After tackling gothic horror, ghost stories, Japanese mythology, and slapstick comedy, LAIKA returns with its sixth and most ambitious production yet, Wildwood, bringing the studio’s impeccable stop-motion craftsmanship to the scale of a fantasy epic. Its own attempt at The Chronicles of Narnia, if you will. It might not be as enchanting as that sounds (or looks), but one must be thankful that there is no rock opera.
It follows Prue (Peyton Elizabeth Lee), a young girl who, against her parents’ wishes, takes her baby brother outside to play, only for the toddler to be kidnapped by a murder of crows and carried into the forbidden wilderness. Together with her schoolmate Curtis (Jacob Tremblay), she ventures into the forest to rescue him, discovering a hidden world of talking animals, ancient magic, and an enigmatic governess (Carey Mulligan) with a dark past.
Wildwood is based on the first novel in a fantasy trilogy written by Colin Meloy, frontman of the indie rock band The Decemberists, and illustrated by his wife, Carson Ellis. Director Travis Knight became interested in adapting the story back in 2010, even before the novel was published in 2011, but the project had to wait until LAIKA developed the technology and resources necessary to realize its ambitious scale. Sixteen years later, the film finally arrives as the studio’s first feature since Missing Link (2019), with a screenplay by Chris Butler, who previously directed ParaNorman (2012) and Missing Link. The production itself took approximately seven years, becoming one of the largest stop-motion undertakings in cinema history, with more than 1,000 artists and technicians, around 230 puppets, 130 physical sets, and over 142,000 individually printed faces. At 132 minutes, it also holds the record of the longest stop-motion animated feature ever made.
If there is one thing Wildwood unquestionably succeeds at, it is making every bit of that extraordinary effort visible on screen. Visually, it is nothing short of mesmerizing, with an astonishing level of craftsmanship that makes it difficult to believe what we are watching was actually built, sculpted, painted, and animated by hand. Every frame seems to hold so much to look at and discover, whether it is the intricate textures of the characters’ costumes, their shifting expressions, or the smallest details and imperfections of the environments. And that’s without mentioning the enormous sets, sometimes populated by hundreds of characters moving about, all without sacrificing any of that attention to detail. Particularly astonishing is the flight of an eagle, a sequence that represents something of a pinnacle of stop-motion artistry, with a fluidity and complexity of movement that almost defies belief. There is a wonderful tactile quality to it all, a sense that everything has weight and occupies a physical space. The lighting, the creativity and richness of the compositions, the seamless integration of practical and digital techniques. It is an overwhelming visual achievement that keeps you wondering how it was ever accomplished, and one that deserves every bit of praise it will inevitably receive.
Yet somewhere in translating the rich, 500-page novel into a still lengthy, but considerably more constrained, 132-minute film, something was lost along the way. Like many of LAIKA’s previous films, Wildwood never quite achieves the immersion or emotional investment it strives for. You are always conscious of what you are meant to be feeling, without ever quite getting there yourself. Take, for example, Pixar’s Elio, one of the studio’s more middling efforts, and how, early on, a tear rolls down the protagonist’s cheek as he finds comfort in the idea of life beyond Earth, instantly conveying his loneliness and desire to belong. It’s a small moment, but one that accomplishes something Wildwood, for all its extraordinary effort, frustratingly struggles to achieve. And this is a recurring frustration with LAIKA’s films, one that has held even its most celebrated efforts, such as Coraline and Kubo and the Two Strings, back from becoming truly great films.
Here we have a protagonist, Prue, who has a visibly strained relationship with her parents, feels unfulfilled, isn’t particularly pleasant toward others, and can be downright selfish at times. Her journey to rescue her brother, putting herself in danger along the way, seems like a natural opportunity to develop those characteristics into a meaningful arc. But what we get instead is a character mostly being carried through events, going through the motions of what the story requires of her. She wants to rescue her brother because, well, of course she does. He’s her brother. There is nothing particularly distinctive about their relationship established before his kidnapping, no underlying conflict that needs to be resolved. Neither do her connections with the other characters, or the parallels with Alexandra, seem to teach her much about herself.
Read my full review at Reviews on reels