Reviews by JxSxPx

Starting with Chicken Little in 2005, Disney made the switch from hand-drawn animation to computer-generated. By 2008, they had acquired Pixar, promoted John Lasseter to head of Disney’s animation department, and announced plans to alternate between hand-drawn and computer animation. Bolt would be all CG, while the next year’s The Princess and the Frog would be a return to hand-drawn. In hindsight, this ambitious plan fizzled out shortly after it began.

While the animation is most certainly a step up from the awkward and ugly character designs, Bolt doesn’t play with the hard-set formula much. We know exactly where the film is going to go, and where it will end, by the time the first act winds down. Thankfully, Lasseter’s prominence in the studio also brought about a resurgence in creating lovable and endearing characters, something that had been missing from the studio’s output for several years.

It is missing some of the sincerity and heart that makes Pixar’s older films work so well. This is a major problem, as Disney is clearly trying to marry its old approach to film-making with their newly acquired division, producing something that has all of the kinetic energy and polish of Pixar, but is missing that central spark. Not to say that Bolt doesn’t strive for emotional moments, but it needed to exhibit some restraint to really develop its major relationships and emotions. It’s to its credit and its benefit that the film moves, but it needed a few more moments of quiet reflection and connection to really blossom.

None of this is to say that Bolt doesn’t work, because it does. It’s a very charming, sweet, and fun film. The numerous action sequences really liven up the film, as they’re full of energy and smooth animation. The story hits all of its marks, strikes all of the right poses, and never misses. I do wish it had done something more innovative, or pushed back harder against the rigged formula.

For the most part, the vocal cast is top notch. John Travolta, Susie Essman, and Mark Walton are turn in surprisingly strong and memorable vocal performances, Malcolm McDowell and James Lipton turn in fun supporting turns, and the film could have used more of their ridiculous characters. The only major problem in the main vocal cast is Miley Cyrus, she is given little to do, and it feels like she was only cast in the role as a concession to Hannah Montana fans, leeching off of the success of the newest major Disney It Girl.

This was a first time viewing experience for me, and I can see why it’s regarded now as the first step in a resurgence with the studio. It’s a quality film, and a surprise Oscar nominee, that reminds us of the better moments in the studio’s long history of family entertainment. This revival doesn’t offer much in the way of new thrills, but if their focus is on crafting solid films, they’re doing a great job. But a little boundary pushing never hurt.

It was five long years between Home on the Range’s hand-drawn animation and The Princess and the Frog’s return to the format. In fact, it feels like a long-lost relic from the Disney Renaissance, that second golden age which brought about neo-classics like Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid. If everything in The Princess and the Frog feels slightly formulaic, at least it’s an exceptionally well-done piece of formula, and, frankly, in my eyes, a welcome and missed one. Hand-drawn animation, how do I miss you as each year goes by.

What The Princess and the Frog has going for it in spades, in stark contrast to the gag-a-minute brain-dead films of DreamWorks, is a solid story structure, characters who clearly articulate their wants and needs, warm and lovely animation, and a score that maybe lacks in instant classics but makes up for with authenticity of time and place. Although the few musical numbers which burst out from the rest of the pack are a one-two punch of “Almost There” and “Friends on the Other Side.” Both of them explode with color, various shapes, and artistic experiments in contrast to the glossy and clean animation of the rest of the film. “Friends,” in particular, is great for its Cab Calloway-meets-Faustus spice. The only other song which linger in the mind is the gospel-tinged “Dig a Little Deeper” with voodoo queen/fairy godmother Mama Odie, a charming and memorable minor player.

Like any of the Renaissance era princess, our latest heroine, Tiana, isn’t in dire need of a personality, or even necessarily a prince. Tiana believes in hard work, setting goals, and making her life-long dream a reality. She’s a little Type A, and could use some fun and adventure in her life. She learns to soften her Type A after accidentally turning into a frog, and finds a prince to add some fun and color to her life. And it must be said, Prince Naveen is, without a doubt in my mind, the handsomest prince that Disney has ever come up with, and kudos to Disney for reflecting our modern culture’s tendency towards interracial marriage and giving their latest princess a racially ambiguous prince to live out her happily ever after with.

The story is, like many of their best features, a retelling of an old Grimm Brothers fairy tale. A prince by magical circumstances becomes a frog and seeks a princess to break the spell. That’s about all of the connections that this has with the original fairy tale. Gone are the golden ball, the spoiled princess, and that pesky, briefly hinted at sex and nudity. In their place are New Orleans culture and music. I think it’s a more than fair trade.

Orbiting around the two romantic leads are a series of mostly enjoyable supporting players. My personal favorites are the aforementioned voodoo queen Mama Odie, the villainous Dr. Facilier, a neurotic jazz-trumpet playing alligator named Louis, and Tiana’s childhood friend, Lottie, a southern debutante with a flair for the dramatic. Not every single digression is golden, a brief detour with some hillbilly stereotypes is a bit of dead weight. But The Princess and the Frog has a higher rate of hitting its various check-boxes than missing them.

I don’t know if it’s a new masterpiece, but it’s certainly a solidly made and highly enjoyable film from the Disney canon. If it’s not top-shelf, then, damn, it’s got to be a solid member of the B-team. Shame this film didn’t perform better at the box office. Rumor has it that it’s underperformance convinced Disney to abandon hand-drawn animation and remove girl-centric titles from future films. Guess that explains thatRapunzel turned into Tangled, and The Snow Queen into Frozen. The Princess and the Frog is the Disney formula operating at top speed, providing the kind of charm, wit, and pleasing visuals that only the House of Mouse can.

So we’ve come to the final film of the Bronze Era, and it is, undoubtedly, the absolute worst of the lot. Despite coming out a year before The Little Mermaid elevated the studio back to heavy-weight prominence and lush animation, Oliver and Company looks like it’s been hanging around the vaults since the early 70s. To call the animation rough and uninspired would be too kind.

It’s hard to decide what’s the worst thing about Oliver and Company – the poor songs, cheap ploys for relevance by casting MOR musical acts, lack of character development, or the routine plot mechanics. It’s all so bland, so tastefully inoffensive, it could only be described as the sight of the studio working on autopilot. Very little care or effort went into this one.

The appearance of Huey Lewis singing over the opening credits is our first warning. I can’t think of many children of the 80s who were demanding his music, nor for Billy Joel. At least Joel manages to liven up his stiff characterization with New Yawk sass. Even stranger is the decision to not have Sheryl Lee Ralph, a Broadway dynamo, sing her song, instead, they’ve got Ruth Pointer. The discordance between her speaking and singing voice reminds you of those moments in West Side Story or My Fair Lady when Marni Nixon’s immaculate vocals wouldn’t match the body they were supposedly emanating from. It feels like such a cheap ploy to be “hip” with the times, and it just becomes cringe inducing to the modern viewer.

There’s very little to do with Charles Dickens here, but this wasn’t the first time that Disney had repurposed a narrative into something entirely different. The problem is that unlike Pinocchio, which also had little to do with Carlo Collodi’s original text, they forgot to transform any of the characters into unique individuals. All of them play as types, with the voice actors doing all of the hard work. Bette Midler comes off best as melodramatic poodle from the upper class, but it’s not dissimilar to any of Midler’s numerous comedic roles from the same decade.

Even worse is how the few human characters look like they’re from completely different films than the cutesy animals. There’s no central conflict, and the only one that arises is between Fagin and Sykes, who are ancillary characters, at best. Human girl Penny is all soft and sweetness in comparison to the ugly caricatures of the others, and her lack of pupils is distracting.

There’s nothing that really works here, and Oliver and Company is of most importance for the history of which it precedes. Disney executives decided that they would start releasing one film per year, this was the first film in that plan. They also decided to include McDonald’s Happy Meal tie-ins, and I remember while the Renaissance was on-going that each new film was announced by both a trailer and a series of commercials for the fast-food giant. Lastly, Oliver and Company was the first film that was a big Broadway style musical from the studio in a long time, which would become the norm going forward. Shame that this film is lousy, but the insistence on celebrity stunt-casting would point towards a major problem for the studio going forward. It deserves its status as a historical footnote.

If there’s one Disney film in the entire canon that I’m incredibly familiar with, it’s The Great Mouse Detective. I can’t even imagine how many times I’ve watched this film throughout my life. Without a doubt, this is my undisputed favorite Disney film. I admit, it’s an odd choice. It’s not a film from one of the cherished areas, but there’s something about its lower key that just appeals to me.

Perhaps it’s that this isn’t a film about the titanic clashing of good and evil, typically played out with a bland princess heroine and a more likable villain, but the clashing of two towering egomaniacs. It borrows this from the Sherlock Holmes stories so clearly indebted to its DNA. I never read the book series this film was based upon, Basil of Baker Street by Eve Titus, so, for me, this has always been a Disney-centric spin on Holmes, Watson, and Moriarty. And as that, The Great Mouse Detective works brilliantly.

I said while discussing The Rescuers that Disney always does well when they put the focus on mice-related stories. Watching Basil, a tiny mouse with the same occupation, eccentricities, and lifestyle as Holmes, whose floorboards he lives under, investigate a hidden conspiracy by Ratigan to overthrow the queen and rule all of the mouse kingdom is thrilling. Basil is a flawed, mercurial hero, one who prides himself on his intelligence and wit, prone to temper tantrums when things don’t go his way, but noble underneath it all. Barrie Ingham’s vocal work is stellar, perfectly capturing the academic and histrionic sides of the character.

His foil, Ratigan, is bursting with drollery and personality. If Disney’s films are only as successful as the villains they produce, then The Great Mouse Detective deserves higher praise for Ratigan. His emotional undercurrents are dark and obsessive, his yearning for upward mobility and power masks a deep shame and hatred of his identity as a rat. Vincent Price’s vocal performance, the realization of a life-long dream and allegedly one of his all-time favorite roles, is the kind of over-the-top, campy delight that makes for the best of villains. Price attacks the role of Ratigan as if he’s been handed one of the juiciest Shakespearean roles.

As these two egos circle each other, this film finds the culmination of their career-long fascinating and hatred with each other. Long have these two wanted to take the other down, partially because they stand on opposite sides of justice, but mostly because they want to be considered the most brilliant mind and the satisfaction of out-thinking and out-performing the other. What keeps The Great Mouse Detective running, and what makes it so fun to watch again and again, is this clash of engaging hero and villain. Finally, there’s a film in the Disney canon in which they are on equal footing as each other, and while Ratigan maybe more charismatic and grand, Basil is sneakier and unafraid to play dirty.

Since this was released in the Bronze Era, that’s not to say that the film is without its problems. The backgrounds and atmospherics of the film are stellar, and, truly, this is a grimy and dirty London, standing in stark contrast to the theme park pristine quality of Peter Pan. Things look dirty, dank, and dark, at times, too dark. It’s well-known that Disney gives plenty of love and attention to the films it considers the crown jewels, and gives the tiniest bit to those it considers lower in the canon. This is not a film with a sterling reputation, despite its modest success after the colossal failure of The Black Cauldron being the first step towards the Renaissance. Watching it on DVD, one can clearly see specks and artifacts, colors that appear too dark, and a general lack of care taken with the print. I demand justice for The Great Mouse Detective.

Perhaps if this film were more prone to the bombast and rafters-shaking musicals they would treat it better. A more cerebral film, I return to this film for many of the same reasons I did as a child. First, I just really love Sherlock Holmes and Disney, so the two together are magnificent. Second, there’s a lovable and fun assortment of supporting players, from the precocious Olivia to the pitiful and frightening Fidget, there’s a very strong ensemble at work here. Third, because Basil and Ratigan are my two absolute favorite characters from the Disney canon, and I will defend them as undervalued and unheralded. I always wondered why they never spun this off as a franchise. The potential for one was right in front of them all along.  

To read my review of the regular edition, [Link removed - login to see].

The deluxe edition of We Love Disney contains two bonus tracks, Brenna Whitaker tackling “It’s Not Easy Being Green” from The Muppet Show, and Yuna’s version of Aladdin’s “A Whole New World.” Whitaker stands in the shadow of numerous luminary artists who have done the song before her. Ray Charles, Lena Horne, Diana Ross and Frank Sinatra are just some of the numerous artists who have covered the song. Another version feels like a retread of overly familiar ground, no matter that Whitaker sings the shit out of the song. Yuna’s “A Whole New World” is much better, as she completely reconfigured the track into a strummed acoustic hangout. It’s charming to the last, and a refreshing spin on a beloved tune. 

DOWNLOAD: Gwen Stefani’s “The Rainbow Connection,” Yuna’s “A Whole New World,” Kacey Musgraves' "A Spoonful of Sugar"

The problem with tribute albums is that you get a group of people who want to play things faithful, and another group who want to spin it out into weird new territories. Nothing is wrong with either group, but sometimes the former sounds a bit like glorified karaoke. We Love Disney features both modes, but mostly allows its various artists to re-imagine the songs free from cultural burdens.

It’s the ones that play it close to their original formulas that suffer. Ariana Grande’s voice was not meant for the gospel intonations and scales of Hercules’ “Zero to Hero.” She’d be better suited to “I Won’t Say (I’m in Love)” from the same film. Jason Derulo’s take on “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” from The Lion King doesn’t do much with the song. The gangs-all-here rendition of “It’s a Small World” is good intentioned, but the collision of disparate vocal ranges and styles leave it as a bit of a non-starter. Frozen’s “Let It Go” is still so new, and overplayed, that it didn’t need a new version. Rascal Flatts and Lucy Hale sound discordant, and the song is muddled as a result. Charles Perry tackles The Aristocats’ “Ev’rybody Wants to Be a Cat,” and it takes forever to get to the more enjoyable rave-up it transforms into in the last minute or so. Jessie Ware has a beautiful and soulful voice, but her version of Cinderella’s “A Dream Is a Wish Your Heart Makes” is too damn slow. The original, at least, had a sense of playfulness at its center.

Much better are the versions that shake up the songs into new variations. Jhené Aiko’s mash-up of songs from Alice in Wonderland is the real highlight. Delirious and weird, Aiko takes the songs into cerebral, slow-jam territory that’s both spacey and nothing but good vibrations. Fall Out Boy brings a rockabilly swagger to The Jungle Book’s “I Wan’na Be Like You.” Ne-Yo transform’s Aladdin’s “Friend Like Me” into his patented brand of swinging R&B. Jessie J may not sonically re-invent The Little Mermaid’s “Part of Your World,” but her vocals perfectly capture the yearning of that song. And Gwen Stefani’s warm, vibrato-filled take on The Muppet Movie’s “The Rainbow Connection” captures the wistful and slightly melancholic tones of the song beautifully. Tori Kelly salvages Pocahontas’ “Colors of the Wind,” a song which can tend towards bombast in the wrong hands, with a delicacy that’s refreshing. Kacey Musgraves take on Mary Poppins’ “A Spoonful of Sugar” is zany honky-tonk, and, by god, it somehow works.

In the end, We Love Disney splits between the two camps, but even the more warmed-over versions have some merits. David Foster, the producer and cultivator of the various artists, is a master at his craft. Each of the songs is beautifully produced, every vocal is lively and committed, and the arrangements can’t be held against them. It needed more livening up, or a few better song choices by the artists to make it something really special. 

DOWNLOAD: Jhené Aiko’s “In a World of My Own/Very Good Advice”

As someone who was born in the 80s, I can’t help but wonder – what was up with all the dark fantasy films made during the decade? None of them hit at the box office, but various studios kept churning them out. The quality varied, and many of them gained cult audiences, of which I belong to, if not all of them, a vast majority. Films like Ralph Bakshi’s Fire and Ice, Frank Oz and Jim Henson’s The Dark Crystal, Ridley Scott’s Legend, and Ron Howard’s Willow all spring to mind.

It seemed only natural that Disney would eventually tackle the genre. And so they did with 1985’s The Black Cauldron, a very loose adaptation of the novel of the same name. It’s not entirely successful by any means, and phrases like overly ambitious and sloppy best describe it. Yet I find myself enjoying it, not enough to claim it as an unheralded classic, a hidden gem, or even a personal favorite, but it doesn’t completely deserve the shabby treatment Disney has given it.

The strange thing about watching all of the Bronze Era films is how you can see the changing of the guard, and the numerous points of turmoil playing out in the films. Disney’s death hovered over The Aristocats, which felt like a bland bit of desperation to keep the brand afloat, or in the previous The Fox and the Hound, which had two generations struggling for control and a coherent voice. The Black Cauldron is not coherent, but I love that it takes a hard right against so much of the saccharine nature of many Disney films. This one goes dark and creepy, and it works the best when it embraces those moments.

While much of the film is a shocking success in crafting a believably dirty, dark, and horrific fantasy world, it suffers from the hands of a meddling studio. Jeffrey Katzenberg, the newly appointed studio chairman, balked at the off-brand atmosphere and downright disturbing scenes of the Horned King’s climatic raising of the dead. With the film practically complete, Katzenberg took it upon himself to remove twelve minutes of footage. In live action, this would be easily repairable, but in animation, you don’t edit like you would any other type of film. While trying desperately to make the film less scary and adult, and more family-friendly Disney brand, Katzenberg unequivocally turned it into a muddled mess. Disney was once known for gambling on artistic innovation and pushing the boundaries of animation, and he should have left the film intact. And does no one remember the darkness haunting the edges of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs or Pinocchio? It was only in the Post-War years the studio tamed the more horrific elements of its adaptations, transforming them into safer entertainments.

Not to say this would have prevented it from being a box office bomb, which felt like an inevitability either way, but it could have possibly regained some critical or artistic love that was lost along the way. It's exciting to think of so adult and mature a film coming from a studio that can, at times, be aggressive in its stunted adolescence and purity. Think of Cinderella's ugly politics of feminine suppression or Lady and the Tramp's sentimentality, which practically drips off the screen. The Black Cauldron is something not entirely successful, but the ambition on display is enough for me to recommend it. Any any movie that features an opening narration from John Huston and a villain played by John Hurt is incapable of being all bad.

There’s a visible tension here between the older generation, who either left after this film’s release or mid-production, and the younger generation, who wanted to expand what a Disney film could be. The Fox and the Hound works best when it leans in on the melancholy and sadness that comes with growing up, with the intrusion of social orders and loss of innocence, but it only deals with these matters half of the time.

Much like On Her Majesty’s Secret Service, The Fox and the Hound is stuck halfway between an exciting shake-up of a tired formula, and a strict adherence to said formula. That Bond entry came into mind, for some unknown reason, as a comparable bit of franchise film-making that both dares to be different, and yet scares itself away from entirely breaking the mold. You see, the earliest parts of The Fox and the Hound, and the climax, are the best parts because they float by with an air of sadness and inevitable gloom.

Read into the conflict what you will – racial prejudice, class conflict, hell, even sexuality – since it’s vague enough to be about anything that makes us different, and is used to keep us apart. The idealistic friendship is sweet and cute, playful and alive with the innocence of that part of your life before you’re made aware of the wider social structures at play.

And then we hit the flabby second act which breaks the two of them apart, and proceeds to play out like warmed over bits of Bambi, Lady and the Tramp, and other well-known films. Tod, the fox, engaging in a romantic side-story is completely unneeded, and it’s frankly a waste of time and distraction from the main thrust of the conflict. It’s too cutesy. This saccharine development stands in stark contrast to the ways in which the numerous animals are animated more realistically than before, including the climactic battle with the ferocious bear. No adorable little Bongo critters in this forest, those days are gone.

Once again, we have a Disney film with a fake-out death. Now, I’ve gone on the record as stating that Trusty should have died in Lady and the Tramp, and the same holds true here. Showing a character getting hit dead-on by a train, only to show that same character alive with only a broken leg later is just….questionable story-telling, at best. Disney’s fear of death seems to strike mostly older male characters, as evidenced by the opening of this film, and Bambi’s traumatizing plot point, they have no problem killing off mothers.

Another problem is the musical score. This is a return to the musical films that Disney specialized in, and the score stinks. Only Pearl Bailey manages to sell her material, which is lackluster and generally unmemorable. Bailey was an iconic force of nature, so she makes "Best of Friends" sound like a classic through sheer gusto. One can sense that the old guard wanted to include these moments, along with the distracting film-long gag involving two birds and a caterpillar that just isn’t funny, while the younger generation wanted to push for the quieter, somber tone. The younger generation’s instincts were correct.

If they had been allowed freer reign over The Fox and the Hound, I think I would be loudly proclaiming it as a forgotten masterpiece. And, truth be told, tiny fragments of it are. The scene of Tod’s abandonment in the forest is devastating, and the dissolve of the central friendship is heartbreaking. I remember avoiding this one as a child because it made me too sad. Coming back to it as an adult, I feel the inevitability of life crushing their sweet youth. Too much of it is recycled formula, but the parts that linger are the delicate emotional notes it strikes.

I had only the foggiest recollection of The Rescuers. I know that I have seen it at some point in my development, but the only thing I could really remember about it was the scene where Madame Medusa rips off her fake eyelashes and removes her makeup. Aside from this, my memories of Bernard and Miss Bianca mostly come from the sequel, The Rescuers Down Under.

Pity that my brain couldn’t remember more about the movie, because it is absolutely charming. If the other Disney film released in 1977, The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, resided primarily in tones of gentleness and charm, The Rescuers is all about battered hope and optimism in the face of adversity. Look no further than a scene where orphan girl Penny talks with the orphanage’s pet cat, Rufus. Through tears and cracked voice, Penny tells Rufus that it was adoption day, and she was looked over because she wasn’t as pretty as the redheaded little girl who was chosen. Rufus, compassionate and tender, tells Penny that she is pretty, worthy of love, and will someday find a family. He continues to comfort her by reciting a poem called “Faith is a Bluebird,” and I cried.

It is this continual practice of faith, hope, and connection in front of seemingly insurmountable odds that keeps The Rescuers humming along. The story doesn’t waste a moment on a stray or unnecessary comedic bit, musical interlude, or supporting player. Each step along the journey Bernard and Miss Bianca take towards saving Penny from Madame Medusa is a logical progression. This streamlined structure works wonders, allowing the film to bump over its sloppy animation, yet still finding time to develop a lovable cast of players.

Shame that Madame Medusa isn’t a better villain. Geraldine Page’s vocal work is stellar, and she plays up every droll line or histrionic moment with the relish of a drag queen quoting Mommie Dearest. The scene I mentioned before, where Medusa removes her makeup, is played for grotesque thrills, revealing an even more cracked visage behind her heavily made up one. Yet Medusa feels like warmed over Cruella De Vil, or like the difference between a designer label and a cheap knockoff. No wonder, as De Vil was briefly talked about as reappearing in the major villainess role here, but that was dropped in favor of crafting a new character. Except her major plot isn’t very interesting, she’s kidnapped Penny because she’s small enough to fit into a cave and steal a diamond. That’s it, and it’s not as pleasing as De Vil’s maniacal pursuit of haute couture.

Operating much better are the various heroic figures orbiting and anchoring the film. Bernard and Miss Bianca are the closest that Disney would get to its own variation of Nick and Nora Charles, although only Bianca is really the sophisticate of the pair. Both contain a sense of adventure and deep empathy, while Bernard is the more cerebral and nervous of the pair. Half of their likability and charm is in the animation, which sometimes veers off model or gets overly messy with scores of visible lines clouding the image, and the other half is in the great voice work of Bob Newhart and Eva Gabor. Newhart and Gabor are played towards their established types, yet it still works exceptionally well.

The only major problem I had with the film is the xerography method of animation. The process has clearly improved with this film, as the lines no longer look so heavy or bold which allows for the characters to appear more limbered and animated, strangely enough. A wider range of colors was brought in as well, which helps. From the time the process was brought to the studio it left a strange mark on the various films made with it. Some of them adopted well to the process, but most just looked sloppy and like the animators weren’t committed. The Rescuers has these moments, the alligators frequently display extraneous lines, Medusa occasionally develops strange crosshatching and stray lines while gesticulating, and the sketch-like appearance of a few characters can easily go off-model when they’re not cleaned up. Yet this won’t stop me from recommending it highly. 

It must be a truism that Disney does well when it focuses on telling stories with mice. This film did so well, in fact, it provided the opportunity for Disney's first sequel, and the template for the show that would eventually emerge as Chip and Dale's Rescue Rangers. This was the Bronze Era's lone major hit, both critically and artistically, and the studio would hit a dry spell that wouldn't alleviate until 1989's The Little Mermaid returned it to prominence. This would be the last film for five of the "Nine Old Men," the rest of whom had either already moved on or were about to. No film since the death of Disney marked such a sea change for the studio, but if any film from this era shows that the studio still had some fight in them up to this point, it's this one.

While not entirely a narrative film, The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh is the first successful film to come out of the Bronze Era. Spliced and edited together, with new wraparound animation and voice work, the film follows the three adventures of Winnie the Pooh and company found in the prior shorts.

It’s a gentle, sweet film, one that leans hard on Disney’s knack for creating character-driven animation, offering up several unique creations. There’s no overarching villain, no grand premise to tie everything together, just the easy-going charm of the A. A. Milne stories.

And for a Disney adaptation, this film translates his work smoothly and more accurately than many of the previous films.   The backgrounds are faithful reproductions of the artwork of E. H. Shepard’s loose, sketchy style.  The large swatches of watercolors combined with the crosshatched detail work make for charming visuals. It frequently feels like a children’s storybook come to life, and that’s not even counting the numerous points during which the film pulls back from the animation to reveal the book they’re occurring in, or the ways in which the narrative and book interact with each other. A flood in the second story finds it bursting out of the drawing and removing large chunks of text, a fun and imaginative bit of creative thinking on the part of the animators there.

The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh combines 1966’s Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree, 1968’s Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day, and 1974’s Winnie the Pooh and Tigger Too. There’s not a weak link there, in my eyes. Granted, the strongest of the bunch is definitely Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day, which won an Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film, deservedly so, as it manages to focus in on the entirety of the ensemble in a highly satisfying way. Call me crazy, but I’ve never been nuts about the manic Tigger, I’ve always preferred the melancholy of Eeyore, the neurosis of Rabbit, and the pretentious blowhard Owl. The Blustery Day gives each of them a chance to shine.

I’ve knocked Disney’s animation work post-101 Dalmatians for frequently lacking in what made the salad days of the studio so special. Even the variant quality of the Package Years offers up numerous hidden gems if one is willing to look, and the same could be said for Winnie the Pooh.  Sure, Christopher Robin looks more like a quick sketch than a well thought-out character, but everything else is aces.  After Tigger barges into Pooh’s house and tells him of honey thieving creatures, Pooh has an extended nightmare sequence that recalls “Pink Elephants on Parade” for sheer weirdness and imagination. Frankly, Pooh’s also got a small amount of comeuppance coming to him after spending so much of the film greedily stealing honey from his friends and strangers. “Huffalumps and Woozles” is a patented Disney phantasmagoria, something the studio excels at, and probably isn’t as well-known for as they should be. Despite so many safe and sanitized movies, when the Disney artists were allowed to get weird, they got really weird, and the films were all the better for it.

Perhaps The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh turned out so well because they allowed for Milne's voice to carry through. Unlike The Jungle Book which removed the darkness from the stories, or Alice in Wonderland which downplayed the wordplay and much of the wit for spectacle, Winnie the Pooh is quaint, almost quiet, in its aims. Its intentions are much smaller, its scope more narrow, and each of the sections handled with tremendous clarity and economy. There's no sharp tonal changes or contrasts like in so many of the Silver Era films, but a precise charm. It may not have the glossiest images, but there's a big warm heart here. No wonder Disney was able to spin it off into a never-ending franchise.