebody opened the windows and fresh air is coming into the room”—32year Disney vet Glen Keane. Chris Sanders, Lilo and Stitch director, alluded to a historical
moment: “It’s like the Berlin Wall being torn down” (Eller 2006).
They then immediately rehired project leaders from the “Renaissance” days, instrumental
in their day, who had just been laid off, including Ron Clements and John Musker (Hercules,
Aladdin, Little Mermaid co-directors), and Eric Goldberg (Pocahontas co-director). Lasseter
wanted to restart the whole division and divert it from its make-a-buck structure back to a
director-run enterprise, and managed to do so first by curtailing the direct-to-DVD sequel farm
(Fritz 2007). To summarize, “Teamwork, leadership, and integration are continuing to make the
Disney Pixar merger work” and creates a “sustainable” adoption of culture and preserving individual
identities (Haley and Sidky 7-8).
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A new WDAS building was commissioned. It has an open floor plan and a central
breakfast/coffee hub, reflecting Pixar’s Emory campus layout in uncanny ways (Wood 2009). This is
the physical embodiment of one of the intents of the Pixar/Disney merger was to reorganize how
“talented people do their best work.” Be constructing a new studio—much like the Pixar
campus—the physical feeling of doing great work can comingle with the laborious, longephemeral-before-visually-seen rewards of animation (Taylor 2006).
Two years after the merger, John Lasseter admitted, “We were very nervous coming in
[to WDAS],” admits John Lassester, “but to see the change is amazing. Disney has become a
filmmaker-led studio and not an executive-led studio. We are very proud of that” (Barnes 2008).
After the Pixie Dust Settled…
The merger was not devoid of backlash and confrontation, however.
In the months and years immediately after the merger, many among the WDAS staff
were critical of certain changes that immediately transpired. This “inferiority complex” is
understandable. Disney, 72-years-old, now had to take orders from its 20-year-old cousin (Fritz
2007). Acknowledging this unbalanced relationship led to a lot of “soul-searching” at the House
of Mouse and spurred initial hesitation with many new policies (Pallant, “Demystifying,” 128).
While initially animators described the merger as “euphoric,” after a 20% layoff of
animators in order to get the studio in-line to produce one film every 18 months, a Disney insider
says “Everybody recognizes the fact that they’re trying to change the culture down here for the
better, but it’s safe to say that the pixie dust that surrounded their arrival has pretty much
disappeared.” Though filmmakers again lead the charge, their firing and replacing isn’t
“sacrosanct,” and especially at first, these major story/team overhauls ruffled some feathers. Chris
Sanders, Lilo and Stitch’s director, left the studio while in the directing seat of Bolt over
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“irresolvable creative differences” between his and Lasseter’s direction, and went on to direct
How to Train Your Dragon for DreamWorks (Fritz 2007).
Layoffs and the purposeful changing of directors are simply realities of the film business;
Pixar did not invent these corporate customs and their implementing them should not be
misconstrued as some ego-maniacal power-trip of an act. Case in point: November 22, 2013.
Pixar lays off 67 out of 1,200 employees (5%) and The Good Dinosaur is delayed by 18 months,
to be released November 2015—the first time since 2005 Pixar hasn’t had a film out per year,
but not the first time directors have been replaced on Pixar projects (Kit and Kilday 2013).
These customs will most certainly be adhered to into the company’s future. But “So long
as Pixar avoids going Hollywood—and Disney learns to appreciate how Pixar works—the
company will continue to school the entertainment establishment” in terms of quality of work
and production/in-house culture (Taylor 2006).
Summary
The strategic blending of two cultures—Disney and Pixar—exemplifies the challenges and gains
to be had during a time of great cultural transition. Miraculously, most intents for the merger
were met or compromised into working order. As the true nature of any “Renaissance” is the
welcoming of transition, the Disney/Pixar event is exemplary of the term. Both companies had to
acknowledge each other’s strengths and weaknesses, past and present, and be open to forging a
new legacy, a new era, under a fusiform creed. The section that follows is my final section,
wherein the changes and developments of the merger eight years on are spelled out, and the
ultimate case is made for this post-merger period connoting a third “Disney Renaissance.”
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Part 6:
“Something There (That Wasn’t There Before)”: Disney’s Third Renaissance
New and a bit alarming
Who'd have ever thought that this could be?
True that he's no Prince Charming
But there's something in him that I simply didn't see…
Beauty and the Beast, 1991
How To Love A Beast
Belle, the bookish daughter of a French inventor, finds herself captive to a callous prince become
a horrific Beast. The nature of their arrangement at first makes for, understandably,
incompatibility. The Beast needs Belle to fall in love with him before his condition becomes
permanent, though his temper, moodiness, and terrifying countenance present considerable
roadblocks to such an outcome.
Over the course of a winter, however, Belle and Beast grow closer to one another. Belle
sees the tortured, sympathetic man beneath the Beast’s exterior. After the villagers attack the
duo’s castle, the Beast suffers a mortal sword wound. Upon confessing her love, however, Belle
witnesses the resuscitation and transformation of the Beast into the prince he used to be. They
live happily ever after, the Beast a changed into a better, more humble individual (Beauty and the
Beast 1991).
The story told throughout this paper has described not one, but many transformations for
Disney, Pixar, Disney/Pixar, and the definition of “Renaissance” binding their high and low
points together. It would be impossible after the transformations, good and ill, these companies
have instigated and endured, for either to walk away unchanged. Finally back to contemporary
Disney, what are the lasting changes in aesthetics, values, and leadership undergirding WDAS
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eight years after the merger that infused its culture with Pixar’s culture? This final section
designates these changes. Collectively, their winning pastiche represents the culture now at the
heart of the third “Disney Renaissance.”
Meta-attitude
The WDAS canon post-merger includes the following films: Bolt (2007), The Princess and the
Frog (2009), Tangled (2011), Winnie the Pooh (2011), Wreck-It Ralph (2012), and most recently
Frozen (2013). What generalizations of style, of “attitude,” can be applied to these films and give
them a collective unifying “spirit?” To buy into the cliché, knowing that the true essence tying
these films together is nuanced and in constant flux, what overriding descriptors are appropriate
to describe this new “Renaissance?”
The first noticeable aesthetic similarity, especially with The Princess and the Frog and
Winnie the Pooh, is a harkening back to the old Golden Age formalist aesthetics of Walt. These
2-D films “signal[ling] a return to the ethos of its Renaissance period” and emphasizing a sense
of “renewal” while taking on the task of presenting the audience with hyperreal (not hyper-real)
design language (Pallant Demystifying 143). This assertion is vague at best, however. It is more
“ideologically-loaded” on the part of critics who, by the virtue of a return to 2-D alone,
ostensibly and automatically christen The Princess and the Frog as a full-on return to classic
form. A diffuse consensus among critics also claims the return of the Princess tropes, though
slightly different than either “Classic Disney” or “Disney Renaissance” princess tales, is
welcome but distinct in its own right (Pallant, “Disney Formalism,” 342).
If Tiana, the hero of The Princess and the Frog, is a “new breed” of Disney princess and
cannot be pigeonholed into the character molds of previous Disney princesses, stylistic
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comparisons are not sufficient to describe what separates her from the pack. The missing
ingredient lies in the greater attitude of these “Digital Disney” films. Pallant states that Disney’s
recent outings “demonstrate that contemporary Disney animation is far more than just a
continuation of some (over determined) ‘Classic Disney’ tradition; instead, it constitutes a
progressive combination of Disney-Formalist artistic ambition with the knowing playfulness of
recent Disney storytelling” (Pallant Disney Formalism 351). This era of WDAS offerings, while
certainly beginning with overt callbacks to earlier Disney aesthetics, nonetheless started out the
gate with a storytelling sensibility all its own. It cannot be called as experimental in design or
narrative approach as the “Neo-Disney” films described earlier, nor is it a superimposition of
Pixar sensibilities (Pallant Demystifying 141-142).
The current cinematic climate of post-merger Disney films is more self-reflexive and
self-aware than past entries. Each new film seems acutely aware and reverential of the “legacy”
it, in many regards, is expected to live up to and deepen. The way they have “deepened” Disney
philosophy is by playfully giving winks and nods to tried-and-true tropes. The princesses are a
terrific case study of this new philosophy. Princess Tiana, Rapunzel, Vanelope von Schweeetz,
and the royal sisters in Frozen seem “fresh.” In their films, they as characters acknowledge the
flightiness of their positions, forego a strict decorum, and yet uphold and earn their positions as
princesses. Their meta-attitude is part and parcel to the prevailing stylistic and storytelling
playfulness of these third “Disney Renaissance” experiences.
Brain Trust Shuffle
The news WDAS has also adopted a Pixar-derived “Brain Trust” of its own. When Lasseter and
Catmull came in in 2007, “there were layers of executives—the development executive would come
up with the idea for the film, a lot of it based on marketing and toys and all that stuff, then they
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would assign a director to each film” when the smarter avenue is to allow individual filmmakers to
“really own the movie” (Wood 2009).
To facilitate this changing of the guard, Catmull put Don Hahn, a veteran WDAS animator,
in charge of the “creative development team” overseeing the 700 plus animators in-house at
Disney. Like Pixar, directors now have total control over their projects—from assigning jobs to
budgeting. None receive mandatory three-tiered notes from executives, and no longer do they
work or live in fear of corporate micromanagement trumping creativity. Their film cannot be
pinched out from under them for any reason other than the bottom line, and shuffling of
directors or team members is left to the team leader’s discretion (Eller 2006). To quote Hahn and
the new spirit at Disney: “It’s a team sport that I haven’t seen in a long, long time. This is a
cultural change” (Eller 2006).
How does WDAS’s “Story Trust” operate? Every four months, the whole team watches the
“story reel.” If something here doesn’t work, Lasseter will not let it get inked (or pixelled) (Wood
2009). Lasseter likens Pixar, and now WDAS, to a place of wild experimentation, but unlike the
typical Hollywood format of no padding under your failures, both companies are now assured to
have “a net…down comforters and airbags” for ideas, no matter how out there, to land on. Each
studio embraces that the guiding theme of experimentation is failure, something he says he and
others have changed at Disney at fundamental levels (Wood 2009).
As covered previously, projects at Pixar are “workshopped” through the “Brain Trust,”
and if they don’t make the cut at a certain point, directors are shuffled around: For instance,
Brenda Chapman was replaced by Mark Andrews and Brave just as with The Good Dinosaur
Bob Peterson “couldn’t crack the third act” and has been replaced, but remains at the studio (Kit
an Kilday 2013). During the merger, and continuing today, WDAS projects continue to be
funneled through Pixar eyes, ears, and sensibilities, if at a comfortable distance. It also seems to
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be grooming previous directors like Pixar: Bryon Howard of Tangled set to direct Zootopia
(2016) and Winnie the Pooh director Don Hall directing Big Hero 6 this November (Kit and
Kilday 2013).
How does Pixar step-in on WDAS projects and visionaries without overstepping the
cultures the merger worked so hard to preserve? Sometimes, notes on projects pass between
trustees at both studios, but no criticism or feedback is ever a mandatory outing (Eller 2006). But
the more complete answer lies in making their most seasoned “Brain Trustees” available, just as
at Pixar, for emergency story operation.
For instance, Steve Anderson, director of Meet the Robinsons, was having story trouble,
fortuitously at the time the merger was well underway. A team of Pixar elites flew down,
watched a screening, had a 6-hour “punch up” session, and made influential suggestions,
including making the Bowler Hat Guy, the film’s antagonist, more menacing. The director was
floored and said it was very helpful (Eller 2006). Even though Pixar’s intercession delayed the
film’s release by three months, Anderson has nothing but fond memories of the process. “At the
time it felt like one of the hardest days of my entire life. But what’s amazing is that at the end,
they put the control back in my hands and said it was up to me to figure out what I wanted to
implement and how. John and Ed immediately stressed that the people responsible for the movie,
whether it succeeds or fails, are the filmmakers” (Fritz 2007). The film Bolt, the first post-merger
WDAS release, was also seriously reworked and guided by Lasseter and other Pixar honchos—
the director was replaced, and Rhino, a hamster, was added to the story (Barnes 2008).
Another telling difference between the Pixar “Brain Trust” and WDAS’s “Story Trust”
lies in outsider ascension: Instead of people working their way up the chain (animator, shorts
director, co-director, director) ala Pixar, WDAS seems “more open to fresh talent.” For example,
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Jennifer Lee was “an outsider” who came to work on Wreck-It Ralph, shifted to Frozen, her
input changed the direction of the film entirely, and she was bumped to co-director in no time
flat. One source says that kind of jump would “never happen at Pixar” (Kit and Kilday 2013).
In all, Pixar has once more returned the scepter of creative power and commercial failure or
success to its rightful owners—the directors of WDAS films. At the same time, the “Story Trust” at
WDAS is still mediated in large part by Pixar John Lasseter. He has greenlighting power on all
movie projects, Iger gives ultimate approval, and these two—along with Jobs when he was alive—
compose the “steering committee” that oversees the film projects at both studios. The meet at Pixar
headquarters “for a full day every other month” to check for updates on all projects (Haley and Sidky
7). This code of alteration and compromise for directors and storywriters at WDAS persists today.
Even better, there is proof that this “Brain Trust” model works so well and is so valuable,
other animation studios have adopted versions of it for themselves. Warner Brothers Animation has
gone public with their group of gurus who “routinely look at in-progress projects, break them
down, pick them apart and build them back up again, all to create the best movie possible”
Calling it a “creative consortium,” it includes writers/directors of many successful movies (The
Muppets, The Lego Movie), to serve the same shepherding and “sounding board” imperative as
Pixar (Jugernauth 2014). Brain trust, creative consortium, or story trust—different labels for the
same round table of highly-trusted animation demigods.
Tug-of-War
WDAS has a new attitude and a revamped story-creation system—these are, and will continue
to develop, into creative time stamps for this era of WDAS filmmakers and the characters they
leave behind. While these qualities are only getting stronger and are helping to define what is
special about this third “Disney Renaissance,” the studio is also engaged in an ongoing
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gymnastic act between their individual desires and needs to define themselves apart from Pixar,
and the obligations Pixar luminaries owe to both companies.
Catmull concludes by saying “It has been extremely gratifying to see the principles and
approaches we developed at Pixar transform [the Disney Animation] studio,” but the “ultimate
test” is to see if after the original brain trust fades that both houses are still making films that
“touch world culture in a positive way” (Catmull 10).
Again, many Pixar heads resisted sequels and direct-to-DVD offshoots as being lesser in
quality (and produced as such). Of course, Pixar has made sequels—Toy Story 2, Toy Story 3,
Cars 2, and Monsters University), but Lasseter has embraced some of this reproducible idea.
“We are definitely planning on doing more sequels, just as we are more originals…But each
movie has to be absolutely great or you will snuff out a franchise” (Barnes 2008). We collect
Pixar and Disney films categorically and nostalgically, and now can own many different editions
and re-releases of these films, much like we do and have done with WDAS’s fare. How long can
this paradigm hold? Catmull and Lasseter have put an end to the direct-to-DVD sequel-whoring
practice of the Eisner age, instead opting for 3D re-releases and “spinoffs” of characters, such as
Tinkerbelle (Fritz 2007). This increases revenue, but how long can this paradigm hold before
fiercer criticism ensures?
On another note, Lasseter is as “hands-on” at Walt Disney Animation Studios (WDAS)
as he is at Pixar; apparently “He gives extensive notes, pores over story reels and even does the
first reading with actors and directors.” Despite his interactivity, time has become an issue. Both
Pixar and WDAS staff complain that they don’t (and can’t) see enough of him—perhaps he is
stretching himself too thin. As Lasseter bullets between studios, oversees Disney Imagineering,
and placates investors, one Pixar insider has said lining up a meeting with him, something that
used to be of little stress, has become tougher than “lining up a chat with the pope” (Barnes
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2008).
Other commentators and animators have raised concern of Disney’s new acquisition
streak, having acquired rights to outside developmental houses Pixar, Marvel, and now Star
Wars. The worry is that internally created projects will continue taking a back seat to pushing the
content creators of these satellite acquisitions to produce most of Disney’s content. Unlike the
Pixar merger, the subsuming of Marvel will require Disney to do most of the creative mining to
make this payoff. This adds more stress to the thinning of creative input already at play at the
studio. (Pallant Demystifying 141-142).
Bearing all this in mind, animators who returned with renewed hope for the 2-D/3-D
upswing post-merger have come to feel slighted and dissatisfied with the current crop of Disney
animated films. Many factors have compounded to see that this storied return to a halcyon glory
has stymied: lower-than-expected returns on The Princess and the Frog and Tangled, recent
layoffs of the 2-D division in spring 2013, the cancellation of a limbo Henry Selick stop-motion
feature, and the dissolution of the home video direct-to-DVD sequel market put a damper on
animation enthusiasm in-house. Many fear that these problems are endemic to Disney’s
unpromised return to style being “viable” in the future. Only time will tell if 2-D makes another
comeback at WDAS (Kit and Kilday 2013).
Many critics have printed increasing disappointment considering Pixar’s latest output,
citing their sequel-bent as lazy and their unrealized, waning creativity. Buy contrast, Rich
Moore, director of Wreck-It Ralph, sees a new wave gracing WDAS. “I think the studio has
gone through something of a Renaissance” (Kit and Kilday 2013), a new streak which was set in
motion by financial and critical success of 2010’s Tangled. Despite Disney’s post-merger films
having generated significant numbers at the box office, its outside-produced projects have far
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exceeded their internal efforts since the merger. Bancroft (2011) goes so far to say that Disney
has lost its overall stylistic tells: “There were only a few scenes [in The Princess and the Frog]
you can look at and say, ‘That’s classic Disney in a good way.’ There was a lot of classic Disney
in a bad way…I wish that Princess and the Frog had had a bolder look and tried to show the
world that this isn’t something you have at home on video or DVD…I wish it was a little more
daring.”
Paperman and Beyond
Still, one animator’s opinion does not spell the stylistic doom of a company, even if its
prospects for reinvigorating its internally produced features has fallen short of the high promises
of Lasseter and Catmull. Innovation and “daring” still exists at the new WDAS. John Lasseter
on coming aboard pushed for a shorts program; like at Pixar, this gives “creatively pigeonholed”
artists a low-risk chance to make shorts to play before features, with a cost of $2 million or less.
The fruits of this program have already budded. The Academy Award-winning short
Paperman (2011) shows how CGI layering can replicate the more celebrated Disney hand-drawn
style in the computer, proving that even with a small team, innovations and stylistic mutations
can take root. Walt’s company during its “Golden Years” in the 30s and 40s relied heavily on
outside companies to produce and distribute its films, Dumbo included, and the fostering of
technical and artistic leaps remain the gold standard among Disney veterans and neophytes.
The Pixar short Night and Day (which follows two 2-D characters whose inner feelings
are superimposed inside them as CGI) is further proof that, despite the merger, the massive shift
in aesthetic and time, both Pixar and WDAS have what it takes to continue innovating in the
field of animation. Ground can still be broken, and in all probability will (Pallant Demystifying
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146).
Summary
WDAS has not become the “Pixar clone” Catmull promised it would never be. It is forging its
own artistic and technical stamp on its string of recent films. Though major ideologies and
storytelling structures endemic to Pixar have made cursory appearances and offered input on
WDAS projects, directors at Disney once again have creative agency. They have embraced the
shaky start and creative harkening all transition phases spawn from—enough to officially decree
their stellar output as indicative of a new “Disney Renaissance.”
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Conclusion:
“Almost There”
I remember Daddy told me, “Fairytales can come true
You gotta make ‘em happen, it all depends on you.”
So I work real hard each and every day
Now things for sure are going my way!
The Princess and the Frog, 2009
Learning to Hop
Things don’t change unless we make them so; times are not defined in and of themselves. Tiana
learns as much in 2009’s The Princess and the Frog, having become a frog herself thanks to a
magical misunderstanding. This puts a damper on her dream—saving enough money to open her
own restaurant and make her father proud, which she works two jobs to fund. Hogtied by voodoo
to Prince Naveen, a bachelor prince turned amphibious, the duo go on a musical journey
through the bayous bordering New Orleans on the hunt for Mama Odie, a reclusive (but
beneficent) voodoo lady.
They believe they need to become human again to make their dreams come true and
return their lives to normal. All they really need is love and belief in themselves and each other.
They eventually willingly resign themselves to live as frogs. They have learned to hop to a new
way of life, because looks are not important. They have the drive, love, and magic they need
inside themselves to transform their situation into a way of life they can both accept. What
makes it bearable, even beautiful, is that they are ready to live—and hop—together.
Disney’s Future Legacy
I hope throughout this paper to have given an animated (pun definitely intended) discussion
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about the histories, values, cultures, and now intermingling magic at work between Pixar
Animation Studios and Walt Disney Animation Studios. I hope also to have effectively redefined
what “Renaissance” means—a time of transition—and thus distance the solidifying,
overprotective reactions the term brings to a period of tremendous influence, derivation, and
innovation. Renaissances are fluid constructions, made of unequal parts reverence, preservation,
or copying of past ideals, as well as creating new ways and methods of doing things based, at
least in part, on the cultures that beget them.
While “Renaissance” is a term of convenience, it also holds a special, nostalgic bent
when discussing Disney and Pixar films. Why do I feel (and hope to have proven) that the
contemporary crop of WDAS films are “Renaissance”-worthy? Because the term itself describes
a fluid, ever-changing point of view. Rather than consider Renaissances, historically or in the
context of animation history, it is wise not to award them the popular misconception that they are
static periods of unceasing development and breakings-off from past innovation. Change and the
power of investing in the uncertain influences transition periods allows—this fits WDAS’s suite
of films with greater snugness than the clichéd definition of “Renaissance” described at the
beginning of this paper. It is a learning process, learning from itself, the past; it is a process of
“Almost There,” never just “There,” marked by sacrifice, compromise, and idealistic thinking.
Frozen is but the newest member of the transitory Renaissance evolving at WDAS right
now. Fans and critics do not need to fret over whether or not Pixar is losing its touch, whether or
not Disney will ever reclaim some halcyon ideal of yore. This kind of Renaissance is a fallacy,
and there is not better medium contradicting this take than animation.
WDAS is in the midst of its third “Renaissance” period, period. It is changing, growing,
influencing, transforming, becoming new versions of itself. This is all “Renaissance” requires.
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Acknowledgements
Thank you to Gordon Cheesewright, Steven Meyer, Delilah Orr, Larry and Ellen
Hartsfield, Shaun Fullmer, and Nancy Cardona for making my undergraduate English education
such a pleasure and such a success.
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Annotated Bibliography
“A Conversation with the Pixar Creative Team – D23 Expo 2011.” DAPs Magic. YouTube. 23
August 2011. Web. 11 February 2014.
A very candid video featuring most of the “Pixar Brain Trust.” Very useful for culling quotes
and gleaning anecdotal insight into the story-making process at the studio.
Aladdin. Dir. John Musker and Ron Clements. Walt Disney Pictures, 1992. Film.
Needed for epigraph.
Barnes, Brooks. “Disney and Pixar: The Power of the Prenup.” The New York Times. 01 June
2008. Web. 25 February 2014.
This article is the most in-depth I found covering the Pixar/Disney merger. It also treads into the
tempestuous territory of the studios’ borderline falling-out with one another.
Beauty and the Beast. Dir. Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise. Walt Disney Pictures, 1991. Film.
Needed for epigraph.
Bibbiani, William. “Review: Frozen.” CraveOnline. 17 November 2013. Web. 24 March 2014.
One of two articles referring to Frozen as Disney’s best since The Lion King. Needed for context.
Black, Robert. "Italian Renaissance Education: Changing Perspectives and Continuing
Controversies." Journal of the History of Ideas 52.2 (1991): 315-34. Web. 22 February
2014.
After struggling to find a more recent source discussing educational practices during the
Renaissance, this one proved helpful. Most of the piece is a critique on the historicity of the
topic, i.e. which specific historians have reinforced/amended certain pedagogical theories of the
time. However, I selectively pulled quotes pertaining to the humanistic vs. scholastic influences
of the time to aid in my discussion of Pixar University.
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Catmull, Ed. “How Pixar Fosters Collective Creativity.” Harvard Business Review, September
2008. Web. 17 Februray 2014.
An invaluable resource. Insider information from Pixar’s founder about the creative culture
undergirding the company. Catmull provides detailed examples of every step of the story-making
process as well as discusses Pixar University and standards of quality/leadership.
CBS/AP. “Oscars 2014: ’12 Years a Slave’ wins best picture.” CBS News. 03 March 2014. Web.
03 March 2014.
Needed solely to give credence and hope for Disney Animation Studio’s upward commercial and
creative trajectory.
Close, A. J. "Commonplace Theories of Art and Nature in Classical Antiquity and in the
Renaissance." Journal of the History of Ideas 30.4 (1969): 467-86. Web. 17 February
2014.
Fantastic summary of broad “commonplaces” of Renaissance thought concerning art and nature
in literature. Close explicitly sidesteps the more semantic and historicity pitfalls of my other
Renaissance sources. The focus is purely the amalgamation of what art and nature meant during
the timeframe, and how definitions from antiquity carried over. Also reinforces idea of the
Renaissance not so much a rebirth, but evolution of previous thinking.
Eller, Claudia. “Disney’s Low-Key Superhero.” LA Times. 12 June 2006. Web. 11 February
2014.
This piece most useful in understanding Catmull’s influence and role at Pixar. Also sheds light
(and great quotes) about the merger and how he is privately distinguishable from Lasseter’s
public persona.
Fallon, Kevin. “‘Frozen’ Is The Best Disney Film Since ‘The Lion King.’” The Daily Beast. 25
Harriman 94
November 2013. Web. 24 March 2014.
One of two articles referring to Frozen as Disney’s best since The Lion King. Needed for context.
Findlen, Paula. "Possessing the Past: The Material World of the Italian Renaissance." The
American Historical Review 103.1 (1998): 83-114. Web.
A perspective on Renaissance thought I found pertinent to the “ownership” of Pixar and Disney
as brands and nostalgia. Discusses collectors, patronage, and the dynamics of exhuming the past
while preserving the present accomplishments of Renaissance “masters.” Further extrapolates the
idea of “canon” as a matter of access and taste.
Flaubert, Gustave. Sentimental Education: The Story of a Young Man. Brentano’s: New York.
1922. Print
Simply needed to cite his quote on taste.
Fritz, Ben. “Disney animation gets Pixar-ization.” Variety. 24 February 2007. Web. 18 February
2014.
Brief article detailing the expected changes speculated in Walt Disney Animation during the time
of the merger. Valuable for quotes and numerical evidence of Pixar’s filmic ascendancy, and for
comparing the “results” of the merger to early hopes.
Haley, James M. and Mohammed H. Sidky. “How Ethical Leadership Made Disney Pixar Into a
Sustainable Learning Organization.” 2007. Web. 26 February 2014. Retrieved from
http://wbiconpro.com/435-James.pdf
More business-technical than anything else, this piece nonetheless provides business-based
evidence for why and how the Pixar/Disney merger is working by outlining how mergers
typically fail. The authors also deconstruct the Pixar “Brain Trust” nicely.
Hercules. Dir. Ron Clements and Ron Musker. Walt Disney Pictures, 1997. Film.
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Needed for epigraph.
“Inside Pixar: We’re About Telling Stories.” Bloomberg. Bloomberg TV. 4 February 2014. Web.
14 February 2014.
Half-hour special focused on explaining Pixar’s history; light, but concise. It highlights the
images and philosophy of John Lasseter via a lengthy interview, and provides valuable numerical
“success” figures that add to my critical/financial argument.
Kit, Borys. “Warner Bros. Creates Animation Film Think Tank.” The Hollywood Reporter. 07
January 2013. Web. 02 March 2014.
I’ve included this article as evidence that Pixar’s brand of “Brain Trust” movie-making is
diffusing throughout Hollywood. Gives a backbone to my “future of animation” section.
Kit, Borys and Gregg Kilday. “Pixar vs. Disney Animation: John Lasseter’s Tricky Tug-ofWar.” The Hollywood Reporter. 04 December 2013. Web. 02 March 2014.
Hugely valuable article. One of the few articles I’ve found that currently discusses the state and
culture of Walt Disney Animation Studios post-merger. Insider quotes about both the boon and
liability John Lasseter’s split-brain running of either company costs its employees. Couldn’t have
written this paper without it.
Kristeller, Paul Oskar, and John Herman Randall Jr. "The Study of the Philosophies of the
Renaissance." Journal of the History of Ideas 2.4 (1941): 449-96. Web. 10 February
2014.
Overview of the origins and proliferation of humanistic thinking during the Renaissance. Again
spends too much time focusing on the historicity of the actual prevalence of these schools of
thoughts as definitive of the age, but needed to explain that Renaissances are always fluid things.
Laven, Peter. Renaissance Italy, 1464-1534. G.P. Putnam’s Sons: New York. 1966. Print.
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A necessary source for several reasons. First, the book details, via examples of medicine and art,
Renaissance thinkers’ preoccupation with Neo-Platonic ideals or authentic and “real” creation.
Second, embedded in these discussions are parallel examples I use when describing Walt’s
“hyperreal” aesthetic.
“Learn why ‘Story is King’ from Pixar’s Alex Woo at Autodesk CAVE.” SketchBookPro.
YouTube. 1 October 2013. Web. 28 March 2014.
Needed a source to reference Pixar’s motto.
“List of highest-grossing animated films.” Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia. Wikimedia
Foundation, Inc. 23 March 2014. Web. 24 March 2014.
A quick-look source to frame the financial successes of Disney/Pixar.
McCulloch, Richard. Pixar Thesis. University of East Anglica, 2013.
A huge boon to my research. Its most pertinent sections for my purposes describing Pixar as a
brand, the fluidity of brands, and a compilation of quotes surrounding Pixar’s more recently
perceived “light fare.” Highly useful for defining what Renaissance is and is not.
McCulloch, Richard. “Imagined Consensus: Pixar and the Age of Aggregated Film Criticism.”
Alternate Takes. n.p. 10 October 2011. Web. 13 February 2014.
The article that led me to his thesis, McCulloch picks apart the merits and demerits of the film
and critic community’s infatuation with aggregated reviews. Helpful in defending Cars and its
sequel as another “worthy” Pixar edition, and not the harbinger of a second-rate film streak for
the studio.
Monsters, Inc. (DVD Commentary). Dir. Pete Docter, David Silverman, and Lee Unkrich. Pixar
Animation Studios, 2001. Film.
Requisite viewing for understanding Pixar story-making processes and using said quotes.
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Pallant, Chris. Demystifying Disney: A History of Disney Feature Animation. Continuum: New
York, 2011. Print.
Terrific book tracks the history of Disney’s animation studio’s products, its aesthetic and
technological innovations, and gives concrete examples from classic/recent films. Great for
providing artistic movement divisions of the studio (Disney Formalism, Neo-Disney, Digital
Disney), and explicitly describes the history/components of the Disney Renaissance.
Pallant, Chris. “Disney-Formalism: Rethinking ‘Classic Disney.’” Animation, 5: 341. 2010.
Web. 15 February 2014.
A more streamlined version of Pallant’s book-form chapter on this era of films. Valuable for
quotes and summarizing Walt’s original filmic aesthetics as benchmark for Disney Renaissance.
Rao, Hayagreeva, Robert Sutton, and Allen P. Webb. “Innovation lessons from Pixar: An
interview with Oscar-winning director Brad Bird.” The McKinsey Quarterly, April 2008.
Web. 18 February 2014.
This interview takes a business/corporate teamwork approach in discussing Pixar’s work culture.
Brad Bird’s charismatic and detailed examples of how creativity is nurtured and consistently
produced on his films and at Pixar were much-needed and appreciated to give an antimatterverve to my otherwise run-of-the-mill examples.
Seton, Mark. "Pixar Phenomenology: The Embodiment of Animation. (Cover Story)." Metro.157
(2008): 94-7. Web. 23 February 2014.
This article foremost describes Pixar’s ideology concerning bodily and anecdotally infusing its
characters and stories with the tics and lives of its animators. It also gives details on Pixar
University. Great companion to my information on Renaissance education and art/nature
dichotomy.
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Taylor, William C. and Polly LaBarre. “How Pixar Adds a New School of Thought to Disney.”
The New York Times. 29 January 2006. Online edition. Web. 23 February 2014.
Another article chock-full of mid-merger ideals and speculation. Provides more evidence and
perspective on how momentous and tide-shifting this acquisition was for both studios.
The Incredibles (DVD Commentary). Dir. Brad Bird. Pixar Animation Studios, 2004. Film.
Brad Bird extolls the work and creative ethic of Pixar, and provides sassy but educated quips
about what animation is (an art form) and is not (a genre). Personality-infused inner-look at the
Pixar process on one of its watershed, technical leap films.
The Jungle Book. Dir. Wolfgang Reitherman. Walt Disney Pictures, 1967. Film.
Needed for epigraph.
The Lion King. Dir. Roger Allers and Rob Minkoff. Walt Disney Pictures, 1994. Film.
Needed for epigraph.
“The Pixar way.” The Economist. 23 March 2010. Online video. 23 February 2014.
Half-hour interview with Ed Catmull. Valuable to give voice to the other head behind
Pixar/Disney’s mash-up and rebranding. Also waxes about the value of leadership and freedom
in the workplace.
The Princess and the Frog. Dir. Ron Clements and John Musker. Walt Disney Pictures, 2009.
Film.
Needed for epigraph.
Toy Story. Dir. John Lasseter. Walt Disney Pictures/Pixar Animation, 1995. Film.
Needed for epigraph.
Toy Story 3 (DVD Commentary). Dir. Lee Unkrich, 2010. Film.
Indispensable story-making information delivered by the Oscar-winning film’s creative duo.
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Up (DVD Commentary). Dir. Pete Docter and Bob Peterson, 2009. Film.
Director Pete Docter segues talking about story, but explains two Pixar aesthetic schools of
thought: simplexity and hyper-realism. Complements Pallant’s distinction between the two.
Waking Sleeping Beauty. Dir. Don Hahn. Red Shoes/Stone Circle Pictures, 2010. Film.
Behind-the-scenes documentary exploring the decisions, people, and turmoil behind the Disney
Renaissance period. A top-notch source and counterweight to the excess of Pixar culture sources
I collected.
WALL-E (DVD Commentary). Dir. Andrew Stanton. Pixar Animation Studios, 2008. Film.
Transcribed director Andrew Stanton’s discussion of story, especially the section about “11th
hour changes” that Pixar encourages. Great source for describing the story-servicing at play at
the studio from a supremely quotable “Brain Trust” member.
Weinman, Jaime. “The decline of Disney: Stars Wars movies, Marvel toys and damage to one of
the world’s most iconic brands.” MacClean’s. 6 July 2013. Web. 21 March 2014.
Fine article pertaining to the diasporic branding of modern Disney and reservations from several
veteran animators. Most useful for insight into more commercial/promotional reasons the Disney
name has suffered in recent times.
Wood, Gaby. “John Lasseter: The Genius Shaping the Future of the Movies.” The Observer. 17
January 2009. Web. 16 February 2014.
Interesting middle-ground post-merger piece. Explores the surface and company changes, both
physical and artistic, that took root after the Pixar/Disney merger. Uses Bolt as example of
Disney’s new Pixar foundation and charts work left to accomplish.
Zakarin, Jordan. “Animated Man: Cartoon Expert Michael Barrier Decries Pixar, Computers.”
The Huffington Post. 25 February 2011. Web. 28 March 2014.
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Along with Armond White’s comments in a previous source, this expert’s opinion helps give
credence to the argument that people (and critics) exist who do not enjoy Pixar.