Disney occupies that special place in my heart reserved for puppies, small children, and my mother's Thanksgiving dinner. Growing up, I loved every Disney film we owned, and watched many on multiple occasions. I suppose my opinion of this particular film might have been different if I had owned it.
All that to say, I seriously dislike this film. Hate is too strong a word to use for an animated film about dogs, but even that was a close call. The songs are good, if not particularly memorable ("Bella Notte" being the obvious exception). The voice talent is, as Thunder Fist points out, stellar. And the spaghetti scene is positively iconic. Rather, it's the story I find atrocious.
I hadn't given "Lady and the Tramp" much thought until I saw Whit Stillman's "The Last Days of Disco" (which I've previously reviewed). That film treats the lighthearted Disney flick as a prism into the love triangle between the three leading characters, and by the same token as the source of everything wrong with the world today. The leading lady, Alice, found "Lady and the Tramp" depressing. So did Josh, the leading man. So do I.
Their problem with "Lady and the Tramp" is simple. Lady is a vapid and totally passive "princess" figure, who relies entirely on her big-eyed innocence and good looks. Meanwhile, the Tramp is a self-confessed chicken thief and scoundrel who seems to have won the heart of every female at the pound. How can any self-respecting... canine of a female persuasion... listen to a song like "He's a Tramp" and not think, "Hmm, perhaps he ain't nothing but a hound dog after all"?
In "The Last Days of Disco," it's only the scoundrel Des who sticks up for the film, and it's pretty clear why. He makes the case that the ending redeems the film:
"But isn’t it clear that the moral of the story is that Tramp changed, that he gave up his chicken-thieving ways and becomes a part of this rather idyllic family with Lady in the end?"
This is his defense of the film, and simultaneously a plea for Alice's affection. He admits that he's been an amoral wretch so far, but suggest that by Alice's influence he might learn to be good.
But if this is true to the film, it can hardly be called a defense, for it is an awful life-lesson. Josh notes: "The film programs young girls to be attracted to the bad element." This is indeed a fatal flaw of almost every romantic comedy, and is probably one of the worst aspects of our cinema-trained cultural sensibilities. We have enshrined the myth of the romantic scoundrel. Our culture teaches us to identify love with The Bad Boy, the misunderstood scoundrel with a heart of gold, whose cynicism and bitterness are mere defense mechanisms of a shy and vulnerable soul. Han Solo, eat your heart out.
The problem with this is that it can easily lead girls and woman into abusive relationships, and can push to keep them there for the sake of their poor abuser's heart. It's almost as bad as the "angel of the house" ethos that Virginia Woolf eviscerated in the Victorian era.
Josh, the hero of "Last Days of Disco," prefers to identify himself with the Scottish Terrier, Jock, who is described as "the only sympathetic character" and one who genuinely cares about Lady. He is the noble soul, the concerned neighbor, the loyal friend. Yet what happens to him in the film? The Tramp gets the girl, and Scotty dog is shunted to the side with his crippled bloodhound friend Trusty.
I found myself laughing through Thunder Fist's review yesterday, not because what he wrote was absurd, but simple because we interpreted the film so diametrically. "Lady and the Tramp" is a cute film with good visuals and decent entertainment value, but as a story and as a moral exercise it falls far short.
Lady and the Tramp is one of Disney’s finest films. I never owned it as a child and so I didn’t watch it very often, but it always made a deep impression on me whenever I did. Partly, I think, it was because the voices are so well-cast. Disney movies should win an honorary award for superb vocal casting throughout its run of films. We may not be able to recall these voices off the tops of our heads, yet who can really forget the voice of the Fairy Meriwether or the voice of Lady, the voice of the Mad Hatter or the Sheriff of Nottingham? The moment we hear these characters speak it is like meeting old friends again. Disney films are rich in distinguished voices that you recognize time and again as you listen to them bring various characters to life.
Lady and the Tramp glows with this vocal acting. From Lady herself to the little Scotch terrier, Jock, to Jim Dear and the marvelous assemblage of strays at the pound, including the philosophical Boris, this film is full of subtle Disney magic. There are no spells, no evil witches or beautiful princesses, but there is that genius for comic detail, particularly in the secondary characters, that no other film studio but Disney can quite create. This story in particular is rich in its cast of minor characters, some of them onscreen for only a minute or two—like the Gogol-quoting Boris—but partaking in a sparkling ensemble that alone makes the film a favorite.
But I must speak of Lady, as this is a princess-themed review. Lady is an interesting protagonist. She is safe within the upper crust and really has no need except for love. This is her quest: to keep the hearts of her masters, Jim Dear and Darling. When a new baby comes along, her place in the family seems to be threatened, but not for long: Lady becomes quite attached to the baby and is continually included in the family circle. She is indeed a princess, but her journey is one to protect the palace rather than be taken from it. The Tramp offers her a view of a world “without fences” at one point in the film, and she summarily rejects it in favor of family duty. The outside world does not truly appeal to her; she wants to get back home to protect the baby and her kingdom.
Lady and the Tramp is foremost about protecting the people one loves. The point of the film is not even Tramp and Lady’s romance: the film is powered by friendship, loyalty, and duty, ugly as the word ‘duty’ has become in our world, where it has somehow become caught in opposition with our concept of self-fulfillment. The movie might easily have gone like this: Lady meets Tramp, Tramp educates her about the world and opens her eyes to the great “outside” beyond the family gates, and in a move of self-assertion Lady severs herself from the past, from all duty, and runs off with Tramp into the wild. But the story barely brings us to the point of this possibility before Lady completely rejects it.
It would be easy to see Lady as sheltered and protected—because she is. The point, however, isn’t her experience of the world but her values, which drive her actions in it. Lady goes through some tough experiences when she is muzzled by an unsympathetic baby-sitter and ends up running away, only to be chased by wild strays and finally captured and put in the pound for a while. Through it all she remains somewhat naïve and frightened, and the dogs around her are compelled to care for her because, as Boris points out, she is “fragile and delicate.” I was surprised, on seeing the film again, that Lady undergoes no supreme character transformation into a stronger and tougher spaniel. But the emphasis is not on Lady acquiring a new and improved personality, but on using the personality she has. It’s rather touching to see that even a character without a big personality can still be brave. I feel like our focus on strong-willed characters for both men and women have led us to sneer at those who, yes, in some ways are more fragile when they are exposed to the world, but who still know where their hearts ought to be.
And what of the Tramp? Opposites are definitely attracted here. The scruffy Tramp at first seems to be a blend of Bad Boy and Idealist. He is completely free of constraint, comfortably disillusioned with relationships and society, and lives where and how he chooses. By the end of the film, however, he is securely ensconced in Lady’s Park Avenue world, a world he claims to despise. Has Tramp been domiciled? Not really. The theme of the film is loyalty and friendship, not personal freedom; the characters are matured through commitment. Tramp might have continued living any life he chose, but he did choose Lady and accepts his place with her in her home. I would say that Tramp chose Lady precisely because she was of this world: he is very proud to be a licensed pet in the end, and even more proud of his own family within Jim Dear and Darling’s family.
The catalyst for action in Lady is the baby. Infancy is a very strong point in this film: Lady comes to her masters as a puppy, and there is some evidence that Tramp was once owned as a puppy and then cast out when his masters had a baby of their own. There is frequent reference to fragility, delicacy, and helplessness, and while Tramp is partly drawn to Lady because of her need for protection, so Lady is drawn to her masters’ baby. Rather than a hierarchy of strength and weakness, however, we find that this need for protection is circular, and that everyone is helpless at some point: in the end, it is the Tramp himself who needs saving and protection as he is dragged off to the pound after valiantly rescuing the baby from the invasive rat.
Lady’s friends, the small terrier Jock and the big old hound dog Trusty, are two of the finest characters in the film, and it is they who bring the film’s point home. They are friends of Lady’s and are genuinely chivalrous and kind. They at first dislike Tramp because he is a little arrogant and because Lady has some reason to be angry with him, but the moment they hear of his desperate fight with the rat and his subsequent “arrest” (so to speak) by animal control, they mobilize for action.
This is the heart of the story: a high value for justice and loyalty that would urge two old dogs to rush out and save another whom they hardly know. It is a simple but haunting climax, with the dogs chasing the impoundment-carriage through the slush of the streets at night, old Trusty howling and desperately trying to use his aged sense of smell. Eventually they catch up with the carriage and manage to stall it, though in the commotion it tips over against a lamp-post. Lady, following in a car with Jim Dear, rushes out to set the Tramp free, but the last image of the scene is the most poignant: Trusty has been partly crushed by the carriage wheel and is lying in the street while Jock stands faithfully with him, grieving over his friend.
Lady and the Tramp makes its deepest points through showing and not telling. None of the characters talk about their ideals except the Tramp, and those play no vital part in the film’s most revealing moments. What matters most isn’t what is said but what is done, the deep-seated beliefs that spur real action and overpowering feelings. Lady and the Tramp is about a common nobility within a set of very different characters. Lady’s “princess” identity is really a matter of her values: at heart she simply wants her home and family to be protected and for right to be done. To me, those are regal desires.
Lady and the Tramp has a great deal of charm to offer aside from these more affecting things. Though it is essentially not a romance, it is still very romantic. Indeed, I find films to be more romantic when they aren’t all about love and lovers. It makes the moments that are about love more special, as in the wonderful Bella Notte scene, which is justly famous. Most Disney romances are sustained by their brilliant comedy, particularly among the secondary characters. Lady and the Tramp is enriched not only by its comedy but by the strength of its minor characters, and how they face their odds together. In this Lady joins them not by being the perfect heroine but by being the caring, valiant-hearted lady she is.
Unlike yesterday's review, this film is a true pleasure to review because it was one of my favorites as a young child. First off, it doesn't contain anything scarier than a mean stepmother and a fat old tomcat. It's also got plenty of cute songs and anthropomorphic animals along with a comically violent king and inept stepsisters. So yes, this is a truly kid-friendly Disney film. How rare are those? Well, at the time this film was made, they were non-existent.
Unfortunately this movie's very popularity and watchability has made it the target of relentless over-marketing and shameless sequels. The marketing may be distasteful, but it doesn't bother me nearly as much as the sequels. Call me simplistic, but when a movie ends with the words "and they lived happily ever after," that should be the final word. If you want the "happily ever after" concept challenged, let me refer you to a lovely little Preston Sturgess movie called The Palm Beach Story, which opens with a wedding and the caption "and they lived happily ever after--or did they?"Please don't do that to Cinderella unless it's a satire. Legitimate sequels ruin the whole point of a fairy tale.
Let me talk about why Cinderella is a much better protagonist than Snow White, namely because she actually has a believable personality. She actually behaves like a human being. Although she's a starry-eyed romantic and an optimist, she can still experience despair and even cynicism without having an existential crisis. I know people accuse her of being the most passive heroine, but at least she realizes that her situation is cruel, and she fails to talk herself out of being sad about missing the ball. And she takes a swing at Lucifer, much to everyone's delight. I also want to point out that she tells her stepmother that she has a right to go to the ball according to the wording of the royal proclamation, which is a certain degree of self-defense. She still lacks initiative, but she's a far cry from Snow White who feels bad about crying over her sorry plight and is uniformly cheerful through the rest of the film.
I want to take a moment to point out an interesting anachronism in Cinderella's wardrobe. I know most of you probably don't care, but since I have an interest in historical fashions, I can't help but notice these things. Cinderella has a clearly Victorian setting as evidenced by the setting, and both the men and women's costumes. To be more specific, the bustle skirts would indicate that it took place between 1870 and 1890. Now I want to point out that neither the pink dress Cinderella designs, her wedding dress, nor the silver gown her fairy godmother makes for her are period-correct. They all look like a take on 1950s gowns of varying degrees of formality--trust an avid vintage shopper on this. I'm sorry, Disney, but that just ruins the period feel for me.
Really, though, the biggest problem with the movie for me is the lack of a prince. Of course the Cinderella legend doesn't really mention the prince outside of the ball scene, so Disney didn't have much to work with. But one scene is not usually enough to establish a believable romance between two people, especially since they don't really speak to each other. I would have more respect for the prince if he went to look for her himself, but he doesn't. I will say, though, that watching the movie again recently made me think better of Cinderella because apparently she was in ignorance of the fact that she was dancing with the prince until the next morning. So kudos to her for falling in love with a guy without knowing who he was. It makes her less of a a gold-digger. But she gets negative points for being naive. Seriously, how could you not figure out he was a prince?
What can I really say about the moral of this film? It's a story of virtue rewarded, so Cinderella really just has to sit pretty while the mice and her fairy godmother manufacture the happy ending for her. Maybe it proves once and for all that it's not what you know but whom you know. Or maybe it's just the platitudinous "A friend in need is a friend indeed." It also makes me grateful that I live in a time where Child Services exists, though a lot of kids still don't fare a lot better than Cinderella did. Also I reject the notion that she could have run away from home considering she didn't have any money, and in the Victorian Era, she probably would have ended up a prostitute or starved to death. At best she could have offered herself as a domestic servant, but people didn't tend to hire them back then without references. So Cinderella doesn't really have any choices. Cut her some slack.
The Disney princess continues to evolve, and so does the Disney movie. Unfortunately it's going to be another forty years before we're going to get one with the spunk of a contemporary woman. But we can celebrate the little victories, along with a film that won't scare the pants off your three-year-olds.
**Please check out Cinema Muse's blog of classic Hollywood and book adaptation reviews, Seeing Sepia
Welcome to the first entry in our Disney Princess Series. We will be going through all the entries on this list in chronological order for the rest of the month, culminating with Alex's review of Disney's new take on the story of Rapunzel, Tangled.
When I was asked to do this review, I realized that I really needed to go back and watch it again because I hadn't actually seen it in nineteen years. There's a reason for that, too, namely that it was way too frightening for a wimpy kid like me. I really wanted to like this film when I was little, especially since it has many charming moments, but quite frankly it scared the pants off me. And when I went back to watch it again recently, I still found it profoundly creepy. Not only is the sorceress/queen frighteningly evil, but our princess gets put in a coffin, and there's disturbing, dark imagery throughout the film.
One thing I'll say about for this film, however, is that it hasn't been overly marketed with shameless sequels, which is good considering it would probably make Walt Disney's ashes spontaneously combust. Incredibly popular at the time of its release, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfsis all but overlooked by the current generation, and even classic Disney fans seem to find the film unpalatable compared to other old Disney movies like Cinderella and Peter Pan. So why is this former classic now such an ugly stepsister (pun intended)? I mean, Clark Gable and Carole Lombard were seen openly weeping with delight during the premiere, which opened to unanimously raving reviews. Why doesn't it touch us the same way anymore?
Well first off all films, like everything else, are a product of their time, and when you remove them from that context, some of the original significance will be lost. Secondly we live in very cynical times, and Snow White is perhaps the most earnest and artless of all Disney's films. I suppose Disney was trying to maintain the fairytale archetypes of Snow White and the prince, but in doing so he left them feeling very unsubstantial. Even though we see Snow White terrified in one scene, crying in another, and laughing with glee with the dwarfs, she always feels like a character, not a real person.
There's also something deeply disturbing about the way Snow White is drawn. The highly anachronistic '30s bob doesn't really bother me, but her over-sized hair bow, rounded face, squeaky voice, and lack of a bustline make her thoughts of romance with the prince seem disturbingly pedophilic, especially since everyone seems to refer to her as the "little princess." Still, the prince looks like he could still be a teenager or something, so it could be more of a Romeo-and-Juliet relationship, which is slightly less disturbing.
But is there a reason for Snow White's seeming blandness? I mean, the one moment when she shows a bit of logical frailty, she feels bad about her emotional outburst. I refer, of course, to her adventure in the woods when she finds out her stepmother wants to kill her and she must flee for her life. While running in the forest, her imagination acts up, and she imagines the dark gnarled trees are monsters. Finally, she is just so overwrought that she sits down and cries, which is very relate-able, but she goes and ruins the moment of pathos by saying that it was unpardonable to get so scared, and then sings a happy song.
When I saw that scene as an adult, however, the metaphorical light in my head kicked on. Snow White is meant to be an exemplar character, embodying the spirit of the 1930s. As such she is not allowed to let hardships get her down. Millions of Americans at the time were going through the same plight, losing their homes and dignity through no fault of their own, but they couldn't let themselves wallow in self-pity either. So yes, Snow White's bob is emblematic of her significance to her audience. She may be in medieval garb, but she's a woman of the '30s. And that means that audiences of the day could naturally feel a kinship to her because they could relate to her situation. Too bad it doesn't hold up in 2010.
Our protagonist, however, is not the only one who seems a little flat in this film. Although the dwarfs are supposed to be the most colorful characters in this film, their personalities are fairly one-note, and their humor extremely predictable. Also I noticed that the dwarf Happy doesn't really get much screen time. I suppose the writers just couldn't think of many amusing things for a character whose defining characteristic is mirth. I will say, however, that I found the forest animals to be charmingly endearing in their mute sympathy with Snow White and the way they helped her clean the dwarfs' house.
I also really like the music in this film, especially "Whistle While You Work," "Some Day My Prince Will Come," and the "Hi-Ho Chorus." I wouldn't say that any of the music is outstanding, but it all fits the intended mood nicely. Some of the orchestrations may feel dated now, but in the '30s, it must have seemed particularly powerful, since it would have fit the conventions of movie music better. The only problem I really have is that I find Snow White's nasally, weak soprano to be insipid at best and infuriating at worst.
Now let me say why I find this movie completely inappropriate for young children, namely the Evil Queen. The first image we get in the film is of this character conjuring an enslaved demon/spirit from the nether realm who speaks to her in the mirror. And if that weren't frightening enough, said demon of the mirror speaks in a deep, otherworldly voice calculated to scare. The next part that I found deeply disquieting as a child was when the Queen tells her huntsman to cut out Snow White's heart. That detail is a bit too gruesome for young kids. Then we get one of the most frightening sequences is all of cinema when the Queen learns that Snow White is still alive, and storms down into her dungeon lair to find a spell that will kill the princess once and for all. That scene is quite literally a descent into madness and death, and we have symbols of both lining the dark, dank dungeon where she mixes the potions that will poison the apple and transform herself into a hag. As she goes along to the dwarf's cottage, the Queen is followed by a pair of vultures who hang around for Snow White's death and the Queen's fight with the dwarfs, casting an ominous shadow over the whole proceedings. They are not just there for symbolism, however, because the play a role in the Queen's death. After she falls off the cliff and gets squished by a boulder--not that we get to see her squished body, mind you--the vultures swoop down to prey on her still-warm body. Yes, that's a bit excessive and gruesome. I mean, it's enough to see her fall off the cliff to know she's dead. The boulder and the vultures almost excite our pity. To cap off all this kid-friendly fare, we have to see our main character decked out in a coffin with everyone around in tears and dirge-like music playing. I mean, even knowing, as everyone does, that she will be awakened by a kiss does not stop this from being a profoundly sad scene, especially since the animators did a really good job of making her coffin look like the kind of medieval sculpture of the deceased that you would find on a tomb in a Gothic cathedral. I will, however, give this film credit for knowing how to play our emotions like a violin.
So Disney's first full-length feature is a solid outing with a lot of good points, but it remains too raw, too flawed to be enjoyed by children today. It certainly changed the industry, but it's easily eclipsed by later Disney outings, including the quintessential princess film which I shall be reviewing tomorrow.
**Please check out Cinema Muse's blog of classic Hollywood and book adaptation reviews, Seeing Sepia
In celebration of the Nov. 24th release of "Tangled," the Disney take on the Rapunzel folktale, Worthy of Note is officially commemorating November2010 to be Disney Princess month.
Starting tomorrow and continuing every weekday until the end of the month, Worthy of Note will be publishing a review of each of the films in the Disney Princess canon, along with a few other similar or related films. We're also adding two new authors to the blog for this feature. We're very pleased to welcome Neophytus and Aléxandros to the Worthy of Note team, and look forward to their reviews of "The Little Mermaid" and "Mulan" for this series!
**Note: this is an except from a review I wrote for my blog Seeing Sepia. For the full article, please click here**
As a reviewer of Golden Age Hollywood films, I find myself among the countless people who look back longingly at the films of the mid-20th century and lament the loss of the "purity" of those films. Whether or not we're deluding ourselves remains to be seen, but it can certainly be argued that older movies had just as many problems as contemporary ones, albeit in different areas.
Apparently one of my favorite authors is among this group of rabid old movie fans. Connie Willis wrote a novella called Remake in the mid-'90s that was a love song to the Golden Age of film, and particularly the movie musical. I've known about this book for a while, but I found it difficult to procure a copy because it was never very popular. I finally read it recently, though, and since it fit in so well with my recent themes of musicals and Fred Astaire in particular, I thought I should include it.
In the near future, Willis envisions a Hollywood where CG rules the day. New live-action movies are a thing of the past, as it's much easier to place CG renderings of famous actors into new movies or remake old movie with an all-star cast of your choice. And if you don't like the ending to Casablanca you can change it on demand. It's a sort of post-modern dystopia where everything is simulated from sex to movie stars to feelings via designer drugs.
“Red Rackham’s Treasure” is the immediate sequel to “Secret of the Unicorn," and though it cannot compare in literary genius or narrative impact, it is a worthy successor. So many years earlier, a ship belonging to naval legend Sir Francis Haddock was raided and taken by the notorious pirate Red Rackham. During the action, however, the pirate’s ship sunk, so Rackham made the “Unicorn” his new flagship. When Sir Francis escaped and blew up the “Unicorn,” the pirate’s horde of treasure sank with it. Now, many years later, intrepid journalist Tintin and Sir Francis’ descendant Captain Haddock work to recover the treasure and make their fortune.
The book is particularly notable for introducing the greatest of all absent-minded professors in the Tintin series: Professor Cuthbert Calculus. He is brought into the tale as the inventor of a submarine that will allow them to avoid detection by the sharks common to the area. Mostly deaf, and rather careless in his treatment of Haddock’s supply of liquor, he is always one to cause tension on board, especially when he converses with the Spoonerism-prone Thompson twins. Yet in the end, Calculus demonstrates his considerable good nature and child-like innocence by buying Haddock’s ancestral estate for him, using the government check he received for the submarine patent.
“Red Rackham’s Treasure” brings together almost all of the major heroes of the “Adventures of Tintin” for the first time. Tintin discovers the manuscripts pointing to the treasure; Captain Haddock commands the ship that will take them there; Calculus manages to stow aboard for his own reasons; and the twins Thomson and Thompson are brought on board at the last minute, to protect them from the prequel’s villain Max Bird. Bird is never heard of again, so this was pretty clearly an excuse to get the twins aboard, but I can hardly complain since they look so ridiculous in their attempts to act and dress as “old sea dogs.”
The settings are also pretty spectacular here. We quickly move from the piers of a Belgian port city to the Caribbean sea, then to a tropical island and (best of all) to an underwater vista comparable to Pixar’s “Finding Nemo,” before returning to the grandeur of Marlinspike Hall. This is one of the most colorful books in the Tintin series, and one of the most delightful for young readers, including myself when I first picked up this book.
The genius of this story consists in its ability to subvert our expectations. There are so many false positives – those elusive moments when we are all but certain they’ve found the treasure – and false alarms contained in this adventure; it’s quite impressive.
Moreover, when the treasure is actually found [spoiler alert… darn, too late], it is almost an afterthought. The journey is the thing, along with all the incidental discoveries along the way. The real ending occurs when Tintin and Captain Haddock put on an exhibit at Marlinspike Hall displaying their various finds during the expedition: a statue of the loud-mouthed Sir Francis Haddock made by natives of the island where he was marooned, the figurehead of the “Unicorn,” and of course the three miniature sailing ships that figured largely in the previous book “Secret of the Unicorn.”
The lesson is twofold: treasure is always closer to home than we think, and the real treasure of historical artifacts isn’t in their monetary value, but in what they can teach of about the past. On that note of nauseatingly cheesy life lessons worthy of a 50’s sitcom, I will end.
“The Secret of the Unicorn” is generally considered to be the best comic book in “The Adventures of Tintin,” both by fans and by its creator Hergé. It is not surprising, then, that this is the story Steven Spielberg chose to adapt to screen. Along with its sequel “Red Rackham’s Treasure,” this comic book comprises one of the most enjoyable romps in the entire series.
In narrative terms, this is probably the best and most coherent books in the series. The book opens in a marketplace, where Tintin meets the Thompson twins. The detectives are investigating a series of pick-pockets, but when they stop to buy a number of canes, they discover their own wallets had been stolen. Tintin, meanwhile, stumbles across a sailing-ship model and decides to buy it for Captain Haddock, just before two other antique collectors attempt to purchase it as well. When Tintin presents it to Haddock, he realizes that it’s identical to the sailing ship in the background of a portrait of his ancestor, Sir Francis Haddock.
This reminds Haddock of a sea-chest that belonged to his ancestor gathering dust in the attic, where he finds a cutlass (by which he terrifies his neighbors and landlady) and Sir Francis Haddock’s journal, in which he relates a sea battle with the dread pirate Roberts… er, Red Rackham. The panels alternate between Captain Haddocks’ dramatic storytelling and re-enactment of the events, and Sir Francis Haddocks’ experience of the events themselves. The effect is dazzling. Captain Haddock fights with the cutlass and his finger for a pistol, only for the next panel to show Sir Francis Haddock fighting in the same stance with a cutlass and an actual pistol. When Sir Francis duels the terrifying Diego the Dreadful, Hergé depicts the pirate’s demise via Captain Haddock’s skewering of a cushion. These pages are a highlight of the comic book, and in my opinion of the series as a whole.
Returning to the modern day, Tintin discovers that his model ship was stolen and his apartment ransacked. He suspects one of the other collectors, but soon realizes the man's innocence when he finds that the collector owns an identical miniature that was also stolen. Tintin had purchased one in a matching set of sailing ship models. He soon discovers that there is a scrap of parchment hidden in the mast of each model, with a message from Sir Francis Haddock to his sons: the location of Red Rackham’s treasure.
The story proceeds with murders, mayhems, and pick-pocketing. Tintin is, predictably enough, kidnapped by the villains, questioned for information he could not possibly possess, makes a daring and clever escape, and ultimately discovers his kidnapper’s insidious plan.
The ending of the comic book is truly delightful. It turns out that, while everyone was busily trying to gather the three parchments, the serial pick-pocketer was stealing their wallets with those parchments. When Tintin and the Thompson detectives finally catch up with the man – Aristides Silk, civil servant and kleptomaniac – they discover his alphabetized collection of wallets, and Tintin finds the remaining scraps of parchment.
Before he leaves to share that discovery with Captain Haddock, Tintin reminds the detectives to look under the letter "T" in Silk's wallet collection. The detectives' realization that the entire section had been filled with wallets belonging to them... I still laugh when I read it.
It turns out that when each scrap of parchment is held together to the light, it reveals a message, along with a latitude and longitude where the pirate’s treasure would be found. But that story waits for the sequel: “Red Rackham’s Treasure.”
This comic book is probably the best in the series, both in literary terms and in narrative heft. The recurring motif of pick-pocketing neatly book-ends the central story, and there is an impressive diversity of settings even though the story occurs almost entirely within a modern city. The back-story of Captain Haddock’s ancestor is brilliantly written and sketched, and it is a true highlight of the entire series. Most of all, the story dovetails perfectly with its sequel: the works are distinct in style and in their setting, but coincide splendidly in narrative tension and dramatic movement.
Today in Tintin Week we turn to “The Crab with the Golden Claws.” As in so many stories, Tintin travels to an exotic foreign land and unmasks an international gang of professional bad dudes. This tale is particularly notable for introducing Captain Haddock, who will be a constant companion for Tintin in all subsequent adventures. “The Crab with the Golden Claws” is one of three Tintin books that is being drawn upon for the upcoming film “The Secret of the Unicorn,” directed by Steven Spielberg and George Lucas.
The story begins in Belgium. Tintin is taking his dog for a walk, and Snowy sticks his head into a garbage bin and gets it stuck in a tin of crab meat. They meet Thomson & Thompson in a bar, and the twins tell them about their recent investigation. Tintin realizes that one of the pieces of evidence the twins had gathered was a scrap of paper taken from the very tin can Snowy had found earlier. This sets them up for a wild ride: the name of a ship, the “Karaboudjan,” is written on the scrap, and when Tintin goes aboard to investigate he is kidnapped and imprisoned in the ship’s cellar by the first mate.
He escapes the cellar, only to meet the captain, an arrogant and alcoholic clod. I later grew fond of Captain Haddock, but in this tale he is maddeningly obtuse and gets in the way of everything. Perhaps this book is one of the reasons alcohol never appealed to me. I’m sure my decision had nothing to do with the white wine I accidentally drank when I was eight, because my grandmother had stored it in an apple juice carton. That wasn’t traumatic at all.
Anyway, Tintin and Haddock escape on the longboat, at least until Haddock burns the oars to keep warm. Then they’re shot at by a seaplane, but thanks to Tintin’s ridiculous ability to swim several hundred yards underwater while fully clothed and wearing a raincoat, they capture the plane and fly it to Spain. Only they crash-land in the middle of the Sahara. Pity. Haddock, thirsting for a drink, hallucinates that Tintin is a giant bottle of whiskey. He almost suffocates Tintin, but is knocked out, courtesy of Snowy’s ability to wield a camel femur. They wake up in a desert outpost, having been picked up by a sentry patrolling the area, and are soon on their way to “Bagghar, a large Moroccan port.”
While drunkenly carousing the harbor walks, Haddock stumbles across the Karaboudjan, recently repurposes as the “Djebel Amilah.” He is kidnapped shortly thereafter for the commotion he caused. Tintin tries to track him, but fails. However, he discovers that Omar Ben Salaad, one of the wealthiest merchants in Bagghar, is the distributor of the tins of crab meat, and is the suspected head of a gang of drug runners that uses those tins for smuggling opium.
Tintin infiltrates the gang’s headquarters – Hergé clever alludes to the philosopher Diogenes who lived in a barrel, for a hint as to the secret passageway – and rescues Haddock. They escape, they are pursued, the police are called in, and Tintin triumphs. He returns home to Belgium and listens to tales of his exploits on the radio, and discovers that Captain Haddock has also returned, and is lecturing (without the least bit of irony) on “drink, the sailor’s worst enemy.” Unfortunately, he takes ill after he consumes a glass of water when he had thought it would be whiskey.
This is not the best of the Tintin adventures -- indeed, it is somewhat unremarkable. This was partly by design -- this was one of the first of the Tintin comics published after the Nazis invaded Belgium, and Hergé was forced to set aside his more controversial and politically oriented stories for lighter fare. But the locales are splendid, the story is coherent, and the art and the writing are top-notch. Not to mention that there should be some recognition for the first appearance of Tintin's enduring friend and companion-who-isn't-a-dog.
Today in Tintin Week, we're featuring a review of "The Cigars of the Pharaoh," the fourth published comic book in "The Adventures of Tintin" and an immediate prequel to "The Blue Lotus." Though it is not as well known (or as highly regarded) as its sequel, "Cigars" marks the crucial transitional period in Herge's writing, as he transitions from stereotyped location-driven fantasies to highly researched action-adventure escapades.
“Cigars” begins as Tintin is returning from a cruise vacation that had taken him from Shanghai in China to Port-Said in Egypt. He meets the deliciously daft Sophocles Sarcophagus, who shows him a papyrus with the secret location of the lost tomb of Pharoah Kih-Oskh. Dr. Sarcophagus is an early version of the absent-minded professor type that would ultimately lead Hergé to invent Professor Cuthbert Calculus, first introduced in “Red Rackham’s Treasure” and a regular recurring character in later stories.
Tintin is also investigated and arrested by Detectives Thomson and Thompson – this is their first appearance in the “Adventures," besides a brief showing that was ret-conned into “Tintin in the Congo." Their presence here is very different here than in later stories. Where Hergé would ultimately make them laughably dense – often using them to parody European stereotypes of foreign cultures – in this adventure the twins are at least moderately efficient, and save Tintin’s life on several occasions (though they are of course outmatched whenever they try to arrest him).
Tintin also encounters Mr. Rastapopoulos on the cruise ship, and the set up for this character is brilliant, almost worthy of Hergé’s most mature work. On the ship Rastapopoulos is introduced as a random uncivil clod, much like other one-off characters, but a later random encounter in the desert reveals him to be a wealthy filmmaker who is friendly to Tintin. Their initial tension overcome, the reader is made to feel confident in Rastapopoulos’ character, notwithstanding the frequent (and sometimes glaring) hints that he isn’t trustworthy. Only by the end of “The Blue Lotus” is his true nature revealed: Rastapopoulos is the head of the international ring of opium smugglers and in general a Very Bad Man. He becomes a recurring villain in many of Tintin’s later adventures, such as “The Red Sea Sharks.”
The comic book is set in three primary locations: Egypt, Arabia, and India. Unfortunately, while these locations are depicted in a more realistic manner than Hergé’s earlier works, they seem to occupy a world in which Arabia borders the Indus River. At one point, Tintin flies away from a (distinctly Arab) desert city, only to find himself within the hour flying over a (distinctly Indian) jungle with (lions) tigers (and bears). Oh my. Needless to say, the transitions are a bit iffy.
As for the plot, it is borne on so many escapades and plot devices that description is bland even when reading is a thrill. Suffice it to say that there are Bad Guys, that Tintin meets these Bad Guys and interferes with their Insidious Plans without realizing the trouble he’d gotten himself into, and ultimately brings said Bad Guys to justice with wit, charm, and an ample helping of awesome. What more could you possibly ask for?
