My Top 10 Animated Movies

Lists like these are tricky. Intentional or not, they tend to rouse a little dissonance. I think, however, that it’s all part of the fun. I’ve always enjoyed animated films, but like most people I also have partialities. There are scores of classic and new animated movies cherished by millions that I have neither seen nor likely heard of. So take this list as a subjective glance into my head rather than a distillation of the entire animated film library. I’m nowhere near qualified to do that. Here’s a good reason why: I don’t watch anime. The simple point is that each of these films means something to me. However your top ten differs from mine, I hope it’s for the same reason.

10: The LEGO Movie

Here’s a movie that could have played it safe and only ridden the coattails of the brand upon which it is based. Its producers were bold enough to take their vision further and, to their credit, they succeeded. Beneath the marketing veneer lies a sincere story that addresses complex topics like existentialism, denial, and why we play at all. It’s also a lot of fun, and packs in plenty of laughs. What’s most impressive about The LEGO Movie is its attention to detail. Everything is made of bricks. Oceans, steam, fire – all meticulously designed and rendered brilliantly to mimic old-school stop animation. 

9: Charlotte’s Web

Charlotte’s Web is special because it’s one of the first movies I remember watching as a kid. I obviously didn’t understand the concept of anthropomorphism, even though I practiced it all the time, but the movie may have been the first time I’d seen it depicted. In a sense, this helped me understand my imagination better. Charlotte’s death was sad, but seeing her children drift away in the wind while Wilbur watched helplessly was downright upsetting. I guess that also makes Charlotte’s Web the first movie to break my heart.

8: Aladdin

I lost track a long time ago of how many times I’ve seen Aladdin. While I was a member of the Oregon Marching Band, we played a set of tunes from the movie one year and it ended up being among my favorite performances. “A Whole New World” is arguably Disney’s best song, but the catchy music is only a part of why Aladdin rules. The colorful, charismatic cast, hilarious pop-culture jokes and swashbuckling sense of adventure make it a pleasure to watch again and again.

7: Toy Story 1 & 2

It was too hard to pick between these two, so I cheated and stuck them together (it’s my list, deal with it). When Toy Story came out in 1995, it was a big deal because no one had made a computer-animated feature before. I was six, and what I saw blew my fleshy little mind. It felt like I was watching all of my toys come to life and interact with each other and the environment in the same ways I used them. This was exciting, but it also felt like a finger was being jabbed into my chest because I would disassemble, disfigure and ruin many toys just like Sid. Toy Story absolutely changed the way I looked at my toys after watching it.

    And what can I say about Toy Story 2? It took everything I loved about the first film and elevated it. Expanded journey, more characters, funnier jokes, and a bigger heart. 

 
6: Fantasia

Fantasia doesn’t require much of an explanation. It handily speaks for itself. The abstract, slightly creepy story that sees Mickey playing with the powers of his sorcerer master somehow forms the perfect backdrop to the beautiful classical pieces that accompany each segment. Fantasia 2000 did a nice job bringing the magic to a newer audience, but the original is a wonder and a masterpiece.

5: The Land Before Time

I haven’t seen one sequel or episode of the spinoff TV show. My 1988-version-only LBT experience is fine just the way it is. Nothing will take away the feelings I had watching Littlefoot, Ducky, Petrie, Cera and the affable Spike journey together to find the Great Valley. Try not to think about that scene where Littlefoot’s mother freaking dies after saving him from a T-Rex. I hesitate to use the word traumatizing, but I was way too young for that level of feels when I first saw it. It remains one of the saddest movie moments I’ve ever watched. But the story of friendship and perseverance that follows is all the more tremendous for it.

4: The Incredibles

In 2004, the super hero market was somewhat saturated in the media. Spider-Man was hanging around, Jason Bourne was kicking it, The Punisher was shooting the breeze, Riddick was…okay you get it. Then The Incredibles came along and steam rolled them all. I think it’s the most overall fun movie on this list. The depth of its humor, stylish action and fantastic characters (“I know, darling, I know.”) separate it from the herd in so many refreshing ways. In addition, it made the heroes more relatable than most live-action films by focusing on their dynamic as a family. I know I’m not alone when I say I’m anxiously awaiting the sequel.

3: The Lion King

When The Lion King hit the scene, it marked the loss of innocence of a generation. I’m sure we all know why. Hyperbole aside, it’s a truly wonderful film and a veritable roller coaster of emotional highs and lows. The fact that it gets so many things right stamps it firmly in the upper rungs of this list. James Earl Jones, Jeremy Irons, Matthew Broderick, Nathan Lane, Rowan Atkinson, Whoopi Goldberg and (pretty much) Elton John? Check. Gorgeous visuals? You betcha. Excellent soundtrack? Confirmed. Gripping narrative? Cowabunga. 

2: Toy Story 3

When I first saw the announcement for Toy Story 3, I was more skeptical than excited. The first two films were excellent, but they had their day. We’d all moved on, grown up, and I just wasn’t able to see how Pixar could bring us back without somehow cheapening what came before. It’s amazing, then, that it managed to not only eclipse its predecessors, but do so in a way that sensibly provided the closure us college-age viewers never knew we needed. It’s a fun-filled, twist-ridden ride that nails the chemistry its main cast had 11 years prior, and its touching finale speaks directly to those who may have let go of childish things but can still appreciate their influence.

1: Up

Few movies, animated or otherwise, provide the kind of experience Up does. Every time I watch it, the power of its storytelling hits me in the gut even though I know what’s going to happen. Its opening four-minute montage is such a graceful, heartrending, passionate piece of exposition that it nearly outweighs the rest of the film. But only nearly. Every scene and bend in the narrative is executed flawlessly, as are the relationships cultivated therein. I can think of no fewer than four moments where I utterly failed to hold back tears watching it in theaters, but Up isn’t my favorite animated movie because it made me cry. It’s number one because it’s the complete package: perfect soundtrack, visually striking, genuine, and earnest, but with laugh-out-loud gags and a deeply moving story that anyone can enjoy. 

Party Bus

"Fun level is conditional upon user's definition of the word 'Party.'"

Now that I'm scurrying to and fro in a car, it's led me to reflect on times when I used other forms of transportation.

When I was in middle school I rode the public bus home from west Eugene to north Eugene every day. It was a two-connection ride that took about an hour and a half. On the first bus I'd sit in the back with a group of three other regulars: two guys – a larger fellow named Jeremy and his younger brother – and a girl whose name I have no idea how to spell, but it was pronounced "Katang."*

None of us were that similar, so we didn't get along very well. Jeremy's family was poor, and he and his brother liked to engage in mostly self-deprecating humor. The sort where everyone laughed, but mainly out of discomfort because what was said likely had a sad truth behind it. Katang was a nice enough girl, polite and temperate. But as a conversationalist there was a lot to be desired. Some days she wouldn't say a word to any of us, and when she did it was usually only in response to something else.

I suppose I can't blame Katang too much. Jeremy and his brother were obnoxious, and if the group could be asked today what I was like, I imagine they'd say I was kind of an asshole to everyone. Something I wouldn't argue. I think it was because I considered myself smarter than the others. Really, I was just a naive band kid, boastful and lacking modesty. By the time the bus ride was half over, though, I'd be the only one left. Sitting quietly alone, I would miss their company.

The second bus was always interesting since a large group of students from North Eugene High School used it as well. I did my best to avoid talking to them because they seemed to speak an entirely different language. Occasionally they'd amuse themselves by asking stupid questions like what my preferred liquor or brand of cigarette was. Yes, with my high water jeans, saxophone case and over-gelled hair...clearly, I spent my free time chain smoking and knocking back fingers of rye malt.

They also gave me a nickname. Little P. When I'd step off the bus someone would always call out, "Yo, Little P, peace to the P.O.C.!" I figured in time I might come to understand what the fuck that was supposed to mean, but I'm still waiting. By now, chances are one of them gave birth to a Little P of their own. I'm certain the lectures it's heard on peace treaties for this nebulously defined P.O.C. have been invigorating.

*Out of curiosity I decided to Google it, and appparently "Katang" is an actual word. It's the name of an indigenous Laotian subgroup whose members live in longhouses and stretch their earlobes with bamboo. The more you know, I guess: http://joshuaproject.net/people_groups/12566/LA

I Never Did Like Mushrooms

Pretty accurate, actually. Just replace 'bad' with 'Scheiße,' and you've got the idea.

               

            Cockroaches were a consistent problem in the restaurant I worked at. Every night I had to pour a bucket of warm water and bleach into the drains to keep them away. As the smell of chlorine rose up from the slats, my thoughts would often drift toward the macabre. I pictured a company of the insects toddling though the pipes beneath us. Maybe they had heard tales: a rich stock of food and other spoils just waiting for anyone intrepid enough to claim it. Suddenly, a chemical tidal wave sweeps them away, back down to whatever murky hole they crawled out of. With that, the expedition meets its end. Most would die, though some of the resilient bastards might live. I would wonder if cockroaches had developed the capacity to seek vengeance, and if I should sleep with one eye open and a boot tucked under my pillow.
          I can’t remember what I hoped my first job would be. Maybe it’s better that way. What I do remember is that my expectations were low. Washing dishes and doing grunt work wasn’t impressive, but I was seventeen and earning my own money. By this measure it was enough. My father drove me to work and picked me up when my shifts ended, generally 11 p.m. or later. I’d come home smelling like grease and dish soap, my fingers pruned from pan scrubbing. Because it was usually a school night, I’d head straight to my room and fall onto my bed in a heap.
          Chanterelle isn’t around anymore, but it was a tiny restaurant at the edge of downtown Eugene. Its entrance was at the end of a plain hallway, past another restaurant and a novelty store. The owner was an ambitious but naive man named Kurt who’d recently purchased the restaurant from its original proprietor and chef of 23 years, a towering German by the name of Ralf. It was this pair who interviewed me for the job. Ralf didn’t say much except at the end when he nodded and told me, his voice choppy and deep, “You seem like a good young man.” The next day I was asked to come in for training.
          As it turned out, the replacement chef was there that day as well. He went by JP, a thin guy in his late 20s with a new wife and a taste for garage band music. During prep times he would blast The White Stripes in the kitchen, singing along with a raspy, east coast inflection that made him sound like a teenager. JP spent most of the day learning the menu with Ralf while I was shown the ropes by Isaac, a 30-year-old with sandy hair, who’d been washing dishes at Chanterelle for two years and was being promoted to busboy.
          Isaac was a good tutor, though his dependence on the word “fuck” and its derivatives made for a colorful lesson. I tied on my apron and went through a dizzying routine of organization, sanitization and initiation. I was taught not only how to clean lettuce and operate a dishwasher, but also how to operate within this well-oiled machine that had retained pretty much the same clientele for over two decades. With time I got good at it, but on occasion that time took a turn for the wearisome or awkward.
          When Ralf taught me how to make appetizer salads, he was very particular about every aspect of their preparation. He watched quietly as I plated one, then told me it looked like shit and to try again. I did, but it still wasn’t right. I was mixing in too much dressing and the salad sagged under the weight. Ralf grew impatient. He took the plate away from me and dumped the sloppy mess into the garbage. We started again, only this time Ralf decided to explain things differently.

            “How old are you again?” he said.

            “Seventeen.”

            “Right. You know women, and how you like to have their tits up?”

            I was deciding whether I should laugh or just nod silently when the 68-year-old held up both hands and made a squeezing motion.

             “That is how the salad should be.”           

          A couple of weeks in, I walked out of the freezer with an armful of lobster tails and saw JP prepping abalone, our most expensive entree. He dropped the shellfish on the ground as I entered the kitchen. Not missing a beat, he hunched over and scooped it up, a finger pressed to his lips in earnest. Someone paid fifty dollars for it later in the night, and I walked back to the sinks without saying a word.
          Kurt came to me on a Monday holding a box of latex gloves and a flashlight. I tried my best to not appear incredulous, but I already didn’t like where this was headed.

            “Hey dude, I’ve got a job for you,” he said.

          A mouse had died somewhere in the bar over the weekend. I laid down on my back and slowly panned the flashlight under the cabinets until I found it. It was just within my reach, so I slid it out by the tail and set it in a paper bag and threw it away.
          I tossed out sacks of waste that weighed almost as much as I did. Oils and fats got poured into an aluminum container, which I would lug to the communal grease dumpster – a black cauldron full of God-knows-what that always smelled of bacon. Maybe they recycled the stuff into candles. Maybe it just got poured into a different, bigger dumpster. I got bruises and cuts and burns, and developed a foul vocabulary to help me deal with it all.
           I was always on my feet, always moving. Breaks were out of the question even though they were a legal requirement. No one forced me to work through them, it was just too busy and I couldn’t afford to fall behind. At the end of the night, dishwashers were typically given a cut of the waiters’ tips. Depending on who was working that night, I’d pocket anywhere from three to fifteen dollars. Sometimes I’d get nothing. Regardless of what I received, I was always appreciative, and the staff liked me for it.
           We kept the trash and recycling bins on the exterior of the building, and I always took my time out there while breaking down boxes or discarding empty wine bottles. A railroad track ran parallel to it, and if a train rolled by I’d wave at the passengers. Or maybe gossip with the employees of adjacent restaurants who were out on a smoke break. On quiet evenings I’d be able to hear music from the jazz club next door, so I’d linger for a while and listen.
           That lasted for eight months, then I went to college and took a campus job. I like to think that the cockroaches are still at war with whichever poor soul has to flush them to oblivion. Or maybe they grew up and moved on, too.