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Pixarticulation : the voice in contemporary animated cinema Montgomery, Colleen 2010

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PIXARTICULATION: THE VOICE IN CONTEMPORARY ANIMATED CINEMA   by  COLLEEN MONTGOMERY  B.A., The University of British Columbia, 2007      A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF  MASTER OF ARTS  in  The Faculty of Graduate Studies  (Film Studies)   THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH COLUMBIA  (Vancouver)    April 2010     © Colleen Montgomery, 2010  ii ABSTRACT Since releasing the first animated feature film Toy Story in 1995, Pixar has radically altered contemporary animated filmmaking/viewing practices. Yet, inasmuch as Pixar’s popularization of digital rendering technologies has had a profound impact on the visual aesthetics of animation, the studio’s use of the voice—on both a narrative and extratextual level—is also at the forefront of a profound aesthetic and economic reshaping of the aural, and more precisely, vocal landscape of contemporary animated cinema. Whereas Pixar’s parent corporation, The Walt Disney Company, is a critical focal point in animation studies, as Chapter One outlines, Pixar has remained largely absent from scholarly discourses on animation.  As a corrective to this critical lacuna, Chapter Two proposes a triangulation of animation/Disney criticism, psychoanalysis, and media theory, for thinking Pixar’s use of the voice.  Chapter Three contextualizes this analysis, providing a critical overview of American animation history, emphasizing Mike Budd, Max Kirsch, and Janet Wasko’s writing on Disney’s corporate and artistic practices.  Moving towards a theory of Pixar animation’s relationship to the voice, Chapter Four outlines the studio’s history and relevance to contemporary animation. Drawing from Michel Chion and Mladen Dolar’s psychoanalytic theories of the voice (and cinema), Chapters Five and Six present two case studies that elucidate the textual dimensions of Pixar’s voices.  The first of these centres on Toy Story and Toy Story 2, both of which feature a complex mix of mechanical, acousmatic and ventriloquial voices, while the second case study focuses on Monsters, Inc. and its interrogation of the symbolic, linguistic and cultural functions of the scream and laughter.  Finally, Chapter Seven examines the extratextual use of the voice as a part of Pixar’s promotional discourses, intensive, synergistic branding strategies, and cultivation of a broad audience demographic.  This chapter calls upon Barbara Klinger and Martin Barker’s respective discussions of the role that promotional materials play in influencing a text’s reception, and Noël Carroll’s writing on intertextuality, proposing that the use of the voice in Pixar’s marketing campaigns structures an intertextual, multi-tiered mode of reception for reading its films—a process which I here term ‘Pixarticulation.’  iii TABLE OF CONTENTS Abstract ...................................................................................................................................... ii Table of Contents ...................................................................................................................... iii Acknowledgements .....................................................................................................................v Dedication ................................................................................................................................. vi  1  Introduction................................................................................................................................1 1.1  “Don’t Touch My Moustache!” ...........................................................................................2 1.2  Second Cousin and Playboy Model......................................................................................4  2  Methodology: From Mouse to Ratatouille...............................................................................8 2.1  Deconstructing Disney Discourse ......................................................................................10 2.2  Follow the Bouncing Desk Lamp.......................................................................................15 2.3  Double Entendre.................................................................................................................17 2.4  Pixarticulation ....................................................................................................................24  3  Who Framed the Animated Film? A Critical History of Animation ..................................32 3.1  Before Mickey....................................................................................................................34 3.2  “Not an Art but a Trade…Bad Luck” ................................................................................38 3.3  The Disney Version(s)........................................................................................................40 3.4  Team Disney and the Disney Decade.................................................................................44 3.5  The Silicon Age of Animation ...........................................................................................47  4  It Was All Stared by a Lamp: A Brief History of (Disney) Pixar Animation ....................51 4.1  Jobs, PIC, and CAPS..........................................................................................................53 4.2  The Disneyfication of Pixar ...............................................................................................55 4.3  To Infinity and Beyond the Scope of Scholarship .............................................................57 4.4  Toys and Monsters .............................................................................................................61  5  Voices in Toyland: Pull-Strings, Dinosaurs and Ventriloquists ..........................................65 5.1  Autonomous Voices: The Grain of the (Toy) Voice..........................................................67 5.2  Press Here: ‘Toy Voices’ ...................................................................................................72 5.3  Ventriloquial Voices...........................................................................................................77     iv 6  The Hollywood Scream Factory: De-acousmatization, the Screaming Point and the Postlinguistic Voice..................................................................................................................81 6.1  “We Scare Because We Care”............................................................................................81 6.2  Scream and Shout ...............................................................................................................83 6.3  Appealing Screams.............................................................................................................86 6.4  Comic Relief.......................................................................................................................90  7  Pixarticulation: Vocal Branding, Intertextuality and Marketing Voxography.................95 7.1  Pulling Back the Curtain: De-acousmatized Animated Voices..........................................96 7.2  Animating Star Persona....................................................................................................100 7.3  When Harry Met Sulley… ...............................................................................................103 7.4  Mr. Potato Head and Robert Goulet .................................................................................109 7.5  DreamWorks and Pixar ....................................................................................................112 7.6  “What Kind of Cut-Rate Production Is This?”.................................................................116  8  Conclusion ..............................................................................................................................120 8.1  The Pixarification of Disney ............................................................................................121 8.2  “Did that Dog Just Say ‘Hi There’?”................................................................................123  Filmography...........................................................................................................................125  Bibliography...........................................................................................................................135  Appendices .............................................................................................................................149 Appendix A:  Pixar Filmography ............................................................................................149 Appendix B:  Toy Story Toys at Walt Disney World..............................................................150 Appendix C:  Monsters, Inc. Promotional Materials...............................................................152 Appendix D:  Pixar Attractions ...............................................................................................153    v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS   For all of the opportunities and resources with which they have provided me, I must first thank the UBC Department of Theatre and Film for making this research project possible. Special thanks are also due to my supervisor, professor Ernest Mathijs, whose continued guidance, patience and enthusiasm were indispensable to this project, and to professors Brian McIlroy and Lisa Coulthard for all their invaluable direction and encouragement.  Thank you also to professor Mark Harris, whose film recommendations and conversations over beer and fries never failed to inspire. For their very generous extension of support, academic wisdom, and Korean cuisine I would also like to thank professors Steffen Hantke and Aryong Choi.  I am grateful also to my fellow film studies graduate students, Brenda Cromb, Andrew deWaard, Jessica Hughes, Graeme Krautheim, and Colin Tait for our many lively discussions and livelier disputes that shaped the course of my research, and to my Cinephile (subscribe today at cinephile.ca!) co-editor Brent Strang, for being a first rate editorial partner and unwavering ally throughout this process.  Finally, I am immensely grateful to all my friends and family, who have so patiently listened to my many musings on talking toys, bugs, monsters, fish, cars, rats, dogs and robots for the past three years.  Who’s up for Toy Story 3 this June?  vi DEDICATION  To Diane, Ted and Laura Montgomery, who took me to see my first Pixar film and who, 15 years later, continue to support my love of animated films.    1 1 Introduction  Like many Canadian families eager to escape the frozen, slushy winters of the central provinces, for many years, my family made the long ‘snowbird’ trek down to Florida during the holiday season.  As a child, the light at the end of this two-day road trip through the greater part of the Mid-Eastern United States was not only the prospect of warm Florida sunshine, but perhaps more importantly, the promise of a visit to the home of Disney’s iconic mouse: the Walt Disney World Resort just outside Orlando. 1   Although on many trips the sunshine proved meagre and the weather less than favourable, the squeaky clean aura of Disney—of Cinderella’s illuminated palace, Epcot’s iconic gleaming silver globe, and all the thousands of shiny plastic Mickey ears sported by park visitors—never seemed to lose its lustre. Upon returning to Disney as an adult in 2009/2010 for the first time in more than ten years—now overtly aware of what Mike Budd, in Rethinking Disney, deems the “less savory aspects and activities” (3) of the multinational corporation—the allure of the resort’s ‘spotless’ aura was naturally a far more problematic concept.  This, no doubt, is not an uncommon sentiment among Disney scholars, many of whom have written about reconciling their own (or their research participants’) childhood memories of visiting Disney’s numerous attractions or watching the studio’s films and television shows, and their critical understanding of the economic, ideological and artistic implications of the company’s practices.  Steve Fjellman perhaps best illustrates this tension in his penetrating critical account of Disney’s corporate ideology, its commodity fetishization, and its urban impact on the state of Florida, Vinyl Leaves, which is punctuated with his own candid assessment of the personal pleasures he derives from Disney World: “I love it! I could live here.  I love its infinitude, its theatre, its Dadaism.  I love  1  While Disney is commonly thought to reside within Orlando’s borders, the resort is in fact located beyond the confines of the city, within two of Disney’s own privately owned cities: Lake Buena Vista and Bay Lake.   2 its food, its craft, its simulations.  It gets me to think, to remember, and to make up new fantasies. I appreciate its civility and its safety.  I crave its contradictions” (16). 2  Eric Smoodin also neatly illustrates this tension in his discussion of a 1991 television interview with former Mouseketeer Annette Funicello (by John Tesh).  Recounting her very personal experience of Disney, Funicello first speaks of her cherished mouse ears, which she keeps on display under glass in her home, then continues to relay that during her run on The Mickey Mouse Club, any child who lost his/her mouse ears was docked $50 from his/her next paycheck for the transgression and replacement of the ears (1).  Her comments capture both the nostalgia that she—like many Disney critics of her generation and beyond—have for Disney, but also betrays an awareness of the company’s iron-fisted commercial practices. 3   This negotiation of a personal and critical understanding of Disney is a valuable area of inquiry in Disney studies (as will be discussed in Chapter Two), and one that has also informed my expedition into one of Disney’s most important artistic and economic holdings: Pixar Animation Studios.  1.1 “Don’t Touch My Moustache!” When I first began my research into the voice in contemporary animation I was naturally drawn to Pixar’s films in particular.  This interest was, at least in part, informed by my own nostalgia for these films, as I have fond memories of going to see a number of them as a child.  It was, in fact, during one of these screenings that I first became aware of Pixar’s particular use of  2  See: Forgacs; Bell, Haas, and Sells; Ayres; and Davis (which tellingly features as the author’s portrait on the book’s back cover, a photo of Davis as a young girl in front of Cinderella’s Palace at Disney), for a broader illustration of this dual perspective within Disney studies. 3  On a more personal level, this incongruity between Disney’s carefully constructed public image and the everyday reality of its operations was evidenced in a recent trip to Disney’s urban community, Celebration, U.S.A.  A stately, but visibly drunk woman teetering precariously down the well-manicured downtown thoroughfare in the mid- afternoon while crews just a few blocks over blanketed the streets with fake snow for the holiday season, sharply juxtaposed the squeaky clean, orderly façade of the community (in which even the ratio of grass to trees and the colour of a house’s drapes are strictly regulated).  Of course, one case of public intoxication is not comparable to the company’s questionable labour policies, co-opting of Florida’s wetlands, and so on; however, it served as an apt demonstration of the ‘cracks’ in Disney’s pristine veneer that many scholars have sought to illuminate.   3 the voice.  Along with my family, I attended a screening of Toy Story 2 (John Lasseter, 1999) 4  in a crowded suburban multiplex theatre.  Near the midway point of the narrative, the film’s villain, Al, receives a telephone call from Japan confirming the sale of several of the titular toys to the ‘Konishi Toy Museum’ in Tokyo.  An offscreen voice on the Japanese end of the line is heard emphatically exclaiming, “Arigato gozaimasu” (thank you very much) and “Yes, yes, yes, I’ll pay anything you want!” several times, to which Al responds, after some stammering, “Don’t touch my moustache!” Since Al does happen to have a moustache, the line could perhaps be read as an amusing expression of the character’s neurotic personality, yet such a reading fails to adequately contextualize the rather incongruous line within the narrative.  In fact, the phrase “don’t touch my moustache” is a reference to a common English mnemonic for the Japanese expression for thank you: do itashi mashite.  Thus, although the line does not contribute to the narrative development in any significant way, it performs an important function within the text: it is a particular mode of address which speaks directly, and yet at the same time reconditely, to a very specific viewership.  That is to say, the line constitutes a moment of double recognition between the film and viewers ‘in the know.’  On the one hand, the savvy viewer recognizes the film’s awareness and deployment of a relatively exclusive piece of knowledge/culture, while the film actively acknowledges and calls out to those viewers with the distinct skill set needed to decode the meaning of the aforementioned line that would likely pass over the general viewer. Although, at the time, I did not have the rhetorical tools to critically analyze the effect of this moment—of my own (vocal) reaction to the esoteric reference—my awareness of the mnemonic (from many informal Japanese lessons administered by parents and grandparents) and subsequent participation in an active decoding of the film’s text, undoubtedly changed and  4  Co-directed by Ash Brannon and Lee Unkrich.   4 enhanced my experience of the film.  The objective of this research project is to explore some of the wider phenomena at play in that moment of dual recognition I experienced as a child, taking Pixar as the focal point in an examination of the changing relationship between the voice and the animated image in contemporary film and popular culture.  Issues of vocal performance, narrative and extratextual processes of de-acousmatization, and the use of celebrity voices and star persona in marketing animation, will all figure centrally in this discussion.  1.2 Second Cousin and Playboy Model Formulating a critical framework for speaking about Pixar’s films, and their unique position in relation to other contemporary animated fare, poses certain distinct challenges.  First, as Chapter Two outlines in greater detail, animation has often been viewed as a “second cousin to mainstream [live action] cinema” (Wells, “Understanding” 1-2).  The relatively small amount of scholarship that exists on animation (as compared to its live action counterpart) is certainly reflective of this attitude.  A number of recent animated films and television shows, however, have garnered a great deal of attention in the popular press—some for their aesthetic merits, or political positioning, others for their lasting cultural resonance, or record breaking box-office success.  To take but a handful of examples: the June 2004 issue of Wired magazine took Pixar and The Incredibles (Brad Bird, 2004) as its cover story; The Simpsons have appeared on hundreds of magazine covers since the early 1990s from Forbes to Rolling Stone and, most recently, Playboy; 5  Ari Folman’s animated (and semi-autobiographical) documentary on the 1982 Lebanon War, Waltz With Bashir (2008), caused a media stir upon its release, receiving a good deal of praise in the popular press and also criticism (most notably in the Israeli newspaper  5  On the occasion of The Simpsons’ 20 th  anniversary, Marge Simpson became the first animated character to appear on the cover of Playboy magazine in November of 2009 (Serjeant).   5 Hareetz); while James Cameron’s Avatar (2009), has been as abundantly spotlighted for its use of state-of-the-art 3D animation technologies as it has been parodied for its blue aliens. 6  Scholarly attention to animation has also seen a renewed interest since the mid to late 1980s. 7   As Paul Wells argues, this is due at least in part to the proliferation and sustained success of animated (and often adult-oriented) television shows such as The Simpsons, The Ren and Stimpy Show, Beavis and Butt-head, South Park, etc. (3-4 “America”), and as Thomas Lamarre notes, the use of animation in other “mass-targeted and globally disseminated entertainments of the late 1980s and early 1990s” (xxi) including video games, music videos and special effects.  This critical engagement has also been encouraged by a number of other disparate factors including: the re-emergence of Disney animation as a major force in mainstream Hollywood cinema during the “Disney Renaissance” (1989-1999); the success of such animated blockbusters as Who Framed Roger Rabbit? (Robert Zemeckis, 1988) and The Nightmare Before Christmas (Henry Selick, 1993); the international distribution, and growing fan base of Japanese anime—from Akira (tomo Katsuhiro, 1998) to Spirited Away (Miyazaki Hayao, 2001); the spread of international animation festivals, 8  the experimental animation of art house and avant-garde filmmakers such as Jan vankmajer and the Brothers Quay; and the rise of new national cinemas (and their respective animation traditions) in the post-Cold War period (Pilling ix-x). Disney animation has become an important critical focal point in this scholarship.  The growing discipline of “Disney studies” has yielded a vast array of books and articles across a  6  The recent South Park episode “Dances with Smurfs,” is a notable animated example of this type of parodying. 7  See Langer (“Animatophilia”) for a more detailed account of the shift in scholarly/popular approaches to animation in the 1970s-90s. 8  As Pilling points out, these festivals perform a number of restorative functions for animation/animation studies. Whereas, traditionally, the small number of animation festivals in existence mainly attracted practitioners in the field, burgeoning festivals the world over are cultivating a diverse audience.  In addition to showcasing new films, through retrospective programming, these festivals enable the (re)discovery of the medium’s rich history (x).   6 range of disciplines, addressing the aesthetic, cultural, and social implications of Disney’s animated films.  If in his 1991 introduction to a republication of Ariel Dorfman and Armand Mattelart’s How to Read Donald Duck: Imperialist Ideology in the Disney Comic (which exposes the mechanisms and effects of American imperialist ideology—particularly in relation to Chilean society in the 1970s—in Disney comics), David Kunzle laments the lack of serious investigations of Disney’s innumerable cultural products, such a view no longer seems justifiable.  Disney studies has emerged not only as a ‘serious’ but also a sizable, established field of inquiry in the humanities and social sciences.  Susan Willis’s contention in her introduction to a 1993 special edition of South Atlantic Quarterly, “The World According to Disney,” that: “from what I hear on the cultural studies grapevine, the floodgate of Disney criticism is about to open,” (2) now seems a more prescient estimation of the shifting status of Disney studies in the 1990s. Since the release of the studio’s first feature film in 1995, Pixar animation has had a profound aesthetic and commercial impact on animated filmmaking and viewing practices, and has arguably come to be one of Disney’s most valuable holdings.  Pixar’s features regularly enjoy both large (and often record breaking) box office takes and dvd sales; are translated into dozens of languages and viewed by millions the world over; are consistently (and, by and large, quite positively) reviewed or profiled in major media publications; and were even the subject of a retrospective exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in 2006—the museum’s largest exhibition devoted to the animated form. 9   However, while explorations of race, class, gender, sexuality, technology, and so forth, continue to populate the domain of Disney studies, Disney’s so-called “crown jewel” (Price 258) is disproportionately absent from current Disney scholarship in spite of its seminal role in reshaping and reviving Disney animation in the post-Disney  9  See Garson’s “De Griffith à Pixar” for an analysis of this exhibit.   7 Renaissance era.  This project intends to serve as a corrective to this critical lacuna in Disney and animation studies, as part of an emerging school of “Pixar studies” beginning to materialize within the sphere of Disney/animation studies. While discussions of Pixar often stress its impressive digital aesthetic and the revolutionary impact the studio has had on animation (having produced the first computer animated feature), 10  this study emphasizes the aural composition of Pixar’s films and considers the ways in which Pixar’s use of sound, and specifically the voice, has altered the landscape of contemporary animated cinema.  Given that Pixar’s oeuvre now comprises ten feature films and nearly twenty-five short films (see Appendix A for a complete Pixar filmography), a study of this length cannot accommodate a comprehensive examination of all the intricacies of the voice in Pixar’s films.  Thus, this project mainly centres on three Pixar films in which the voice plays a pivotal narrative and extratextual role: Toy Story (John Lasseter, 1995), Toy Story 2, and Monsters, Inc. (Pete Docter, 2001). 11   The Toy Story series is nominated for analysis here, as the voice is an operative component in the films’ underlying interrogation of the aesthetic, cultural and exchange value of children’s toys.  Monsters, Inc. is also an apposite site for an examination of the voice in Pixar, as its central narrative conflict is predicated upon the social and economic functions of a particular vocal articulation: the scream.  These selected films also gesture towards the wider reverberations of Pixar’s use of the voice, and will lead into a more general discussion of the de-acousmatization of the voice in contemporary animated cinema.  To structure this discussion, my study traverses a range of animation, film sound, and psychoanalytic theory; the following chapter elucidates the theoretical framework that informs this analysis of Pixar’s talking toys and monstrous screams.  10  See, for example, Paik, Price, and Sarafian’s respective works on Pixar Animation. 11  Co-directed by David Silverman and Lee Unkrich.   8 2 Methodology: From Mouse to Ratatouille We constantly inhabit the universe of voices […] There are the voices of other people, the voices of music, the voices of media, our own voice intermingled with the lot.  All these voices are shouting, whispering, crying, caressing, threatening, imploring, seducing, commanding, pleading, praying, hypnotizing, confessing, terrorizing, declaring… -Mladen Dolar (13)  As Dolar describes in the above epigraph, a bedlam of voices pervade our daily life, voices which envelop us in a babel of words and sounds, of language and unintelligible noise.  In his psychoanalytic philosophy of the voice—of the linguistics, metaphysics, ethics, and politics of the voice—Dolar calls this cacophonous aural landscape “a jungle of voices,” whose navigation demands “all kinds of machetes and compasses so as not to get lost” (13).  Mapping the textual and extratextual significance of the voice in contemporary animation accordingly requires a number of such “machetes” or analytical tools to dissect the relationship between the voice and Pixar’s animated films.  Because the central research problem of this study lies at the intersection of animation and Disney/Pixar studies, questions of the relationship between the voice and the cinematic image, and of the role of star voices in contemporary animation, I propose a triangulation of animation, psychoanalytic and media theory (my compasses, so to speak) to structure this multifaceted examination.  Whereas Ruston observes that triangulation traditionally denotes an approach which “employs multiple methodologies in qualitative analysis in order to avoid potential bias of a single method approach,” (97) here my triangulation of a number of disparate schools of thought is a methodological tool for achieving a more holistic understanding of the relationship between the textual and extrafilmic functions of the voice within the context of animated cinema. 12   12  Predicated on Karl Mannheim’s work on “relational knowledge” and his central premise that: “truth is ascertained by examination and combination of multiple perspectives bearing on the reality under scrutiny” (Ruston 97).   9 Although my focus will remain, by and large, on sound and not animated image, given that Pixar’s films are part of the canon of American animation, and produced/distributed by the Walt Disney Company, this study is necessarily shaped and informed by a variety of Disney and animation studies.  Mike Budd and Max H. Kirsch’s Rethinking Disney, Janet Wasko’s Understanding Disney and Eleanor Byrne and Martin McQuillan’s Deconstructing Disney, are among the key texts that serve to contextualize my treatment of Pixar within animation history/criticism.  In discussing the textual operations of the voice in the Toy Story series and Monsters, Inc., my study also draws from psychoanalytic discourses on the voice and cinema, namely Michel Chion and Dolar’s works.  Such a psychoanalytic approach is particularly germane to an analysis of the cultural, linguistic, and metaphysical facets of the films’ voices, as well as to an examination of the role that the voice plays in processes of subject formation, and in structuring the social fabric of both films.  In addressing the narrative functions of the disembodied ventriloquial voice in Toy Story and Toy Story 2, this study also calls upon Steven Connor’s cultural history of ventriloquism, Dumbstruck. Rounding out this tripartite approach is a selection of writing on vocal performance, star persona, and intertextuality, which informs my discussion of the extratextual de-acousmatization of the voice in contemporary animated cinema.  Barbara Klinger’s intervention into Roland Barthes’s and Umberto Eco’s theories on intertextuality and ‘digressions’; Martin Barker’s subsequent interpellation of Klinger’s writing; Noël Carroll’s thinking on intertextual referentiality; and Rayna Denison’s examinations of star voices and Miyazaki’s animation (passing through Richard Dyer’s work on celebrity and star persona), provide the scaffolding for this portion of my theoretical framework.  The following chapter breakdown expands upon this methodology and the organization of these ideas within the context of this study.   10 2.1 Deconstructing Disney Discourse To begin to frame my critical treatment of Pixar, and its place in animation history/criticism, Chapter Three: “Who Framed the Animated Film? A Critical History of Animation,” provides a broad overview of animation history and scholarly approaches/attitudes towards the medium.  The first half of the chapter draws primarily from a number of animation scholars’ writing on the early history of animation.  Notable among this literature are Donald Crafton’s account of animation “before Mickey,” (as his work is also titled) a foundational study in the sphere of animation criticism, which carves out a detailed history of the aesthetic and technical origins of the animated film, and Danny and Gerald Peary’s critical anthology of historical/biographical studies that map the terrain of early American and European animation. Conrad Smith’s account of the phenomenon of Vitagraph’s “Haunted Hotel” (James Stuart Blackton, 1907) that kicks off Peary and Peary’s collection is of particular interest to my study. Paul Wells’s instructive work on the animated medium, particularly American animation also helps to structure this chapter’s historical survey.  Taken in tandem, Wells’s texts provide a useful barometer for shifting critical discourses surrounding animation, and the animated film’s place in contemporary culture. Also worthy of mention here is Michael Barrier’s exhaustive account of Hollywood cartoons and a number of pioneering American animators/animation studios of the 1930s through 1950s—animation’s “Golden Age”—from Disney to Hanna and Barbera.  Barrier’s book is enlightening not only for its thorough look at Golden Age animation, but for its reflection upon the critical corpus of animation studies in which his work is situated, that is instructive in positioning my study of Pixar.  Giannalberto Bendazzi’s far reaching chronicle of a century of animated filmmaking—though less theoretically rigorous and largely predicated upon   11 biographical studies—is also deployed in this chapter, primarily for the broader, global perspective it provides of animation beyond North American borders.  Finally, Jayne Pilling’s edited collection of papers presented (as of 1997) at the annual Society for Animation Studies conference is useful here in marking a certain historical moment in animation studies.  Pilling contextualizes the collection as part of an “explosion of interest” in animation in both a popular and pedantic context at the time of the reader’s release, and as reflective of “a growing recognition of animation as a medium that spans a far wider range of films than that of cartoons only for children” (ix).  Pilling’s collection calls for the establishment of animation studies as an academic discipline, but also sets forth the challenges inherent in generating a critical language for discussing the multitudinous articulations of animated cinema—from stop motion to digital 3D.  While it may not offer a comprehensive lexicon for this analysis, like its parent organization, it provides an important forum for this discourse to take shape. Leading into a more specific discussion of Pixar animation, the latter half of the chapter surveys the field of contemporary Disney studies that has sought to map the vast and ever- expanding terrain of what Michael Real calls the “Disney universe” (126)—one in which Pixar is consummately englobed.  Fittingly, like the Disney universe, the breadth and scope of contemporary Disney scholarship is extensive and varied, tackling everything from death anxiety and Disney’s “Splash Mountain” flume ride, to father-daughter relationships in Disney’s animated films; from Disney’s debt to Charlie Chaplin, to its cold war rhetoric on atomic energy; and from its urban ventures in Times Square, to its real life “Pleasantville” Celebration, Florida. 13   Just as this range of materials populating the corpus of Disney studies illustrates the impossibility of addressing the entire Disney phenomenon in one study, the parameters of this  13  See respectively: Mauro, Wynns and Rosenfeld, Jackson, Mechling and Mechling, Langer (“Why the Atom Is Our Friend”), Ross, and Frantz and Collins.   12 study will not afford an exhaustive review of Disney scholarship.  Chapter Three instead provides an overview of shifting approaches in contemporary film and cultural studies to Disney—as an animation studio, transnational corporation, multimedia empire, and purveyor of mass culture—positing Pixar as a critical gap within this discourse.  Central to this framework are a number of studies that have emerged since the 1980s, which take up the task of deconstructing Disney, texts that at once critically examine its ‘less savoury’ aspects—its corporate exploits, global division of labour, artistic whitewashing of source material, and so on—and also negotiate its ‘pleasures,’ such as the aesthetic innovations, artistry, and entertainment value of its films. Budd and Kirsch’s Rethinking Disney, born of an international conference of the same name held at the Florida Atlantic University in 2000, figures centrally in this chapter.  The essays in this collection are divided into five sections, each broaching a particular aspect of Disney’s artistic/economic practices such as the careful construction of its public image and control of its trademarked properties, 14  the appropriation/commodification of literature, nature and cultures in its myriad products, the representation of gender, sexuality, race, and class in its films and theme parks, and the political and social reverberations of its urban development projects (and failures). 15   In spite of the varying theoretical frameworks and analytical tools deployed throughout the collection, taken together, the essays in this anthology belong to what Budd deems—in his introductory chapter to the book: “Private Disney, Public Disney”—a “new generation” (11) of Disney studies.  The generational break to which he alludes here refers first  14  Budd provides a number of examples of Disney’s legal campaigns against copyright violators including an infamous 1989 incident in which Disney threatened to sue three Florida day care centres for using Disney characters in murals without authorization, as well as a lawsuit Disney brought against the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for using characters from Snow White in the Academy Awards ceremony of the same year (5). 15  Most notable among these incomplete projects is Disney’s unrealized “historical theme park,” set to be built in Prince William County, Virginia, which fell through in 1994 (Warren 249).  See Warren’s “Saying No to Disney” for a more comprehensive look at Disney’s urban ‘failures.’   13 to a shift in rhetorical style and target audience.  Earlier Disney studies, Budd argues—such as Richard Schickel’s definitive 1968 critical biography The Disney Version—were geared primarily towards a general educated readership.  Budd qualifies this ‘new generation’ of Disney studies (beginning in the late 1980s) as more of a “specialized discourse” generated by and directed at an academic community, grounded in “social history, institutional analysis, and the political economy of culture” (11-12)—a “unified collective project” and critical intervention in the field of Disney and mass cultural studies. Crucially, Budd’s categorization also denotes a very literal generation of ‘Walt’s children’: scholars who grew up in the 1950s and 1960s.  This demographic, Budd argues, is uniquely positioned for its lived experience of Disney as a pervasive part of everyday American life in the 50s-60s—this being the era of The Mickey Mouse Club (1950-59), a number of highly successful Disney animated feature films such as Peter Pan (Hamilton Luske, Clyde Geronimi, and Wilfred Jackson 1953), Sleeping Beauty (Clyde Geronimi, 1959), 101 Dalmations (Wolfgang Reitherman, Hamilton Luske, and Clyde Geronimi, 1961), and Mary Poppins (Robert Stevenson, 1964)—and its critical understanding of Disney as an avaricious multinational, capitalist enterprise.  Indeed, Budd suggests “dialectically, successful critique” of Disney must be rooted in an “immersion in the Disney experience, including its very real and often very valuable pleasures” (12). Byrne and McQuillan’s Deconstructing Disney, promotes an approach that neatly complements Budd and Kirsch’s, calling for the application of a “wider strategy of criticism” (17) in addressing Disney animation.  The introductory chapter to this study, “Duckology,” illuminates the critical mandate of the so-called new generation of Disney critics perhaps even more pointedly than Budd himself.  Tackling hermeneutical questions surrounding Disney’s The   14 Hunchback of Notre Dame (Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise, 1996), they write: “there is something going on in this film (and we would argue the entire period of Disney films dating from The Little Mermaid [John Musker and Ron Clements], in 1989) which cannot be satisfactorily explained by the reapplication of old coats of critical paint (imperialism, sexism, etc.)” (14).  Indeed, they continue, this new Disney (to which I would add, Pixar) canon encompasses a broad range of philosophical and theoretical implications and “must be thought through as part of a more comprehensive process of questioning before an analysis of the material effects of Disney might be properly engaged” (17).  They do not, for all that, suggest that critiques of the political and material effects of Disney (such as Dorfman and Mattelart’s work) are any less valuable today; however, they take issue with “knee-jerk polarities” and “classical oppositions,” arguing that, just as Disney texts have evolved and diversified, so too must the “terms of critical engagement” employed in assessing these texts (7). Both Budd/Kirsch, and Byrne/McQuillan’s methodological approaches are central in structuring my analysis of Pixar.  Like Byrne and McQuillan’s work, this study engages new lines of questioning in the textual exegesis of (Disney) Pixar animation by tackling a range of theoretical questions vis-à-vis the operations of the voice in Pixar’s films.  Moreover, just as baby boomers’ children have been dubbed the “echo boomers” I would like to posit my approach to Pixar as a sort of echo boom of Budd and Kirsch’s ‘new generation.’  For, in much the same way that the generation of critics Budd delineates grew up watching Disney’s 50s-60s films and television shows, I grew up during the so-called ‘Disney Decade’ (1989-99)—in which Disney, and later, Pixar animation was a ubiquitous cultural phenomenon—and thus my perspective similarly comprises both a critical approach to, and an immersive experience of Disney/Pixar’s transmedial empire.  And, much in the way that Budd and Kirsch call for a balanced,   15 interdisciplinary approach to Disney that takes stock of its multifarious corporate ventures, but also attempts to assess the critical value of its vast range of multimedia texts, my study incorporates both close textual analysis of Pixar’s films and a consideration of the wider implications of Pixar’s use of the voice in relation to contemporary animated cinema. Finally, this chapter also draws from a selection of Wasko’s writing on Disney—which emerged within the same time frame as Budd/Kirsch and Byrne/McQuillan’s.  Wasko espouses a similar approach to the aforementioned Disney critics, calling for Disney scholarship to move beyond what she deems in Understanding Disney, “the fashionable sport of Disney bashing” (4). Wasko also brings the crucial component of reception studies into the theoretical mix considering the reception of Disney’s cultural products on an international scale.  Wasko sets herself the daunting task of looking at the “entire Disney phenomenon from a critical perspective” (4), and indeed provides an impressive dissection of Disney’s corporate history, the anatomy of its global economic dealings, the thematic content of its films and theme parks, and the reception of its vast media output by a range of demographics.  Her work will both structure my assessment of the critical treatment of Disney animation and inform my consideration of Pixar’s use of the voice in the mass marketing of its films.  2.2 Follow the Bouncing Desk Lamp Before setting forth into this close textual analysis, Chapter Four: “It Was All Started By a Lamp: A Brief History of (Disney) Pixar Animation,” first provides an abridged history of Pixar Animation studios from its earliest constitution (prior to its formation as an independent company), to its pursuits as the Graphics Group at Lucasfilm, takeover by Steve Jobs, business dealings with and ultimately, acquisition by Disney in 2006.  In carving out this history of Pixar studios, Chapter Four chiefly calls on David Price’s The Pixar Touch, which provides a detailed   16 chronicle of the personal/corporate histories of the company’s founding members, as well as the evolution of Pixar’s relationship with Disney. 16   Admittedly more of a triumphant exposition of Pixar’s rise to prominence than a critical examination of this phenomenon, this biographical and techno-artistic account is in some ways reminiscent of the many ‘clean’ (Disney-sanctioned) ‘great man’ histories of Walt and his company such as (to name but a few) Bob Thomas, Neal Gabler, and Katherine and Richard Greene’s respective biographies of Walt Disney. Moreover, Price’s account emphasizes the studio’s technological advances in the field of computer animation and displays/celebrates the digital aesthetic of its films (in a series of glossy colour illustrations), positing Pixar as the natural inheritor of the Disney-animation legacy. While Price does focus in great detail on Pixar’s corporate battles with Disney, he ultimately champions the Disney-Pixar union as a “homecoming” (also the title of the book’s final chapter) bringing John Lasseter (who had previously worked as a Disney animator) back into the Disney fold, and resurrecting Disney animation after its numerous box office failures in the early 2000s (such as Treasure Planet [John Musker and Ron Clements, 2002] and Home on the Range [Will Finn and John Sanford, 2004]).  Aesthetically, Disney’s acquisition of Pixar is here envisioned as an extension of Disney’s history of technological/artistic innovation; just as Disney’s multiplane camera pioneered a more ‘cinematic’ depiction of movement into depth, Pixar’s developments in rendering 3D environments also reshaped the cinematographic aesthetics of animation.  In spite of its clear championing of Disney, Pixar, and the companies’ alliance, Price’s book nonetheless provides a highly useful and singularly comprehensive chronology of Pixar’s pre-incorporation history, and sheds light on certain previously undisclosed details of Disney-Pixar’s corporate dealings.  Finally, following this Pixar history, Chapter Four outlines some notable ventures in  16  The Pixar Touch was originally published in 2008.  The 2009 republication of the book, which features an updated epilogue that incorporates Pixar’s then most recent release, Wall-E (Andrew Stanton, 2008), as well as added colour illustrations, will be employed throughout this study.   17 the emergent realm of Pixar studies to contextualize my intervention within this (admittedly quite modest) field, and furthermore, introduce the ways in which my case studies engage new avenues of inquiry into Pixar by considering the largely unexamined aural composition of the studio’s films.  2.3 Double Entendre The French expression for hearing, entendre, aptly doubles as an expression for understanding, entendement.  Succeeding in Chapter Four’s more general discussion of Pixar, Chapters Five and Six aim to both analyze (or entend) the specific properties of the voice, and derive an assessment (or entendement) of the textual functions of the voice in three of Pixar’s films taken here as case studies: Toy Story, Toy Story 2 and Monsters, Inc..  The first case study, “Voices in Toyland,” examines the first two films in the Toy Story series. 17   This chapter strives to unpack the complex layering of voices in each film, focusing primarily on the role of the voice in the toys’ subject formation, the significance of the act of ventriloquism, and the privileged place that the acousmêtre and the film’s mute toys occupy.  Chapter Five also examines the multiple acousmatic voices—partial and full—that serve a key function in driving the narrative action in both Toy Story films.  The second case study, “The Hollywood Scream Factory,” addresses Monsters, Inc., looking specifically at the scream—a central narrative device within the film—and what Chion terms “the screaming point,” or rather the multiple screaming points that fuel the film’s narrative progression.  This chapter also explores the tension Monsters, Inc. articulates between the prelinguistic and the postlinguistic voice and, more precisely, between the scream and the laugh.  Finally, continuing in a similar line of inquiry as the first case study, Chapter Six considers the de-acousmatization of the voice—particularly the child’s voice—in the  17  Toy Story 3, which will round out the series, is set to be released in June of 2010.   18 context of Monsters, Inc.’s energy crisis. The psychoanalytically inflected textual analysis in these case studies is informed by a number of thinkers; paramount here are Chion and Dolar’s work on the voice and cinema. Chion’s The Voice in Cinema is no doubt a formative study of the often critically neglected relationship between the voice and the cinematic image.  If film studies continues to be dominated by the all-important image, the study of film sound has generally privileged examinations of music or soundtrack and sound effects.  Chion’s writing is thus an important intervention into the study of film sound, for as he succinctly points out, “by what incomprehensible thoughtlessness can we, in considering what is after all called the talking picture, ‘forget’ the voice?” (“Voice” 1).  Chion’s excavation of the voice’s special relationship with cinema and, specifically his conception of the acousmêtre and “de-acousmatization,” are an important nodal point of the textual analysis laid out in Chapters Five and Six. To provide an outline of Chion’s (and other theorists’ complementary) delineations of these concepts: Chion argues that the acousmatic voice or acousmêtre—a character or figure whose voice is not attributable to a material, visually localized body or other onscreen source—is imbued with certain “magical powers […]: ubiquity, panopticism, omniscience and omnipotence” (“Voice” 25).  Emanating from a non-identifiable place or body with seemingly nothing that can stop it, it is everywhere, it can observe all without itself being seen, and thus has the capacity to know all and to wield power and influence over others.  Or, as Dolar writes, the acousmatic voice “taunts and troubles us, against our better judgement.  It presents a puzzling causality, as an effect without a proper cause” (67).  In a related vein, Mary Ann Doane has discussed the special powers of the “disembodied voice” (168, emphasis in original) of filmic voice-over commentary.  Like Chion, she argues “it is precisely because the voice is not   19 localizable, because it cannot be yoked to a body” that it is “endow[ed…] with a certain authority” (168).  Partial acousmêtres, figures whose voices can be ascribed to a part of the body (a hand, a torso) but crucially, Chion argues, not a face, are also possible, 18  as are acousmachines: mechanically produced voices with no localizable source, and which, by extension, possess the same powers as the acousmêtre. 19 In spite of these imposing powers, Chion, further argues in Audio Vision that “an inherent quality of the acousmêtre is that it can be instantly dispossessed of its mysterious powers when it is de-acousmatized,” or embodied (130).  Embodying an acousmêtre, Chion argues, “is always like a deflowering,” stripping the acousmêtre of its “power, omniscience and (obviously) ubiquity” (“Voice” 27).  Pascal Bonitzer, in an earlier meditation on the disembodied voice and the “voix off” goes as far as to describe the embodiment of the voice as a form of aging or death, arguing that once the source of the acousmatic voice is revealed it becomes “decrepit,” “mortal” (31-32).  Dolar, following Chion, writes of de-acousmatization as a process of dissipating the mystery of the voice, arguing that: “the aura crumbles, the voice, once located, loses its fascination and power, it has something like castrating effects on its bearer, who could wield and brandish his or her phonic phallus as long as its attachment to a body remained hidden” (67). The (vocal) unveiling of “The Great Oz’s” identity in The Wizard of Oz (Victor Fleming, 1939), wherein Toto pulls back a curtain to reveal the true source of the Wizard’s imposing, thunderous voice—not the floating, translucent spectre, engulfed in flames and billows of smoke, to which it has heretofore been ascribed, but the unremarkable body of a man—is a chief  18  For Chion, revealing the face is tantamount to a de-acousmatization as, “the face represents the individual in her singularity” and “the sight of the speaking face attests through synchrony of audition/vision that the voice really belongs to that character, and thus is able to capture, domesticate and “embody” her (“Audio” 130). 19  Rick Altman extends a similar argument to “unattributed” cinematic sound in general: “by virtue of its ability to remain sourceless, sound carries with it a natural tension.  Whereas images rarely ask ‘What sound did that image make?’ every sound seems to ask, unless it has previously been categorized and located: ‘Where did that sound come from?’”(74).   20 example of this process of de-acousmatization.  Localizing and containing Oz’s voice within a discernable, onscreen body, strips the magician of his God-like status.  He is no longer “the great and powerful Oz,” but simply “that man behind the curtain,” or, in Baum’s original text “the little man” who abases himself to his vocal ‘unmaskers,’ and in a “trembling voice,” pleads “don’t strike me—please don’t—and I’ll do anything you want me to,” (111)—he is not only stripped of his power but utterly acquiescent. Supplementing the aforementioned writers’ treatments of de-acousmatization, Chapter Five also integrates elements of Steven Connor’s sweeping history of a particular kind of vocal disembodiment, ventriloquism: “the practice of making voices appear to issue from elsewhere than their source” (14).  Dumbstruck carves out a complex history of what is much more than a mere parlour trick, discussing cultural and social understandings of ventriloquist voices—from the Delphic Oracle, to intercoms and cell phones.  In relaying this history, Connor grapples with the question of why, even in the context of our technologically mediated world in which disembodied voices (via the telephone and the internet) are ubiquitous, the disembodied voice still retains an eerie quality, a special power or air of mystery.  Connor’s arguments regarding this uncanny power of the disembodied voice will be particularly instructive to my discussions of the ventriloquial voices in the Toy Story series.  The concept of the voice’s relationship to the body and, specifically of de-acousmatization is paramount here, for it functions as a conceptual bridge between the textual analysis of Chapters Five and Six, and Chapter Seven’s examination of the extratextual de-acousmatization of the voice in animation.  Just as much of the vocal interplay in Toy Story 1 and 2 and Monsters, Inc., is structured around one or multiple acousmatic voices and de-acousmatizations, Pixar’s films also evidentiate the large-scale, extratextual de-acousmatization of the voice in contemporary animation—a reconceptualization   21 of vocal performance in animation that places an unprecedented emphasis on star persona in relation to vocal talent. In addition to the textual function of the de-acousmatized voice, the role of the scream is a pivotal component of the second case study of Monsters, Inc.—a film whose narrative world is literally fuelled by screams.  Chion’s work again figures prominently in this chapter, specifically his writing on the scream, and his conception of “the screaming point.”  Chion argues that, “since the cinema first discovered women screaming, it has shown great skill in producing screams and stockpiling them for frequent deployment” (“Voice” 75).  From a twenty-story gorilla in King Kong (Merian Cooper and Ernest Schoedsack, 1933), to the intricate plot schemes in Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock, 1960) and the assassination conspiracies of Blow Out (Brian De Palma, 1981) he argues that, “nothing is spared […] nothing is too elaborate or far out if it will lead to a successful scream” (77), or what he terms, “the screaming point”: a sort of ineffable black hole towards which there converges an entire fantastic, preposterous, extravagant mechanism—the celebration, the political crime, the sexual murder, and the whole film—all this made in order to be consumed and dissipated, in the unthinkableness and instantaneity of this scream. (“Voice” 76)  Monsters, Inc. is an apt film on which to map Chion’s arguments vis-à-vis the screaming point, as the titular Monsters’ city runs on energy extracted from children’s screams that the monsters provoke.  A parallel can therefore be drawn between Chion’s observations concerning the cinematic resources mobilized to propel a narrative towards the crucial screaming point, and the measures the monsters take to generate not just one, but multiple screaming points to power their city.  In assessing the significance of the scream in Monsters, Inc., Chapter Six also draws from Dolar’s previously mentioned A Voice and Nothing More.  Much like Chion, Dolar’s study works within a psychoanalytic framework, and is heavily informed by Lacan’s, and to a   22 somewhat lesser extent, Freud’s writing on the voice.  Of principal importance to this second case study are Dolar’s explications of the presymbolic, prelinguistic voice and the postlinguistic voice: “voices beneath and beyond the signifier” (23).  Dolar includes within the former category: “physiological manifestations such as coughing and hiccups, which appear to tie the human voice to an animal nature” (23).  These voices emerge without the intention, and perhaps even against the will of the utterer, and “represent a break in speech, a disruption of the ascent toward meaning, an intrusion of physiology into structure” (24).  While coughing and hiccups are prime examples of this presymbolic voice, Dolar argues that, “by definition, the presymbolic use of the voice is epitomized by the infant’s babbling” (‘babbling’ serving here as an umbrella term for all variations of a child’s use of, and experimentation with, their own voice without any real understanding of how to use it in “the standard and codified way” [26]). 20   He further argues that the originary and most salient manifestation of this inarticulate presymbolic babbling voice is, in fact, the scream—the scream being both the first sign of life and the infant’s most fundamental mode of address, the means by which its primary needs are identified and met (26).  Following Lacan, Dolar calls this a “cri pur,” a pure scream, a condensation of sound from the body’s entrails that seems to elude signification (25).  However, Dolar continues that while presymbolic, physiological voices such as the cough, or the scream may seem external to structure and signification, in fact, he argues, “this apparent exteriority hits the core of the structure: it epitomizes the signifying gesture precisely by not signifying anything in particular, it presents the speech in its minimal traits, which may later get obscured by articulation” (29).  Dolar, for instance, proposes a semiotics of the cough: “one coughs while preparing to speak […]; as an ironic commentary which jeopardizes the sense of  20  Dolar points out that the term infant itself, in fact, derives from in-fans, “the one who can’t speak” (26).   23 the utterance; as a notification of one’s presence; as an interruption of a difficult silence” (24) and so on.  Thus, while the cough remains non-linguistic, it nonetheless cannot escape the structure, and clearly contributes to making meaning.  In regards, specifically, to the scream entering into the structure, Dolar describes this process as a transfiguration of the cri pur into a cri pour (a scream for someone) or what Lacan describes as “the transformation of the scream into an appeal” (679).  In other words, the scream, once interpellated by the addressee, takes on the function of speech; it becomes an address to the other that elicits an answer.  The prelingual child’s scream plays a chief role in Monsters, Inc.: the monsters endlessly seek out the cri pur—inarticulate decibels of sound energy exterior to signification.  Inevitably, however, as Chapter Six demonstrates, this cri pur also undergoes a transformation into a cri pour, into an intrusive appeal that, as Dolar writes, “needs an interpretation and an answer” that “demands satisfaction” from the addressee—the monsters (28).  This transformation is at the crux of the monsters’ relationship to the voice and the role of the scream in the film.  The postlinguistic voice is also of foremost importance to Monsters, Inc..  To satisfy growing energy needs in the face of scream shortages, the monsters ultimately begin powering their city with children’s laughter.  This shift from harvesting screams to collecting laughter can also be read as a shift from drawing out a prelinguistic voice, to eliciting a postlinguistic voice. The postlinguistic, as Dolar defines it, is “the realm of the voice beyond language, the voice which requires a more sophisticated cultural conditioning than the acquisition of language” (29). Describing laughter as postlinguistic may in this sense seem a paradox as, like the cough, it is a physiological reaction; however, unlike the cough, it is predicated upon certain cultural precepts, on a socially constructed understanding of the form and function of laughter, of what constitutes   24 humour and comedy, of appropriate situations in which to laugh, and so forth.  This conception of the voice as a postlinguistic cultural product in turn informs my discussion of the diegetic transition from making children scream to making them laugh, and the strategies employed in generating these vocalizations.  Finally, it is important to acknowledge a number of other valuable psychoanalytic examinations of the voice in cinema—particularly the female voice—namely: Kaja Silverman’s The Acoustic Mirror, Amy Lawrence’s Echo and Narcissus, and Britta Sjogren’s Into the Vortex: Female Voice and Paradox in Film.  These texts are no doubt important interventions into the voice in cinema, elaborating on questions of the relationship between gender, technology and narrative conventions in relation to the female voice and the cinematic image.  An analysis of the voice and gender in Pixar’s films could also be a worthwhile course of future inquiry; however, the parameters of this study will not allow for such an elaboration.  2.4  Pixarticulation In a recent instalment of his New York Times op-ed blog “Freakonomics,” Steven Levitt, co-author of the 2005 book of the same name, 21  grapples with the question: “Why do animated films use such famous voices?”  As Levitt recounts, after having taken his children to see the 3D stop-motion animated film, Coraline (Henry Selick, 2009), he began to interrogate the perceptible shift towards the use of star voices in animated cinema.  While he does not employ the term, Levitt is here considering the extratextual de-acousmatization of the voice in animated cinema, an increasingly apparent trend since the 1990s (arguably ushered in by The Lion King [Roger Allers and Rob Minkoff, 1994]—with its star cast including James Earl Jones, then teen  21  Freakonomics: A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything, co-authored by Stephen J. Dubner, applies economic theory to a diverse selection of topics ranging from abortion to sumo wrestling, the Klu Klux Klan, and drug dealing.   25 heartthrob Jonathan Taylor Thomas, Jeremy Irons, and Whoopi Goldberg).  Levitt, who contends his own children often cannot identify the actors who voice their favourite animated characters, and, furthermore, expresses doubts as to whether many adults are even able to recognize the animated voices they hear until they search through a film’s credit sequence, then asks, if these voices are not immediately associable with their personified source, precisely what function does this de-acousmatization of animated voices serve?   In response to this query, he proposes, from an economic standpoint, that star actors are hired as voice talent precisely because they are expensive.  As he describes: “to give multi-million dollar deals to stars to do voices that a no- name could do for $50,000, a producer must be confident that the movie will be a big hit.  Thus, the big star is hired solely to give a credible signal to outsiders that the producer thinks the movie will be a blockbuster.” Yet, Levitt himself confesses that this hypothesis is not satisfactory—and I agree that while this may well be a strategy some studios adopt, it is too reductive an assessment of the pervasive re-orchestration of the vocal dynamics of the animated film.  However, Levitt’s statement regarding having to troll through credit sequences to match up voices to the actors that provide them is telling as it highlights the viewer’s very desire to unmask the voice—to, even if retroactively, comprehend the synergistic pairing of an animated character and a star’s voice. Though perhaps not initially able to attribute an animated voice to a particular star, in searching for the voice actor’s name in the film’s credits the viewer is already tacitly acknowledging that the voice, and precisely whose voice is assigned to an animated character, is a central part of the animated film viewing, or more aptly ‘film listening’ experience.  Chapter Seven: “Pixarticulation: Vocal Branding, Intertextuality and Marketing Voxography” also takes up this question that Levitt so bluntly poses, but proposes a critical   26 framework for considering the dimensions of this de-acousmatization of the voice in contemporary animation, and for unpacking the relationship between the star voice and the animated image.  More precisely, this chapter considers the ways in which the voice operates in the promotion, marketing, and reception of Pixar’s films.  First, addressing questions of star voices and vocal performance, Chapter Seven foregrounds Rayna Denison’s work on Miyazaki Hayao’s animated voices, primarily “Star Spangled Ghibli” (although her 2005 “Disembodied Stars” which offers an illuminative comparison of the different ends that star performances serve in animated and live action films, is equally instructive).  In “Star Spangled Ghibli,” Denison considers the implications, as well as the commercial and aesthetic impetuses for using star actors in animated voice work, performing close readings of stars’ vocal performances in (the American dubbings of) Miyazaki’s films—such as Patrick Stewart’s performance in Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind (1984) and Kirsten Dunst’s work in Kiki’s Delivery Service (1989). Denison takes up some interesting avenues of thought in relation to performance, “stars’ own discourses” (“Ghibli” 132) and the feedback loop between the two in the vocal casting and marketing of the latter films, which I would like to take up here in relation to Pixar’s voxography.  In particular, I would like to expand upon Denison’s application of Barbara Klinger’s writing on intertextuality, and “digressions.”  22  More specifically, following Klinger’s work on “promotional epiphenomena,” intertextuality, and reception, Chapter Seven examines the use of the voice in Pixar’s marketing  22  There is also a notable connection between Miyazaki, Disney and Pixar. Studio Ghibli—Mizayaki’s film studio— and its parent company Tokuma, holds a distribution deal with Disney animation.  As a result, Miramax Films (Disney-owned since 1993) has the distribution rights to Miyazaki’s new films “in certain key (largely non-Asian) regions” (Denison 133); both Princess Mononoke (1999) and Spirited Away (2001) were released under this banner. Moreover, Buena Vista Home Entertainment released a back catalogue of Miyazaki’s films on vhs and dvd.  John Lasseter—an avid admirer and friend of Miyazaki’s since the 1980s (Price 127)—was at the forefront of Disney’s project to bring Miyazaki’s films to an American audience.  As “special feature” of sorts, Lasseter also provides an introductory commentary—on the cultural, aesthetic, historical, and for him, the personal significance of Miyazaki’s films—for a number of these dvds.  More recently, as eager Pixar bloggers have observed, Totoro (of Miyazaki’s 1988 My Neighbor Totoro) makes a cameo appearance in the third trailer for Toy Story 3 (Sciretta).   27 campaigns, and the ways in which they structure an intertextual mode of reception for reading these texts.  Klinger, in “Digressions at the Cinema: Reception and Mass Culture,” 23  elucidates the relationship between, as she writes, “intertextuality and aesthetic commodification” (119). That is to say, the relation between the diverse promotional forms (or what Stephen Heath terms “epiphenomena”) surrounding a film that construct its “consumable identity,” (125) and what she calls the ‘digressive’ responses that these materials generate in the reception of the text.  Klinger defines a “cinematic detour” or “digression” as: “a reaction precipitated by an intertextual link between moments in the text and promotional epiphenomena during the process of viewing.”  As a result of this reaction, “the digressing spectator is momentarily diverted from the linear flow of filmic elements by this commodifying association” (120). In carving out this theory, Klinger effectuates what she describes as a “marriage” of semiotic and mass culture theories, more precisely, Barthes’s and Eco’s treatments of intertextuality, ‘digression,’ and textual interpretation and Theodor Adorno’s writing on the culture industry, commodity fetishism and “distraction.”  Although, as Klinger acknowledges, these theories do not converge on many levels, what they have in common, and what Klinger expounds upon, is their treatment of “textual divergence as central to the reading/viewing experience” (119) vis-à-vis the “activities of intertextuality and commodification, respectively” (119).  Further, while acknowledging the different perspectives/methodological approaches espoused by Barthes and Eco (particularly in regards to Eco’s reversal of Barthes’s delineation of ‘closed’ and ‘open’ texts), Klinger underscores their mutual rejection of the notion of a “self regulating text” and their emphasis on “the crucial role intertextual factors play in the semantic actualization of a text” (120).  23  Republished in a slightly revised version in James Naremore and Patrick Brantlinger’s 1991 anthology, Modernity and Mass Culture—the updated version will be used throughout this study.   28 With reference to S/Z, Klinger calls upon Barthes’s conceptualization of the text as a “broken down or obliterated network,” made up of disparate units that “are themselves ventures out of the text” “fragments of something […] already said” (20) and whose interpretation thus involves a “manhandling” (13) or interruption of the text.  Similarly, Klinger draws from Eco’s schematic conception, in The Role of the Reader, of the seminal role that intertextuality plays in textual interpretation (via a multitude of processes such as ‘inferential walks,’ ‘intertextual frames,’ ‘rhetorical and stylistic overcoding,’ etc.).  Ultimately, however, Klinger submits that both Eco and Barthes view intertextual digressive responses as, to use Eco’s turn of phrase, “elicited by discursive structures and foreseen by the whole textual strategy” (32), a construction which she argues excludes the crucial influence that social forms—namely, a film’s promotional network—may have on the viewer’s interaction with the text. Situating the film industry’s promotional operations within the wider processes of commodification in mass culture, Klinger avails herself of Adorno’s work (via Marx) on the commodity fetish to frame her theory of how promotional discourses “operate systematically on reception” (123).  Specifically, Klinger applies Adorno’s arguments (as proposed in “The Fetish Character of Music and the Regression of Listening”) regarding the fetishization of a particular element of a musical piece—such as a melodic phrase, a star persona, or another “special attraction”—to both ascribe an exchange value to the text and solicit a particular mode of reception via the listener’s identification with that fetishized characteristic (125-126).  Klinger then argues that just as the musical commodity fetish “acts constitutionally on the text to hypostasize or condense it into a series of foregrounded elements which meet the conventions of consumption,” (125) the commodifying processes of (cinematic) promotional forms equally structure the reception of a filmic text.   29 Klinger begins her treatment of cinematic ‘digressions’ with a discussion of a specific form of vocal digression: “in theatre commentary,” that is to say, the chatter of film spectators who audibly react to moments in the film in excess of their narrative function (116).  The promotional foregrounding of the voice in Pixar’s films structures a somewhat similar relationship, whereby audible, and specifically vocal filmic elements (star voices, vocal allusions, and so on) elicit a digressive (and perhaps even vocal) extradiegetic response.  In sum, if, as Klinger contends, promotional epiphenomena are the primary means by which producers create a “material link with potential consumers,” (124) the voice, which is woven into all aspects of Pixar’s promotional campaigns—from posters to interactive websites—is an integral component of Pixar’s ‘material link’ with the viewers/consumers of its films. Martin Barker’s “News, Reviews, Clues, Interviews and Other Ancillary Materials—A Critique and Research Proposal,” takes up Klinger’s mandate of examining the impact of promotional materials, or what he calls “ancillary texts” on audience reception; however, also takes issue with Klinger’s conception of ‘cinematic digression’ as a ‘manhandling’ or fragmentation of the text.  Barker examines the ideological and commercial impact of a variety of “satellite” texts, such as studio sanctioned/sponsored media such as campaign books, press kits, interviews, transmedial “parallel releases” (i.e. comic books or novelizations released in tandem with the film); press coverage of a film’s release in the form of reviews, “gossip, exposés and background stories”; myriad web-based materials and fansites; and media which “trade on the appearance of a film to promote themselves,” (for instance, a January 2009 CBC documentary “Strangers in Paradise” chronicling the stories of people who have found love via   30 their Second Life avatars, which was re-aired in October 2009 during the much-hyped lead up to the release of Avatar). 24  However, while he espouses the notion that a film’s promotion constructs a series of intertextual frames that influence its reception, Barker finds the term “digression” problematic in describing this process and challenges Klinger’s notion that promotional materials generate a form of “textus interruptus,” (120) a rupture in narrative cohesion.  The concept of ‘digression’ as an interruption or fragmentation, he argues, implies a level of textual enthrallment, that “were it not for the digressions, audiences would be in thrall to the ‘text.’”  In contradistinction to this formulation, he contends promotional texts: “constitute a discursive framework around a film, a kind of mental scaffolding giving it particular kinds of ‘support’” providing “reasons and strategies for preparing to go and see it—or for reflecting subsequently on the nature of the experience obtained.” Put another way, he proposes to read promotional materials not as elements which induce what Klinger calls ‘guided exits’ from the text, but which guide and direct the viewer on how to interpret or respond to a film. 25  This study proposes a rapprochement of these methodological perspectives and suggests thinking Barker’s guided discursive responses and Klinger’s digressive responses not as incompatible operations, but as coexisting and potentially concurrent processes in a multi-tiered mode of reception.  Chapter Seven elucidates this multifaceted system of textual apprehension with recourse to Noël Carroll’s writing on the relationship between allusion and viewing  24  Second Life is a virtual, online community, created in 2003 and populated with hundreds of thousands of users from around the globe, who interact with other users via avatars. 25  On a tangential note, Barker also briefly touches upon Monsters, Inc. and an interesting feature of its relationship to promotional materials: the lack of product placements in the film.  While he astutely notes that the film does not have any standard breakfast cereal or toothpaste cameos, his contention misses the important fact that the film is entirely saturated with other Pixar and Disney products.  For instance, two prominent placements occur in Boo’s room, when she offers her toys to Sulley: a (Finding) Nemo doll and a Jessie the Cowgirl (from Toy Story 2).  There are also Disney posters on children’s bedroom walls, embedded images of Mickey Mouse throughout the film, and myriad other Pixar/Disney products/iconography that attentive fans have sought to catalogue on many Pixar fansites.   31 strategies in The Future of Allusion.  Carroll’s theory departs from a discussion of many American filmmakers’ practices in the 1960s and 1970s (Carpenter, Demme, De Palma, Lucas, and Romero for example) of interposing allusions to well-known films in their own work as an expressive device.  This type of allusionism, he states, is observable both visually, in the form of clips, the recreation of famous shots or scenes, even posters in the background of shots, and aurally, through the use of sound effects, music and the voice. Carroll conceives this allusionism as “a two-tiered system of communication which sends and action/drama/fantasy-packed message to one segment of the audience and an additional hermetic, camouflaged, and recondite one to another” (245).  Pivotally, however, this allusionistic play does not disrupt the conveyance of the narrative, but functions simultaneously to create extradiegetic meaning without obscuring narrative comprehension.  For the contemporary viewer who exists in a highly mediated environment and who has unprecedented access to information and technology, navigating complex and often esoteric referential systems, while also ascertaining narrative information is arguably an expected, even necessary receptive mode for apprehending the many intertextual frames that envelop us in our increasingly intermedial culture.  Thus, drawing from Carroll’s work, Chapter Seven demonstrates how the voice in Pixar’s films structures a multi-tiered mode of communication that at once allows for narrative assimilation, and simultaneously composes a matrix of vocal allusions to popular culture, film history, animation, pop music and so forth, that solicits a participatory mode of viewing/listening.  I propose thinking of this process as “Pixarticulation”: a system of vocal operations that participates in the studio’s branding processes, in its marketing campaigns and cultivation of a wide viewing demographic, and in the studio’s synergistic, transmedial promotion of its entire catalogue films and products.   32 3 Who Framed the Animated Film? A Critical History of Animation  Reframing some of the most influential characters from animation’s “Golden Age” (from Betty Boop to Donald Duck) in a hybridized live action/animated film, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? helped to revive not only some of animation’s classic ‘toons’ but also the medium itself. 26   Commenting on the impact it had on animation, the film’s director of animation Robert Williams, stated “I had that feeling throughout that it was gonna work and it would be a real contribution to the medium…certainly as far as making it hot again” (“Behind the Ears”).  As Wells acknowledges, the film was indeed an instrumental development in, as he puts it, “the reclamation of animation as an important and influential medium” (“Understanding” 3). Ironically, however, the film’s depiction of ‘toons’ as derided and socially segregated, also highlights the very cultural and critical neglect with which the animated film has long been met. The fact that Richard Williams is strangely almost indistinguishable on the film’s Internet Movie Database listing—he is not cited on the film’s main page, and his name only appears 227 th  out of 234 names in the animation department subsection of the “full cast and crew” page—can be seen as further evidence of this neglect (“Full Cast and Crew for Who Framed Roger Rabbit”).  Although animation was one of the first methods that pioneering filmmakers employed to create and record moving images, filmmakers’ and audiences’ fascination with the cinema’s ability to photographically capture movement and events in real time—as epitomized by the Lumière and Pathé Brothers’ early works—enabled live action films to quickly win out as the dominant mode of filmmaking.  Animation, then, which became largely associated with “trick filmmaking” (as exemplified by Méliès’ work), was often deemed a less credible or serious form, a “second cousin to mainstream cinema” (Wells, “Understanding” 1-2).  As Wells succinctly  26  Notably, 1988, the year of Roger Rabbit’s release, also marked the inauguration of the Society for Animation Studies (SAS), an organization instrumental in establishing animation studies as an academic discipline.   33 puts it: “even in the contemporary period when animation enjoys increased critical attention…the idea that a ‘cartoon’ can support aesthetic and cultural analysis, and demonstrate valid positions about social preoccupations is often met with doubt and incredulity” (“America” 2). Robert Zemeckis’s own accounts of the difficulties he faced in early screenings of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? reflect animation’s continued dismissal as a secondary form.  As he and the film’s visual effects supervisor Ken Ralston describe in its “making-of” short “Behind The Ears” (2003) the film’s ‘sneak screenings,’ shown in a Friday evening slot at a Pasadena theatre, were disastrous.  Zemeckis recounts that during the first two to three minutes of the film—an entirely animated sequence of Roger Rabbit (Charles Fleischer) and Baby Herman (Lou Hirsch), with no live action interjections—the audience, comprised largely of teenagers and young adults, “just stampeded out of the theatre,” demonstrating their absolute disinterest in, and disregard for animated films.  Of course, the film is not a purely animated feature, and it did go on to become a box office success, but that the test crowds left when they believed the film to be entirely animated, speaks to the public attitude towards the form at that time. The tremendous critical and box office success that Pixar’s films have enjoyed since the release of their first feature length film, Toy Story, in 1995; however, points to a markedly different attitude towards the animated film and its place in contemporary viewing culture.  Like the Disney-produced 27  Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Pixar’s films have had an undeniable impact on the animated film; just as Roger Rabbit, with its innovative mix of animation and live action reinvigorated interest in the form, Pixar, with its use of CGI, introduced a groundbreaking visual aesthetic to the animated film that changed its place and perception in popular culture. 28   The  27  Properly speaking, the film was released under the banner of Touchstone Pictures, an alternate label for Disney’s more ‘mature’ films. 28  Roger Ebert, in his 1995 Chicago Sun Times review of Toy Story neatly sums up this parallel writing that both films “take apart the universe of cinematic visuals, and put it back together again, allowing us to see in a new way.”   34 studio who, in collaboration with Disney, inaugurated a new wave of animated feature filmmaking with their creation of the first computer generated feature film, has thus played a central part in redefining animated filmmaking and viewing practices.  The objectives of this chapter are both to situate my examination of Pixar within existing discourses on animated cinema, and to discuss how the studio is reshaping the landscape of contemporary animation. Because Pixar is firmly situated within the canon of American (Hollywood) animation, the focus in this chapter remains largely limited to American animation practices (both artistic and commercial).  This chapter also stresses early animation history, as the foundational attitudes towards the animated medium’s form and function established in this period are of central importance to understanding the current critical treatment of Pixar.  Furthermore, this chapter highlights the history and scholarly treatment of Disney animation, as Pixar is historically and corporately linked to Disney—all of Pixar’s films to date are Disney co-productions, and Pixar has been Disney-owned since its takeover in May 2006.  3.1 Before Mickey Assembling a complete history of the animated film poses several challenges.  To begin with, like so many early silent films, a large percentage of animated films produced before 1928 no longer exist; prints of only a fraction of the thousands of early animated works made in this period have survived.  Moreover, the ghettoization of animation in relation to live action cinema has not only had a lasting impact on the form’s place in the theatre and at the box office, but within film history and criticism as well.  As Wells notes, although, since the late 1970s-1980s, many film historians and what Mark Langer terms “animatophiles” 29  alike have helped  29  Langer defines animatophiles as a “taste group characterized by a high degree of knowledge about animation” primarily comprised of a core group of animation scholars, buyers of animated art, devoted fans, collectors and so on, but also encompassing a larger, more diffuse group of casual animation fans (144).   35 animation achieve a “more favourable” status in popular and scholarly discourses, virtually all critical accounts still have “an overt or implied ‘justification’ of why it is crucial to address and analyse animated films” (“America” 2).  A further challenge which Crafton duly notes stems from the fact that many accounts of the history of animation have begun with Walt Disney’s first successes when, in reality, the origins of the animated film far precede Mickey Mouse. 30  Furthermore, the question of precisely who created the first animated film is one surrounded by controversy and contradiction, tellingly reflected in early animators’ competing claims on this title.  James Stuart Blackton is quoted as saying that he believed he drew the “first motion picture cartoon” in 1896. 31   Max Fleischer, for his part, maintained, “I produced the first life-like animated drawing that was ever made,” while John Bray assertively (if somewhat self- aggrandizingly) contended “John R. Bray is the man who made the animated cartoon possible” (qtd. in C. Smith 7).  Finally, Winsor McCay, in response to such contentions declared: The part of my life of which I am proudest is the fact that I was the first man in the world to make animated cartoons.  One or two other cartoonists have claimed this honor, or it has been claimed for them, but the facts are so well known that the claims have never been taken seriously. (qtd. in C. Smith 7)  The debate among these pioneering animators, as well as within academic circles, in determining who first developed the basic techniques of animation is due in part to a lack of information on techniques and patent registration for certain early works such as, for instance, Émile Cohl’s “Fantasmagorie” [1908] (C. Smith 4).  These factual discrepancies and deficiencies have generated competing mythologies, origin stories and accounts of individual trailblazers in the existing literature on animation “before Mickey.”  One such particularly lasting tale is that of  30  Wells, in fact, argues that mechanisms designed to project hand drawn moving images onto a screening surface (a wall) can be traced as far back as 70 BC, as described by Lucretius in De Rerum Natura (“Understanding” 11). 31  By 1909, however, Blackton had “quit animation” (Bendazzi 8) and relinquished any such claim.  As Crafton argues, Blackton felt he had “outgrown” animation; he began to “disdain cartoons and all other trick effects…[and] neglected to write one word about his contribution to the field in his unpublished autobiography” (46).   36 “The Haunted Hotel” a short film, which essentially featured stop motion animation and other special effects/trick photography to animate objects (luggage, furniture, etc.).  As Crafton writes: Animation has bred a myth about its own origins that goes, according to the film historian’s lore, like this: Animation was virtually unknown until 1907.  It was then that “L’Hôtel haunté” [The Haunted Hotel] opened in Paris.  The public response to this first animated film was so strong that all the French producers racked their brains trying to figure out the tricks that made the objects move by themselves.  After considerable difficulty, the secret was discovered and the history of cartoons could begin. (13)  This, of course, is a gross oversimplification of the birth of animation, but certain elements of the story are, nonetheless, true.  “The Haunted Hotel,” directed by Vitagraph co- founder James Stuart Blackton and photographed by his partner Albert E. Smith, was a remarkable success, both upon its release in the United States in March of 1907, as well as in Paris, where it was released a few months later (Crafton 13). 32   But that the history of animation had to wait for the creation of “The Haunted Hotel” to begin, is indeed a myth.  Although viewers did turn out in vast numbers to view the film and uncover its ‘tricks,’ the techniques that Blackton and Smith employed to create these illusions were by no means new.  The tools/techniques used in the film—frame-by-frame exposure, time lapse dissolves, double exposure, stop action, and wires—had all previously been employed in both animated and ‘trick films’; practitioners at Edison’s studio, Georges Méliès, Spanish animator Segundo de Chomón, 33  and British filmmaker Walter Booth (a professional magician by trade, like Méliès) had all already discovered the procedure of frame by frame exposure.  Nonetheless, the film does occupy an important place in animation history: in addition to helping establish Vitagraph’s  32  In Paris, the film was such a success that it ran twice daily from July 17-29 at the Châtelet theatre and the Hippodrome—the world’s largest cinema at the time, with 5,000 seats (Crafton 14). 33  Chomón had in fact made a film strikingly similar to “The Haunted Hotel,” entitled “El hotel eléctrico” [The Electric Hotel] that also employed frame-by-frame cinematography to make objects in his film’s titular hotel appear to move by themselves.  Crafton argues that, although the date of “El Hotel electrico’s,” release is often listed as 1905, the film did not make its debut in either Paris or North American until after Blackton’s  “Haunted Hotel” (84).   37 European presence, it enabled animation to capture wide scale public attention in Europe and North America, and fuelled further technical developments in the field. 34  In spite of the often-contradictory nature of such myths surrounding the birth of animation and the difficulty in carving out any straightforward, linear narrative of its history, a number of critics (Crafton, Langer, Maltin, Peary and Peary, Solomon, Wells and others) have provided some very useful records of the origins of the form.  Many of these accounts (Wells’s being a notable exception) are biographical histories focused on a number of early architects of the medium: artistic innovators whose interests lay in exploring, advancing, and experimenting with the technological and aesthetic properties of the form.  Frequently discussed figures in this scholarship include (to name only a few) Blackton’s contemporary, American animator Winsor McCay, who is also frequently credited with a number of significant ‘firsts’: “The Sinking of the Lusitania” (1914) is widely considered the first animated documentary, and at least one of the prints of “Little Nemo” (1911) is said to contain the first animated colour sequence (hand-tinted by McCay himself). 35   Émile Cohl, whom many have deemed the “father of animation” (as he is often regarded in his home country of France), and the Fleischer Brothers, who pioneered such techniques as rotoscoping and the ‘follow the bouncing ball’ sing-along are also central figures in this discourse. 36   Other noted figures who have attracted a fair amount of critical analysis for their role as aesthetic innovators are: the previously mentioned Segundo de Chomón and Walter  34  Moreover, some historians still regard Blackton’s 1906 “Humorous Phases of Funny Faces” as the first animated film (C. Smith 4). 35  McCay’s advancements in “personality or character animation,” particularly in his 1914 film “Gertie the Dinosaur,” are also among his most commonly cited achievements; Gertie’s distinctly anthropomorphic rendering is said to have informed Walt Disney’s signature style (Wells, “Understanding” 15). 36  Cohl’s history is also entangled in myth and legend.  The first of these is that Cohl, a caricaturist at the time, unintentionally launched his film career when he accused Gaumont of plagiarizing one of his vignettes.  As the story goes, Cohl presented himself at the studio’s offices in 1907 demanding compensation, but instead left with a job as a scénarist in the trick film department (Bendazzi 9).  How Cohl then took up animation is interestingly intertwined with the legend of “The Haunted Hotel.” Léon Gaumont was allegedly so determined to discover how the film achieved its ‘tricks’ that he commissioned a team to unlock its ‘secrets.’  In the end, Cohl solved the ‘mystery’ and thereafter became interested in the techniques of animation and frame-by-frame exposure (Crafton 20).   38 Booth; French Canadian animator Raoul Barré; German experimental animators Hans Richter and Walther Ruttman; abstract Swedish animator Viking Eggeling; French animator and onetime apprentice to Cohl, Robert Lortac; Russian animators Wadysaw Starewicz and Mikhail Tsekhanovsky, among others; as well as and Britain’s GPO (General Post Office) film unit. 37   3.2  “Not an Art, but a Trade…Bad Luck” Yet, simultaneously, this body of criticism has maintained a somewhat narrow approach, focusing on more ‘purist’ animators, whose main interests lay in developing the artistic potentials of the medium as opposed to financial gain, and often lamenting those figures responsible for the commercialization and commodification of animation. 38   Perhaps the most important example of this in early animation history/criticism, is the controversial figure John R. Bray—his contentiousness stemming in part from his legal entanglements with other animators, and in part from his profit-oriented philosophies on the art/enterprise of animated filmmaking. Bray is noteworthy here for his efforts to market and distribute animated films to the general public, as well as for the very nature of the controversy that surrounds him.  While some critics have described Bray as “astutely business-minded” (C. Smith 6), accounts of the industrialist, more often paint him as “dominant” and “manipulative” (Bendazzi 20) or, as Crafton writes, “the man who stripped animation of all its individuality and artistic interest, putting the Cohls and the McCays out of business” (139)—though Crafton himself concedes such a moniker is not entirely deserved.  For, while many early animators such as McCay and Cohl remained mostly uninterested in the commercial dimensions of animation—McCay, in fact, did not even bother to  37  I have only been able to touch upon a selection of key figures within the parameters and spatial constraints of this study; however, this is not to diminish animation’s rich and diverse early history.  See Bendazzi, for a more comprehensive overview of these and other early animators’ work. 38  Animators such as Winsor McCay and many of his contemporaries have also lamented the commercialization of animation; during a now infamous dinner held in 1902 for New York’s animators, McCay stated, “Animation should be an art, that is how I conceived it… but as I see, what you fellows have done with it is make it not a trade…not an art, but a trade… bad luck” (qtd. in Bendazzi 18).   39 copyright any of his films and, as Crafton notes, by 1929 Cohl, “stricken with desperate poverty” and living on a 100-francs-a-month welfare income, could not even afford the admission price of one of his own films (59)—Bray saw animation as a for-profit enterprise and aggressively pursued/protected his economic interests. 39   In sum, Bray, whose studios were “founded on the basis of competition and commission,” (20) was the first to fully exploit the commercial prospects of animated filmmaking. In this light, Crafton views Bray as a sort of Henry Ford of animation.  Indeed Bray did much to develop animation as an industry in several keys ways: dividing the labour of animating and photographing his films up among his assistants, and implementing new techniques to streamline the animation process, making it a far less time consuming/labour intensive process (through the use of printed background, and later cel animation, instead of hand tracing).  As Bray himself stated, one of his main goals was “to simplify and perfect the [animation] process, so that cartoons could be supplied as a regular motion-picture feature” (qtd. in Barrier 12) for a mainstream, mass audience.  Bray (and his team of attorneys) also filed all-inclusive patent claims on virtually every known animation method to secure his monopoly on the rights to these techniques, and subsequently filed infringement suits against practitioners employing these methods without a patent licence. 40   Finally, he employed new and aggressive marketing and distribution tactics, signing a lucrative deal with Paramount and the American military (for whom he created training films for recruits during WWI).  39  There is also speculation among certain critics that Bray outright stole McCay and Cohl’s animation techniques. C. Smith writes that John Fitzsimmons, McCay’s neighbour and assistant recalls that “a man claiming to be a journalist visited McCay to learn about his animation process shortly before this [Bray’s] patent was filed” and that McCay, out of a love for his art, gladly complied (6).  In his biography of Cohl, Crafton cites a similar incident in which Cohl’s superiors at Éclair ordered him to admit two visitors who showed “an intense curiosity in his methods” to his studio.  According to Crafton, one of those visitors was likely was John Bray (176-177). 40  Thus, although Bray created his first animated film in 1913, borrowing from the same techniques that other early animators had previously employed, until the patents expired in 1932, every major animator of the period (including McCay, Fleischer, and Disney, among others) had to pay royalties to the Bray-Hurd company, despite the fact that many of these animators had been using the techniques years before Bray produced his first film (Bendazzi 21).   40 Thus, in many ways, Bray can be viewed as a precursor to Walt Disney who also instituted a hierarchized division of labour within his animation studio, is credited with a number of innovative animation processes (early ventures in synchronized sound, feature length animation, the multiplane camera, etc.), was commissioned by the military to make instructional and propaganda films during WWII, 41  achieved unprecedented success in the mass marketing and commercial distribution of his studio’s films, and arguably realized Bray’s goal of supplying cartoons as regular motion pictures (beginning with the first American feature length animated film Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs [David Hand, 1937]).  Like Bray, Disney Animation Studios has come to be associated with the commercial exploitation of the animated film, and as with Bray, many critics have lamented Disney Animation Studios’ intensive branding/marketing tactics, and commodification of the animated form.  As previously mentioned, Wasko has argued that a substantial amount of Disney criticism engages in what she deems “the fashionable sport of Disney bashing” (4).  There is no shortage of examples of this type of criticism: from French theatre director Ariane Mnouchkine’s description of Euro Disney as a “cultural Chernobyl” (qtd. in Forgacs 361); to Dorfman and Mattelart’s comparison of Disney magazines to machine gun bullets (“There are two forms of killing: by machine guns and saccharine” [48]); to Carl Hiaasen’s rather dramatic assertion in Team Rodent: How Disney Devours the World that Disney “manifests an evil; so uniformly efficient and courteous, so dependably clean and conscientious, so unfailingly entertaining that it's unreal, and therefore is an agent of pure wickedness” (18).  3.3  The Disney Version(s) Disney studies as an established academic discipline is a relatively recent phenomenon; however, as Gregory Waller has observed, Disney animation received attention in both academic  41  See Shale’s Donald Duck Joins Up: the Walt Disney Studio During World War II for a selection of Disney WWII propaganda.   41 and art periodicals such as The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, and in more popular, general interest publications such as The New Yorker and Time Magazine throughout the 1930s and 1940s.  Wasko further argues that as early as 1933, Disney’s work appeared in art galleries and was the focus of a number of articles chronicling “The Art of Walt Disney,” (as several were also titled) comparing Disney animation to other ‘high’ art such has ballet (121).  Moreover, Wasko notes that while many “cultural pundits and film critics celebrated Disney as an art […] members of the Frankfurt School often used Disney characters such as Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck as examples in their discussions of the culture industry” (4). 42  Disney not only attracted the attention of art, film, and popular culture critics in this period, but filmmakers as well, including perhaps most notably Sergei Eisentsein.  Ann Nesbet in her article “Inanimations: Snow White and Ivan the Terrible” contends that Eisentsein did not— as might be expected—view Disney’s films with “a Communist’s moral outrage, but with real affection” (22). 43   Indeed, though Eisenstein concedes “the triumphant proletariat of the future will erect no monument to Disney either as a fighter in their hearts or on street squares,” (8) he nonetheless praises Disney’s animated shorts of the 1930s for what he deems their “plasmaticness”: the characters’ and objects’ (most notably fire) ability to stretch and defy their contours, to achieve “miracles of metamorphosis” taking on any number of shapes and identities (qtd. in Nesbet 23).  Eisenstein, who was particularly impressed with Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs reads this plasmatic quality of Disney’s animated figures as a “unique protest against the metaphysical immobility of the once-and-forever given” (33). 44   42  See Hansen’s “Of Mice and Ducks: Benjamin and Adorno on Disney” for a comparative analysis of Benjamin and Adorno’s respective treatment of Disney, and Leslie’s Hollywood Flatlands: Animation, Critical Theory and the Avant-Garde for a discussion of the interrelationship between critical theory and animation. 43  Nesbet points out that Eisenstein not only held Disney’s films in esteem, but in fact admired and had met the man himself while in Hollywood in 1930 (22). 44  Nesbet also argues the ‘plasmaticness’ Eisenstein observed in Snow White influenced his Ivan the Terrible (1944).   42 Furthermore, as Budd notes, many artists, intellectuals, cultural pundits and film critics praised early Disney shorts (such as the first Mickey Mouse film “Plane Crazy” [1928]) for their “flat, antirealist style,” and the popular press continued to celebrate the majority of Disney animated films throughout the so-called Golden Age of animation.  The Golden Age—a veritable heyday for the form in terms of its critical and public appeal—heralded a number of important developments in the field of animated filmmaking: increased levels of production, with several thousand films being produced; the introduction of sound to the animated cartoon, 45  as well as the establishment of the feature length animated film; the birth of some of the most critically lauded American animators and animated characters; and finally, following in the footsteps of their live action counterparts (and spurred on by Disney’s expansion and success), the migration of the vast majority of American animation operations from New York to Hollywood.  A significant amount of the work on Animation’s Golden Age deals with Disney in particular— with studies ranging from biographical/historical accounts of Walt and Roy Disney, to analyses of the studio’s aesthetic, techniques, and growing international presence.  Tellingly, two important Disney milestones are generally used to demarcate the borders of the Golden Age: Barrier designates 1928 (the year in which Disney’s “Steamboat Willie” was released) and 1966, (the year of Walt Disney’s death) as the bookend years for this period. 46  However, while Budd observes that “the popular press continued to celebrate almost everything Disney produced at least until Walt’s death in 1966,” as early as the late 1930s and  45  While “Steamboat Willie” is often cited as the first animated film with synchronized sound, the Fleischers had already released “Song Car-Tunes” with synchronized sound between 1924 and 1926 using the DeForest Phonofilm process (Langer, “Disney Fleischer Dilemma” 353). 46  This rich period of animation also generated an important body of scholarship.  Several notable studies include: Place-Verghnes’s, and Sandlers’s, respective chronicles of Warner Bros. animation and Tex Avery; Kenner’s look at Chuck Jones’s influential films, particularly his Looney Tunes cartoons; Canemaker’s account of Otto Messmer’s Felix the Cat (often also associated with Pat Sullivan, whose studio produced the Felix films); Langer’s detailed examinations on the Fleischers’ work and lasting legacy; and Maltin’s Of Mice and Magic which addresses a variety of artists such as Paul Terry, Friz Freleng, Walter Lantz, William Hanna and Joseph Barbera.   43 onwards, many critics and intellectuals began to reject Disney (7).  These repudiations largely attacked Disney’s “mass-cultural blandness and aesthetic banalities” seen by certain critics as characteristic of the studio’s late 1930s through late 1950s adaptations of fairy tales and literary classics (such as Alice in Wonderland [Clyde Geronimi, Hamilton Luske, and Wilfred Jackson 1951] and Peter Pan).  It was also within this period that the term “Disneyfication” was coined to describe what many critics perceived as Disney’s “sanitization, homogenization and Americanization” of its source material (Budd 7).  Commenting on this critical renouncement of Disney, Richard Schickel—in The Disney Version—writes: I undertook this work precisely because the period of Disney’s greatest economic success, his greatest personal power, coincided with the decline of active interest in him in the intellectual community […] When Disney ceased to make any claims as an artist they dropped him, as if only the artist is capable of influencing the shape and direction of our culture. (12-13)  Schickel’s comments highlight the ways in which the critical treatment of Disney animation in the latter half of the Golden Age echoes earlier patterns in animation criticism as evidenced in the above discussions of John R. Bray; in each instance, the entrepreneurial animators’ steps towards commercializing and industrializing the form are largely viewed as polluting the aesthetic quality or credibility of animation.  Schickel’s study is also noteworthy here as it serves as an apt landmark in animation criticism: its original 1968 publication marked the beginning of a resurgence of intellectual engagement with Disney Animation (and mass culture more generally.) Although, as Budd argues, Schickel’s analysis is geared more towards a general readership and less theoretically dense than many studies which would follow, subsequent to Schickel’s call for a reconsideration of Disney, and popular culture, a number of foundational studies of mass culture and the media, which included discussions of Disney, indeed did begin to emerge in the 1970s alongside the   44 growing field of film studies. 47   Michael Real’s Mass Mediated Culture, and Herbert Schiller’s The Mind Managers, are among the most influential of these critical media studies.  Real’s analysis considers the impact of “the Disney universe” on contemporary culture—the term universe here denoting the universality of Disney’s products, as well as the “identifiable universe of semantic meaning” those products generate (qtd. in Wasko 3).  Schiller adopts a more sweeping approach drawing from a range of critical theory (especially German scholars of the Frankfurt school: Herbert Marcuse, Adorno, Max Horkheimer, and Hans Magnus Enzensberger [Maxwell 57]) in unpacking the ‘mind management’ techniques employed by producers of mass media (such as Disney) in the service of corporate interests.  3.4  Team Disney and the Disney Decade The aforementioned 1970s scholarship is no doubt a foundational point of origin for the contemporary or ‘new generation’ of Disney studies (discussed in Chapter One) that took root in the late 1980s: a multifarious assemblage of works which proposed new perspectives and approaches to addressing Disney and its role in 21 st  century mass culture.  This new generation can also be read as a critical response to Disney’s re-emergence as a dominant animation studio, via its string of highly commercially successful films, from the late 1980s through to the late 1990s, in a period dubbed “The Disney Renaissance.”  This period witnessed a wide-scale revival of The Walt Disney Company, which had seen increasingly dwindling returns since Walt and Roy’s deaths (in 1966 and 1971, respectively).  Several of Disney’s animated films of the 1970s and early 80s (such as Robin Hood [Wolfgang Reitherman, 1973] and The Fox and the Hound [Ted Berman and Richard Rich, 1981]) failed to perform on the level of Disney’s previously successful features and, as Wasko notes, by the early 1980s, Disney’s share of the box  47  It was also during this period, as Langer observes, that animation—began to be introduced into university film curricula, for instance at Columbia’s Graduate School of Arts in 1975 (“Animatophilia” 145).   45 office had dropped to less than 4% (30-31).  After only nearly avoiding a hostile takeover, Disney’s controlling shareholders 48  installed a new management team of experienced industry executives, (formerly of Paramount and Warner Bros.) dubbed “Team Disney” in 1984 to turn the company around.  Team Disney—led by Michael Eisener as CEO, Frank Wells as President and Chief Operating Officer, Jeffrey Katzenberg as head of the Film Division—implemented aggressive new policies and strategies that would radically increase Disney profits, repackaging and remarketing its ‘classic products’ and expanding its commercial ventures into new territories. 49  Having, according to Wasko, more than doubled Disney’s annual revenues and nearly quintupled its profits between 1983 and 1987, bringing Disney’s stock from a $2 billion to $10 billion dollar value (36), Team Disney christened the 1990s “The Disney Decade.”  In the realm of animation, this moniker seemed to ring true, as Disney produced a string of hit films in the ‘Renaissance’ decade, beginning with The Little Mermaid and encompassing such productions as Beauty and The Beast—the first animated feature film to receive an Academy Award nomination for Best Picture 50 —as well as Aladdin (John Musker and Ron Clements, 1992) and The Lion King.  Tarzan (Chris Buck and Kevin Lima, 1999) is considered the final film of this period, capping off the sustained box-office success the studio enjoyed during this decade.  This ‘Renaissance’ period, and the expansion of Disney’s mass cultural presence arguably bolstered not only the company’s bottom line, but also its discursive currency in cultural studies.  Like the  48  Texas billionaire oil magnates, Sid Richardson Bass and Lee Marshall Bass were the majority shareholders at the time (with 25% of the company’s stock), having invested close to $500 million dollars in the company to prevent its takeover in 1984 (Wasko 32).  As a result of financial difficulties in 2001, the Bass brothers were forced to divest themselves of 135 million shares (6.4% of the company) to “shore up” their portfolios (Morgensen and Atlas). 49  For a comprehensive assessment of these policies/activities see Knowlton, and Wasko (“Understanding Disney”). 50  Pixar’s Up (Pete Docter, 2009) is second (and only other) film to achieve this status.  Moreover, Avatar, which received a Best Picture nomination in 2009, has been viewed by some as an animated feature for its use of performance capture animation technology.  The SAS, in fact, in a post on the social media website for its 2010 conference, celebrated the “two animated nominees in the main category of Best Feature Film” (“anievolution”).   46 vast diversification process Disney underwent during this period, texts populating the ‘new generation’ of Disney criticism clearly evidentiate a diversity in style, subject matter, and political posturing, though certain theoretical paradigms have dominated the discussion; most notably, questions of the representation of race, gender, and sexuality in Disney’s films have been perennial concerns in this discourse. 51  Yet there is still a considerable span of scholarly attitudes even within these privileged areas of inquiry.  For instance, Douglas Brode’s Multiculturalism and the Mouse, and Brenda Ayres’s The Emperor's Old Groove take a radically different tack in assessing race and multiculturalism in Disney’s films.  Ayres reads Disney’s apparently multicultural narratives as agents of Disney’s cultural colonialism, its perpetuation of racial stereotypes and construction of a monolithic American culture.  Brode, by contrast, (who is tellingly described on the back of the publication as “the only academic author/scholar who dares to defend Disney entertainment”) contends that Disney’s portrayal of racial diversity (such as in the “It’s a Small World” ride) and its global presence, has inspired racial tolerance and multicultural perspectives among several generations of youth. 52   Moreover, further expanding the scope of contemporary Disney studies, a selection of critics have taken a more comprehensive look at the Disney phenomenon, incorporating issues of class, national identity, technology and the political economy of the mass dissemination and consumption of Disney products.  Elizabeth Bell, Lynda Haas and Laura Sells’s anthology From Mouse to Mermaid, offers such a broad, interdisciplinary look at Disney’s films and attractions, as does Fjellman’s previously discussed Vinyl Leaves.  Also  51  Sean Griffin’s Tinker Belles and Evil Queens, which chronicles the longstanding relationship between Disney, the gay/lesbian community and queer culture, and Amy Davis’s Good Girls and Wicked Witches, which explores representations of female heroines and the ways in which they reflect and shape American ideals of womanhood, are notable standouts in contemporary Disney studies of gender and sexuality. 52  The relationship between Disney animation and its, by and large, youth target demographic has also been the subject of a number of important Disney studies.  See Giroux, Sammond, and Schweizer and Schweizer.   47 significant in this bracket is the work of Susan Willis, particularly in tandem with her fellow members of “The Project on Disney,” (Karen Klugman, Jane Kuenz and Shelton Waldrep) under which name they share collective authorship of Inside the Mouse.  Their study moves beyond the realm of Disney films and provides a critical account of the authors’ respective experiences and understandings of Disney World, and of Disney workers’ (or “cast members” as they are termed) experiences of “Working at the Rat” (as Kuenz’s chapter in the anthology is titled).  Alan Bryman’s Disney and His Worlds, and his continuation/expansion of this work, The Disneyization of Society, also take the Disney theme parks as a nodal point in an investigation of the effects of Disney on social institutions, art and architecture, and consumer culture.  3.5 The Silicon Age of Animation Yet, for all the attention that Disney has received from this new generation of critics, as Ewan Kirkland writes in his review of Rethinking Disney for Screen: “some—seemingly obvious—avenues of enquiry remain unexplored” (487).  One such avenue is undoubtedly Pixar. With certain important exceptions that will be addressed in the following chapter—Pixar is curiously absent from much of the existing Disney discourse.  This lack is all the more marked considering that for the past fifteen years, Pixar animation has been the most consistently successful division of Disney animation, while its traditional (2D) animation wing has struggled, and was all but entirely dismantled in 2004—Michael Eisner having concluded that public tastes were shifting towards 3D, CGI animation. 53   Thus, if it is possible to speak of the 1989-99 period as the Disney Renaissance, it now seems just as plausible to consider the post-Disney  53  Disney was not alone in this shift, as Adams argues, numerous studios closed down or put their traditional animation operations on hold.  However, the recently released The Princess and the Frog (John Musker and Ron Clements, 2009) perhaps indicates a reversal of this pattern.  Though the film did not reach the same box office figures as Disney traditional animation of the 90s, it grossed over 200 million dollars worldwide (“Princess and the Frog”), and due to this success, Disney allegedly plans to resurrect its hand-drawn animation wing, reportedly having committed to “one new hand-drawn film every two years” (Adams).   48 Renaissance period as a sort of Pixar Revolution for the ways in which Pixar has impacted Disney animation, and the representational aesthetics and technologies of the form more broadly. I propose the term “Silicon Age of Animation,” for thinking of this contemporary cycle of animation both for the digital technologies employed in rendering 3D animation, as well as Pixar’s—who ushered in this digital turn—deep-seated ties to Silicon Valley. 54  Though not representative of its centrality within the late 20 th  and early 21 st  century Disney canon, Pixar’s general omission from animation scholarship can be seen as reflective of larger trends in this discourse forwarded throughout the chapter, and evidenced in the treatment of Bray and, for many years, Disney.  Much in the same way that Bray can be considered the man who put the McCays and the Cohls out of business, Pixar is essentially the studio that put the Ron Clements, John Muskers—and generally speaking the traditional “Nine Old Men” illusion of life style 55  that had been Disney’s hand-drawn animation legacy since the 1930s— quite nearly out of business.  Also like Bray, Pixar holds patents to numerous processes and technologies that are widely considered the industry standard in digital rendering and which are employed in a wide range of animated and live action films.  Furthermore, like the Bray-Hurd company and Walt Disney animation, Pixar is unequivocally a commercial studio, and one responsible for introducing new streamlining technologies facilitating the industrial production of animated films (particularly with the “CAPS” project Pixar put in place for Disney animation, which is outlined in the following chapter).  Perhaps attitudes towards the industrialization and commercialization of the animated form, which informed the critical treatment of Bray and Disney in early and mid 20 th  century animation discourses, are, in the early years of the 21 st , still inflecting or impeding analyses of Pixar, which though artistically innovative, is nonetheless also  54  Where Jobs and Pixar co-founder Alvy Ray Smith began their entrepreneurial careers in digital technologies. 55  See Canemaker (“Walt Disney’s Nine Old Men”), and Thomas and Johnston.   49 a corporate enterprise.  This hypothesis, however, does not seem to adequately account for the meagre critical response Pixar has received. Wasko’s observation that in some academic circles, the study of Disney animation is still considered an “irrelevant, frivolous, ‘Mickey Mouse’ occupation” (4) perhaps gestures more pointedly towards the root of this exclusion.  Pixar’s films, known for their G-rated child/family oriented storylines, are perhaps not viewed as the kind of films that can support a sustained critical analysis—recalling Wells’s assertion that cartoons are often not deemed capable of demonstrating “valid positions about social preoccupations” (“America” 2). 56   Moreover, it is arguably Pixar’s failure to replicate the well-worn racial stereotypes, and sexist/heterosexist gender roles that have for so long given Disney critics so much critical fodder, that has contributed to this neglect.  For, while Pixar undoubtedly participates in Disney’s corporate practices—commodifying childhood, advertising to children, merchandising all aspects of the animated form—it does not for all that take up Disney’s traditional “princess” model of femininity and female sexuality which has received much critical attention (although the fact that Pixar’s protagonists have been overwhelmingly male, in contrast to Disney’s barrage of princesses—from Snow White to The Princess and the Frog’s Tiana—can account, at least in part, for this fact). Moreover, while Disney’s problematic racial representations have long been discussed by cultural critics, (Song of the South [Harve Foster and Wilfred Jackson, 1946], Dumbo [Ben Sharpsteen, 1941], Peter Pan, and Aladdin being among the most often cited films), Pixar seems to have circumvented this type of criticism as well (although analyses of Pixar’s predominantly Caucasian lead characters could certainly be conducted).  While Pixar’s avoidance of Disney’s  56  With the exception of The Incredibles which received a PG rating—for “action violence,” and Up which was also rated PG for “some peril and action,” according to the MPAA site (“Reasons for Movie Ratings”).   50 well-known history of stereotyping could be read as a sign of a general shift towards more politically progressive attitudes and racial representations in contemporary animation, several recent animated films, such as Shark Tale (Vicky Jenson, Bibo Bergeron, and Rob Letterman, 2004) and Madagascar (Eric Darnell and Tom McGrath, 2005), which have been critiqued for their deployment of racial stereotypes, complicate such an argument. 57  Nonetheless, neither Pixar’s failure to warrant the kind of “bashing” to which much of the Disney canon has been subject, nor its part in the techno-industrialization of the animation process, should preclude it from analysis.  Though Wasko, Byrne and McQuillan, Budd and Kirsch all strive to apply a “wider strategy” of criticism to Disney, to examine ‘the entire Disney phenomenon,’ such an objective cannot be fully realized without a consideration of Pixar animation.  To continue to deconstruct the Disney universe—“the company, its parks, products and policies, the individuals who manage and work for the company, as well as Disney characters and images and the meanings they have for audiences” (Wasko 3)—Pixar’s films, which continue to play an increasingly important role in every facet of this universe, must be included in the field of Disney discourse.  The objective of the following chapter then is to begin to carve out a critical space for Pixar within Disney studies.  Chapter Four first provides a brief history of Pixar animation studios, and subsequently surveys the emergent body of scholarship beginning to take up the task of ‘deconstructing Pixar,’ to frame my own intervention into this field.      57  See, for instance, Lugo-Lugo and Bloodsworth-Lugo for an analysis of racial representations in Shark Tale.   51 4       It Was All Started by a Lamp: A Brief History of (Disney) Pixar Animation  Though Pixar Animation Studios did not become a household name in animated filmmaking until the mid 1990s, its roots can be dated back to the early 1970s and to the computer science department at The University of Utah, where Ed Catmull made several pioneering ventures in computer animation.  Founded in 1965 58  and amply subsidized by the ARPA (Advanced Research Projects Agency)—a division of the Pentagon founded in response to the Soviet Sputnik program, devoted to the research and promotion of “next-generation technologies”—the program was a hotbed for computer science innovations in the early days of the field (Price 11). 59   Ed Catmull, a graduate student in the program, took up computer graphics as a part of a graduate project in 1972, and ultimately created a 3D animation program.  Using his program, he produced a minute long animated film of his left hand—starting with a plaster model of his hand and then creating its digital counterpart via the program.  As Price relays, Catmull’s professor at the time, Ivan Sutherland, was so impressed with the film that he contacted the Walt Disney Company to see whether they would be interested in applying Catmull’s computer animation program to their traditional animation processes.  Disney, however, showed little interest and it would be more than 20 years before they would form a partnership with Catmull—and his future company, Pixar—to produce a feature length computer animated film. After obtaining his doctorate in Computer Science, Catmull spent several years working as the director of the newly established Computer Graphics Laboratory at the New York Institute  58  Headmanned by Dave Evans and Ivan Sutherland, whom the University had recruited away from Berkeley and Harvard (respectively) to start up the program at Utah. 59  Among the long list of foundational achievements and innovations to emerge from the program are:  the point and click graphic user interface, Adobe Systems, Netscape, Atari, and pioneering work on digital manipulations of both photographs and sound recordings (Price 12).   52 of Technology.  In this capacity, he began what would become a long working relationship with Pixar co-founder Alvy Ray Smith. 60   Smith had also obtained a doctorate in Computer Science (at Stanford) and, succeeding that, established himself as assistant professor of Electrical Engineering and Computer Science at NYU.  He left academia in the early 1970s, however, and began working at Xerox’s PARC (Palo Alto Research Centre in Silicon Valley) developing digital painting software (what would become SuperPaint).  After being let go by Xerox, Smith eventually took a position at the NYIT Computer Graphics department working under Catmull. While Smith and Catmull worked on disparate, independent projects at NYIT, they shared a particular interest in computer animation—specifically, its potential applications for feature filmmaking.  As Price notes, while working at NYIT, the pair surreptitiously took annual trips to California to meet with Disney in the hopes of getting the studio to invest in a computer animated feature film project, but were unsuccessful in their attempts to persuade the company (or any of the other studios they approached) to back their idea (29). That pattern seemed to change in 1979 when Lucasfilm recruited Catmull, Smith and a number of other NYIT employees away from New York to develop a variety of digital technologies for the studio. 61   The former NYIT team joined the newly formed Computer Division at Lucasfilm in the early 1980s as part of the Graphics Group of the division—whose main objectives lay in developing “digital film compositing, digital audio mixing and editing, and digital film editing [technologies]” (Price 35).  Both Catmull and Smith’s main interest, however, remained in exploring the capabilities of using computer animation in feature films. While the team worked on digital effects for several notable films including Star Trek II The  60  When Pixar became an independent company in 1986, Catmull and Smith were named, respectively, President and Vice President and Director.  A 1988 business plan also lists the pair as the company’s co-founders (A. Smith). 61  Catmull and Smith were first offered positions and subsequently migrated willing members of their NYIT team over to Lucasfilm over the course of about a year.  Smith and Catmull had employees first “launder” themselves at other tech firms or universities before transitioning to Lucasfilm to avoid any legal entanglements (Price 33).   53 Wrath of Khan (Nicholas Meyer, 1982), Lucasfilm’s own Star Wars Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi (Richard Marquand, 1983) and Barry Levinson’s Young Sherlock Holmes (1985), feature length computer animation remained beyond the scope of the division’s assignments. The Graphics Group nonetheless continued to devise computer animation projects for the annual SIGGRAPH (Special Interest Group on Graphics and Interactive Techniques) conference to both give the group animation productions to work and, ideally, create artistically and technologically impressive films that would convince Lucas to allow them to undertake further animation endeavours for Lucasfilm (Price 44).  In the process of producing a short film for the 1984 SIGGRAPH conference, Catmull and Smith brought John Lasseter—a CalArts graduate and former Disney animator—into the Lucasfilm fold.  The animator, who had recently been fired by Disney, began working on what is often considered Pixar’s first animated short: “The Adventures of André and Wally B” (Alvy Ray Smith, 1984)—a play on Louis Malle’s My Dinner with Andre (1981) (Snider).  Properly speaking, Pixar Inc. did not exist at this point; however, this film is nonetheless an important historical marker for Pixar.  The film’s aesthetic combination of Disney’s traditional “illusion of life” animation style and the Graphics Group’s collective acumen in computer graphics and rendering technologies, established the basic stylistic and technical principles that would come to inform much of the studio’s future work. Pixar’s first film as an independent company, “Luxo Jr.” (John Lasseter, 1986), further honed this aesthetic that is now the hallmark of the studio’s style, and featured the first appearance of Pixar’s most iconic image: the bouncing Luxo desk lamp.  4.1 Jobs, PIC, and CAPS Although “André” was well received at SIGGRAPH, Lucasfilm, mired with financial difficulties—many, as Price points out, stemming from Lucas’s recent divorce settlement (61)—   54 began taking steps to sell off the Computer Division’s Graphics Group in 1985. (Price further argues that George Lucas was thoroughly unimpressed with “André” [59] and, unlike Catmull, did not believe that computer animated filmmaking should serve as the Division’s main enterprise.) Beating out a number of potential buyers, Steve Jobs, the former Apple magnate, eventually purchased the division—that had christened itself “Pixar” (allegedly derived from the Spanish word pixer “to make pictures” (Price 63)—for ten million dollars in 1986.  Five million of this went towards buying out Lucasfilm, and Jobs agreed to invest another five million dollars in the company in a series of instalments (Derdak and Pederson 350).  Under Jobs, Pixar was, by and large, retooled as a computer hardware and software company.  The Pixar Image Computer, or PIC, developed at Lucasfilm, was the company’s main hardware product.  Costing $125,000 at the time of its release, the PIC was promoted as a “high-speed microcomputer system” that could be used to “create and manipulate graphic images used in motion pictures and video production” (Forbes 30).  The machine was intended for a variety of fields, particularly those whose operations involve manipulating large images, from radiology and other branches of medicine that perform CAT scans, to oil exploration corporations and the military.  But the PIC, and the relatively more affordable PIC II 62  though technologically sophisticated, generated little market interest.  However, one notable client the PIC did woo was Walt Disney Animation, which used the PIC to overhaul its “Paint and Ink Department.” The long history of Disney and other animations studios’ gendered division of labour— and relegation of female artists to mostly menial colouration positions in the 1930s and onward—has been a much-discussed topic in analyses of Disney and animation history.  Tom Sito for instance, has observed that Disney’s ink and paint “hen house” (as ink and paint studios were commonly termed) was once nicknamed “Little Tehachapi” (after the State Prison in  62  Costing nearly $100,000 less than its predecessor at $29,500 per unit (Price 88).   55 California) for its strictly enforced social, dress, and personal conduct codes (26). 63   By the early 1980s, however, Disney was looking for ways to replace this labour intensive system.  Disney thus engaged Pixar to implement a program deemed CAPS: The Computer Animation Production System, which used Pixar Image Computers to “scan pencil drawings of characters, colour them, composite them onto scanned backgrounds and other image layers, and record the frames onto film” (Price 93).  After a successful test use for a scene in The Little Mermaid, CAPS was officially adopted to supplant the traditional ink and paint processes, and Disney acquired a series of PICs to implement the change.  Still, the PIC, as well as Pixar’s Photorealistic RenderMan and IceMan graphic rendering software, saw very limited sales figures beyond the CAPS deal.  The company also took on a number of advertising contracts from companies such as Listerine, Lifesavers, and Tropicana, to bolster its bottom line, but nonetheless, continued to run a deficit—as it had each year since Jobs’s takeover.  A new kind of agreement with Disney beginning in 1991, however, would gradually but radically change Pixar’s financial situation and redirect the company’s focus back towards Catmull and Smith’s original objective: feature length computer animation.  4.2 The Disneyfication of Pixar In 1991, Pixar began a new working relationship with Disney Animation Studios—which would come to shape the course of both companies’ trajectories over the next two decades— striking a three-film contract with the studio.  The terms of this agreement were heavily weighted in Disney’s favour: Pixar was responsible for writing and producing the films, but Disney retained final creative control and full ownership of the films, rights to any sequels, television spin offs and so on, as well as the right to abandon a project at any point if it so chose (Price  63  For more detailed analyses of this phenomenon see Griffin, Sito, and Davis.   56 123).  Toy Story—the first film of this agreement—proved a critical and commercial success, earning more than 350 million dollars worldwide and becoming the first animated film to receive an Academy Award nomination for best original screenplay.  Four years later, the film’s sequel Toy Story 2, was equally well received, earning upwards of 480 million dollars worldwide, two Grammy Awards and a Golden Globe for Best Picture in the “Musical or Comedy” category. 64  Following in these wide-scale successes, Disney-Pixar’s fourth feature film, and the final film in the three-film deal, 65  Monsters, Inc., also became a box office hit as well as the best selling DVD of 2002 (Brookey and Westerfelhaus 117), and each successive Pixar film has replicated a similar formula of big box office takes, dvd sales and favourable critical responses.  Disney promoted its new relationship with Pixar as an aesthetic renewal, a “reimagineering” of its animation house—struggling since the waning of the Disney Renaissance.  For Pixar’s part, the Disney co-productions allowed the studio to fashion a new image for itself—moving away from the bad press the company and Jobs had received for its failed hardware ventures, and casting itself as a leader in a technological and artistic turn in animated filmmaking. Although their business relationship at times seemed poised to fall through—most notably in 2004, stemming from disagreements between Jobs and then Disney CEO Michael Eisner—the two companies cemented and deepened their association in May of 2006 when Disney acquired Pixar in a 7.4 billion dollar buy-out, merging the two studios (Mucha and Caouette).  Given Pixar’s international success and its central role in Disney animation’s resurrection from the late 1990s through to the present, the terms of the new agreement were far more favourable for Pixar in terms of the split of returns on box office and dvd earnings, creative  64  Earning figures for both films are taken from the official Pixar website pages for Toy Story and Toy Story 2. 65  Although Toy Story 2 is technically the third Disney/Pixar co-production, because it was initially intended as a straight-to-dvd release, Disney—with much protestation on Pixar’s part—refused to include the film in the deal in spite of its being upgraded to a theatrical release feature film during its production (Price 229).   57 control, and ownership rights.  The takeover also established Jobs as Disney’s largest individual shareholder (at 7%) and granted the digital media mogul a prized seat on Disney’s board of directors (Price 7). 66   The buyout also shot John Lasseter and Ed Catmull 67  to the upper ranks of the Disney hierarchy: Catmull was named President of Disney and Pixar animation, Lasseter was appointed both Chief Creative Officer for Pixar and “Principal Creative Advisor” for Walt Disney Imagineering, the branch of the corporation (formed by Walt Disney in 1952) responsible for the design and engineering of Disney’s international chain of theme parks and resorts (Price 253). 68   In sum, while Pixar now owns and operates its own animation studios in Emeryville, California (distinct from Disney’s animation headquarters in Burbank, California), with all of its feature films co-produced and distributed by Disney, and its corporate management now well established in the Disney boardroom, Pixar and Disney are inextricably linked on a creative and commercial level.  4.3  To Infinity and Beyond the Scope of Scholarship In spite of this deep-seated affiliation, in contradistinction to the ‘traditional’ Disney canon, there is currently very little scholarship on Pixar’s films.  The relatively small number of books and articles that have been written on Pixar fall largely into three main camps.  The first of these encompasses detailed and often quite scientific investigations/descriptions of Pixar’s digital rendering technology (RenderMan, in particular) in computer graphics and animation journals  66  The Disney acquisition arrived on the heels of the 10 th  anniversary of Jobs’s reinstatement at Apple Inc. (after his infamous ousting in 1985).  In light of his work at both Apple and Pixar, Fortune Magazine named Jobs “CEO of the decade” in November of 2009. 67  Smith, who left Pixar prior to the takeover, allegedly due to conflicts with Jobs, was not involved in the deal (Price 120).  Smith also seems to have been strangely erased from the company’s history, and no mention of him is made in the otherwise quite comprehensive “history” section of Pixar’s website. 68  Indeed, this was quite a role reversal for Lasseter, who, in addition to having been fired from Disney in the 1980s, also worked menial “cast member” jobs at the Disneyland theme park during his college days—sweeping up garbage in “Tomorrowland” and guiding tours on the “Jungle Cruise.” Moreover, According to Price, the role was created and issued upon Lasseter’s request.  The director/animator had apparently already been strategizing to tie in new theme park rides with newly released Pixar films (253).   58 and trade magazines such as Computer Graphics World, Animation World and Computer Graphics Quarterly. 69   The second group comprises a range of works which detail the biographical/artistic lineage of Pixar, its co-founders, and several key figures who have shaped the course of its history such as Lasseter and Jobs. Most notable in this category are Price’s The Pixar Touch (introduced in Chapter One) and Karen Paik’s To Infinity and Beyond!, which centres in large part on interviews with Pixar directors, producers and animators, as well as storyboards and screenshots of a variety of Pixar films.  Paik’s book is undoubtedly a Disney-sanctioned history of Pixar (published by Disney’s publishing arm Hyperion), with a number of glossy photos and ‘inside looks’ at the studio and its (rather praiseful) personnel, but is noteworthy for the production details it relays in respect to Pixar’s animation processes (from the pre-production through to the marketing phases of its films).  Lastly, several biographical/economic analyses of Steve Jobs which include accounts of Pixar’s history can be bracketed within this second group.  Mainly stressing the business aspects of Pixar’s formation and association with both Jobs and Disney, such accounts include Owen Linzmayer’s Apple Confidential 2.0, Alan Deutschman’s The Second Coming of Steve Jobs, and Jeffrey Young, and William Simon’s iCon. Finally, running parallel to these schools of analysis is a quite different vein of criticism that investigates Pixar’s films from a variety of sociological perspectives.  While this is a decidedly nascent branch of Pixar studies, there are a number valuable scholarly works that make up this third camp.  The Toy Story series is heavily weighted in this body of criticism—perhaps for Toy Story’s groundbreaking status, the thematic complexity of the films, or the mere the fact that the series currently offers the largest textual canvas to explore, as no other feature length  69  The official publication of SIGGRAPH.  In addition to the journal, SIGGRAPH has convened an annual conference on computer graphics since 1974 and an annual Asian SIGGRAPH conference as of 2008.   59 Pixar sequels have yet been released. 70   Noteworthy among these studies is Ken Gilliam and Shannon Wooden’s “Post-princess Models of Gender: The New Man in Disney/Pixar,” which contends that Pixar’s masculine protagonists—specifically in Cars (John Lasseter, 2006), 71  Toy Story and The Incredibles—offer a more progressive, postfeminist model of gender than the traditional Disney canon, with its stereotyped female victim/prince charming dichotomy.  Each film, they argue, features an alpha male protagonist who experiences a “figurative emasculation” and subsequently—through a transformative homosocial relationship with another male character—comes to espouse a “new model of masculinity,” which situates community as opposed to the alpha-male as the film’s “site of power” (2-6).  Thomas L. Dumm’s incisive “Toy Stories: Downsizing American Masculinities” also explores masculine subjectivities via a reading of Toy Story.  Dumm reads the film as an “allegory about white collar unemployment” (91) and what he deems the contemporary crisis of the masculinity of straight white men in the ‘business classes’ of the United States. Tackling the representation of race and sexuality in Pixar (and Toy Story specifically) Carmen R. Lugo-Lugo and Mary K. Bloodsworth-Lugo examine the role of animated children’s films as “agents of socialization” or “teaching machines” that negotiate complex “racialized and sexualized scenarios, normalizing certain dynamics and rendering others invisible in the process” (2).  Drawing on Henry Giroux’s study of how Disney shapes and socializes its child audiences, The Mouse that Roared, Lugo-Lugo and Bloodsworth-Lugo discuss how the portrayal of male- female relationships in Toy Story (specifically in regards to Woody and Bo-Peep and Mr./Mrs Potato Head) serves to reinforce dominant hetereonormative ideologies.   Paul Wells has also  70  Moreover, the Toy Story series will cement this status as the most extensive Pixar series with the release of Toy Story 3 in June of 2010.  However, Pixar is also set to release Cars 2 in June of 2011, and is reportedly also developing a Monsters, Inc. 2 though no release date has yet been set for the latter film. 71  Co-directed by Joe Ranft.   60 devoted a chapter and an article to the Toy Story films.  The final chapter of Wells’s Animation and America  “United States of the Art” provides an extended analysis of Toy Story and Toy Story 2 in regards to the films’ digital aesthetic, the status of Woody and Buzz as material, marketable objects both within and beyond the films’ narratives, and the ways in which the films can be read as a “meta-commentary on American consumer values and social identity” (“America” 152).  Wells also discusses the Toy Story films in relation to performance and stardom in his article “To Affinity and Beyond: Woody, Buzz and the New Authenticity” (in Thomas Austin and Martin Barker’s Contemporary Hollywood Stardom).  Wells’s study is not, however, an examination of the use of star voices in Pixar, but a consideration of paradigms of animated stardom and how Woody and Buzz can, in their own right, operate “not as mere affecting characters, but as bonafide ‘stars’, within a meaningful definition of stardom” (91). Shifting the discussion towards questions of the branding and marketing of Pixar’s films, Brookey and Westerfelhaus make a case for Pixar as “digital auteur,” an identity which they argue the studio aggressively promotes in the DVD extra features of Monsters, Inc..  Moreover, The Society for Animation Studies—both its annual conference and its online peer-reviewed journal Animation Studies has also yielded a handful of studies centered on Pixar animation over the past decade; however, this number has remained rather small, particularly when taking into consideration the important presence that Pixar has had in the popular press and at the box office over this same period.  Matthew Butler and Lucie Joschko’s “Final Fantasy or The Incredibles? Animation and the Uncanny Valley,” which explores how the titular films represent a shift towards a so-called “ultra-realistic” animation aesthetic, is a notable standout in the latter category.   61 Perhaps gesturing towards a reversal in the aforementioned scarcity of critical attention, and the opening of new avenues in Disney/Pixar studies, three papers given at the last SAS conference in 2009 took Pixar as their central topic. 72   Finally, providing a broad critical overview of Pixar animation, M. Keith Booker’s recently published Disney, Pixar and the Hidden Messages of Children’s Films—currently the only scholarly book to provide such a comprehensive take on Pixar—provides close readings of a number of Disney, Pixar as well as DreamWorks films.  Booker focuses specifically on the political content in these studios’ animated children’s films.  While he identifies a politically subversive subtext in a number of the films discussed, on the whole, he argues that contemporary animated films aimed at child audiences widely reinforce mainstream, normative culture. 73   The following case studies will continue in the latter school of Pixar scholarship outlined above, performing close textual analyses of the Toy Story series and Monsters Inc.  4.4 Toys and Monsters If much of what has been written on Pixar in the popular press has stressed the technical artistry of its films’ rich visual designs, it is not without reason. 74   As the first feature film created using 3-D computer imaging, Toy Story marked the beginning of a new era in animated filmmaking, and each subsequent Pixar film has continued to advance the aesthetic potentials and applications of digital rendering technologies.  The studio’s aesthetic/ technological pedigree is an important component of Pixar’s construction of its own mythology.  The Pixar website is  72  See Holian, Riggs, and Jayne. 73  Julie Kuhlken’s “The Exemplarities of Artworks: Heidegger, Shoes, and Pixar,” is also arguably part of this discourse though it takes a more purely philosophical approach.  Departing from Heidegger’s concept of exemplarity as laid out in ‘‘The Origin of the Work of Art,” Kuhlken considers how Toy Story 2 negotiates disparate understanding of exemplarity.  She reads the film’s central conflict—Woody’s choice between the “material wear and tear” (25) of being a child’s toy, and “eternal life” (25) in a toy museum—as a dialectic of two competing conditions of exemplarity: “a first in which an object is exemplary for someone in its particularity, and another in which it is exemplary for everyone, but only in its representativeness of a type” (26). 74  See, notably, Henne and Hickel, and Porter and Susman.   62 replete with factual information regarding the number of pixels, rendering hours, and complex 3D environments that make up its films.  Numerous articles in computer graphics magazines also participate in this mythologizing process, enumerating the capabilities of Pixar’s rendering software to create both tremendously extensive environments and the minutest details—with numerous facts and figures no doubt proffered by Pixar.  For instance, Barbara Robertson, in a series of articles for Computer Graphics World magazine observes that even seemingly simple, insignificant details or “shaders” such as the scuffs on the wall of Andy’s (John Morris) room in Toy Story required ten to twelve lines of code to render (“Toy Story” 31) and that Wheezy in Toy Story 2 is covered in 2.4 million individual dust particles (“The Toys Are Back!” 30).  Moreover, Robertson points out that the furry protagonist of Monsters, Inc.—a film which developed new technologies for creating more detailed, accurate simulations of two of the most difficult materials to render: hair and cloth—is covered in over two million distinct, individual hairs, and that the film features nearly six million individual bedroom closet doors in its ‘scare factory’ and twenty-two different location ‘sets’ (“Monster Mash” 22).  These accounts of the visual complexity of Pixar’s films and the technologies that create this aesthetic—in the company’s own rhetoric and its media profiles—serve a dual function. Ideologically, they evidentiate and reinforce Pixar’s historic and continued role in developing the technologies of 3D digital filmmaking, while, on a commercial level, they advertise Pixar’s RenderMan software—as the RenderMan system Pixar uses to create its films, is also one of the company’s main products.  Moreover, the emphasis that Pixar accords to its digital rendering capabilities can be read within the context of Caldwell’s delineation of “industrial reflexivity,” that is to say the film/television industry’s processes of “self-analysis” and “self-representation” on the part of below the line workers (gaffers, camera operators, etc.), creative practitioners   63 (such as writers and directors), and industry executives (1-2).  Much of Pixar’s “self-theorizing” (21) process is predicated upon foregrounding certain production details, such as the number of pixels, dust particles or individual hairs, rendered in a given film, to position the studio as a site of technical innovation.  Moreover, the figures themselves are used to signal Pixar’s aesthetic importance, a process whereby, as Caldwell describes, “sci-tech” facts and figures “morph[] into an artistic vision” (22).  In other words, Pixar creates an aesthetics of numbers—whereby impressive figures are offered as markers of its films’ artistry.  Pixar’s self-theorizing discourses also emphasize the studio’s academic, technological and filmic lineage (i.e. its founders’ doctorate degrees, its links to Stanford and The University of Utah, its association with Lucasfilm, its ties to Silicon Valley) as outlined above, as a part of a mythologizing process that intertwines Pixar’s history with that of certain ‘legitimate’ cultural institutions, to cast the studio as more than a mere mass cultural enterprise.   Furthermore, as will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter Seven, Pixar’s industrial self-representation/mythologization process also involves an array of branding strategies that serve to differentiate its films from those of rival animation studios such as DreamWorks SKG. 75  However, for all the focus that Pixar—and critical/popular discourses surrounding the company—places on its visual properties, the auditory components of these films, which have remained for the most part unexamined, are also worthy of further study.  Chapters Five and Six will re-examine Toy Story and Toy Story 2 and Monsters, Inc. from an aural perspective, focusing in particular on the textual interplay of acousmatic and de-acousmatized voices in each film, as well as the relationship between the prelinguistic voice (the scream) and the postlinguistic voice (the laugh) in Monsters, Inc..  These two case studies will be rooted in close  75  The relationship between DreamWorks and Pixar in relation to their respective industrial reflexive discourses, can also be analyzed with respect to Caldwell’s discussion of ‘creative commandeering’ and ‘creative posturing,’ however, the space of this study, will not allow for such an (albeit instructive) elaboration.   64 textual analysis of the films, examining the diegetic form and function of the voice.  As outlined in Chapter One, this analysis will adopt a psychoanalytic perspective, integrating Chion and Dolar’s writing on the voice in cinema into a discussion of the voice in Pixar animation.  In taking up this approach, my aim is not to avoid or circumvent the broader economic, political and social implications of Pixar studios and its parent company.  Such analyses are indispensible to understanding the sprawling, global cultural industry that Disney/Pixar has become, and will no doubt be a focal point in emerging critical treatments of Pixar animation.  These concerns, however, are beyond the scope of this study, which will remain centered on explicating the relationship between the voice and the animated image in Pixar.   Nonetheless, this study will not be confined to purely textual concerns; following these case studies, Chapter Seven: “Pixarticulation: The Voice in Contemporary Animation” extends the scope of my analysis to an examination of the extratextual operations of the voice, considering the overall phenomenon of the de-acousmatization of the voice in contemporary animation.   65 5 Voices in Toyland: Pull-Strings, Dinosaurs and Ventriloquists  Based on the central premise that toys come to life when their owners leave the room, the Toy Story films chronicle one child’s toys’ struggles to come to terms with the vicissitudes of their market, aesthetic and quotidian use value.  In the first Toy Story film, it is the arrival of a new, more sophisticated toy that brings these questions into sharp relief, particularly for Woody (Tom Hanks), a cowboy doll who has long been his owner’s favourite toy.  This relationship begins to change, however, with the introduction of Buzz Lightyear (Tim Allen), a new toy who is (initially) unaware of the fact that he is a toy, and misguidedly believes he is in fact a ‘space ranger’ with a real laser, interstellar intercom, and the ability to fly.  In the style of an odd-couple buddy picture, the pair must eventually work together to overcome a mutual obstacle—a sadistic toy-torturing boy, Sid (Erik von Detten), into whose hands they accidentally fall—and as a result, form a strong homosocial bond.  Toy Story 2 evidentiates the strength of this bond, as Buzz leads an expedition of toys on a mission to rescue Woody who has been stolen by a ruthless toy collector at a garage sale.  Ultimately, however, the film centres on the question of whether Woody will decide to be shipped off to a toy museum in Japan along with an affiliated cast of toys from “Woody’s Roundup”—a television show on which, we discover, the Woody character originated—or return to his owner Andy.  In other words, the film juxtaposes Woody’s currency as a commercial good and child’s plaything, and his cultural value as a rare piece of Americana.   The voice, or rather, an intricate hierarchy of voices, plays a pivotal role in this interrogation.  The complexity of this vocal matrix is made clear in the opening scene of Toy Story which begins with a partially acousmatic vocal performance: Andy playing with his toys and ventriloquizing their voices in a cowboys and outlaws style narrative. Though it is, in a very literal sense, child’s play, the vocal mix of this performance is in fact quite complex.  Following   66 a pan across an “Old West” cardboard thoroughfare, the scene begins with Mr. Potato Head (Don Rickles) being thrust down into the frame by Andy’s hand.  In a gravelly tone, Andy ventriloquizes for the toy from offscreen (his arm being the only part of his body in the frame): “All right everyone this is a stick up! Don’t anybody move.”  In addition to voicing the “villain” of this narrative, Andy also voices Bo Peep, (Annie Potts) the ‘damsel in distress,’ in falsetto, as well as Bo Peep’s flock.  At this point in the play, the musical score, largely indistinct until this point, crescendos into a Western theme reminiscent of John Williams’s overture for The Cowboys (Mark Rydell, 1972), as Woody—Andy’s wooden Sheriff doll and favourite toy—is introduced. 76  Woody then proceeds to give his lines, so to speak, in this mini-Western, yet it is not Andy who provides Woody’s voice.  Instead, Andy draws a pull-string on Woody’s back, which induces the toy to ‘speak’ the words “Reach for the sky!” in a tinny and somewhat robotic voice (though not by means of any lip or mouth movement but via an unseen phonographic device somewhere in the toy’s body).  For the remainder of this play scenario, Andy then steps back in to provide (a still partially acousmatic) voice over for Woody, as well as Slinky Dog (Jim Varney), and Rex the Dinosaur (Wallace Shawn).  It is only at the culmination of the scene that the body of this omnipotent narrator (Andy) is fully revealed, de-acousmatized; we see Andy, framed in a medium shot, holding up his favourite toy and pulling on the drawstring once more, prompting Woody to exclaim “You’re my favourite deputy,” before the score swells once more, leading into a musical montage set to Randy Newman’s theme for the film “You’ve Got a Friend in Me.”  76  Woody is granted a new Western theme in Toy Story 2, that of “Woody’s Roundup.” The Roundup theme also inspired an album of Western music (many songs featuring references to Toy Story 2 characters), “Woody’s Roundup: A Rootin’ Tootin’ Collection of Woody’s Favourite Songs, by the band Riders in the Sky (who penned the theme).   67 Following this opening montage and credit sequence, the film proceeds to stage a further de-acousmatization, unfolding another stratum of the complex layering of voices within the film. Once Andy is safely out of sight, the toys once again begin to speak, but no longer through Andy’s ventriloquial voice, or as in Woody’s case, in a voice induced by a pull-string, but with their own mouths/voices.  This sequence of opening scenes thus reveals a tension in the film between different vocal orders, that is to say between the toys’ ‘authentic’ or autonomous voices that they produce independently with their own mouths (lips, diaphragms, etc.); the ventriloquial voice that Andy ascribes to them; and the mechanical or pre-programmed voices built into (a selection of) the toys that they can produce themselves if desired by pulling their own strings, or pushing their buttons, but cannot fully control—these voices can be activated against the toys’ will and the toys have no agency in determining what they articulate.   In addition, there is a final layer of the voice—that of the star actors whose vocal performances are ascribed to these animated characters.  The particular implications of overlaying stars’ voices onto animated images will be deferred for the moment, but will be taken up in depth in Chapter Seven.  I would here like to explore the anatomy and function of the former articulations of the voice (the autonomous, toy, and ventriloquial voices) in further detail, namely in relation to the ways in which they structure the toys’ social hierarchy within the film, contribute to character development and participate in the commodification of the film and its ancillary products.  5.1  Autonomous Voices: The Grain of the (Toy) Voice Dolar points to a fundamental paradox of the voice, in that it is both “the axis of our social bonds […] the very texture of the social, as well as the intimate kernel of subjectivity” (14).  J. Smith rehearses this argument, stating that our “voices reveal our social roles and at the same time they are intimately connected to […] our most closely held sense of identity” (3).   68 Connor views these two functions less as a paradox than as an interconnected process, arguing: “[n]othing else defines me so intimately as my voice, precisely because there is no other feature of my self whose nature it is thus to move from me to the world, and to move me into the world” (7). 77   The toys’ authentic or autonomous voices carry out such a dual function: revealing their most intimate nature and their social roles.  On an initial level, these voices gesture towards the toys’ biological and animate state.  Whereas, as noted above, the toys’ ‘toy voices’ sound tinny, wavering, their autonomous voices have more substance, richness and depth.  They have what Barthes terms a “grain”: a sonorous quality that reveals the voice’s “deep-rootedness in the action of the throat” (“The Grain” 184) and in the cavities and passageways through which it resonates (“the mask […] the glottis, the teeth, the mucous membranes, the nose” [“The Grain” 183]).  In short, the grain is “the materiality of the body speaking its mother tongue” (182).  Put another way, these autonomous voices are “full of the body’s presence (its warmth, elasticity, and sensitivity)” (Connor 41). The toys, in fact seem to have a surplus grain, an organic, physicality that belies their cheap plastic frames (a gap which points to the non-diegetic source of the voice—a star body). While there is somewhat of an incongruity then between the grain of the toys’ voices and their hard plastic bodies, this physiological quality, if not wholly faithful to the toys’ material forms does serve an anthropomorphic function and buttresses the central premise of the film—that in spite of all appearances, toys are alive, or at least come to life when no one is around to see. 78   It is perhaps this biological quality of the toys’ autonomous voices that makes the concluding lines  77  Connor also elaborates on the notion of the voice being closely tied to the self, and the production of the self: “giving voice is the process which simultaneously produces articulate sound and produces myself, as a self- producing being […] it is voicing myself, as the renewed and persisting action of producing myself as a vocal agent, as a producer of signs and sounds, that asserts this continuity and substance” (3). 78  The toys’ autonomous voices also change in response to certain biological cues.  For instance, when Woody speaks with the flirtatious Bo-Peep, he has an audibly physical reaction as his voice rises in pitch and becomes shallow.   69 of the eerie vocal performance that Woody gives for Sid (in the course of his escape attempt from the boy’s house) so frightening to the child.  Sid is confused and startled when Woody begins to speak in ‘toy voice’ without having pulled his string, but it is when the doll begins to speak in his autonomous voice, in synch with his lip movements, that Sid truly becomes terrified. It is at this point that Sid realizes that the toy is not simply speaking because of some technical malfunction, but because it is alive.  For Sid, who has been staging what Wells fittingly calls “an adolescent theatre of cruelty” (“America” 166) with toys, the implications of the toys actually being alive, feeling pain, and watching everything humans do, are clear. 79   Just as the toys’ autonomous voices reveal their biological nature, these voices are also an important index of their identities.  To a much greater extent than their outward appearances, it is the toys’ autonomous voices that demonstrate their distinctly adult personalities, which are often rather at odds with their child-oriented designs: painted on smiles and brightly coloured facades.  Rex, the Tyrannosaurus epitomizes this intimate character of the voice as a marker of identity.  John Lasseter relays that, in the process of designing Rex’s character, he and the film’s team of animators acquired a variety of T. rex toys—most of which, he recalls, were quite badly made.  As a result, they determined that Rex should have a “tremendous inferiority complex,” (“Making Toy Story”) reflecting the toy’s apprehension of his poor construction and therefore his inability to reflect the predatorial nature or ferocity of his referent.  The toy does appear clumsy and awkward throughout the film, reflecting the limited mobility of his plastic parts. This may in itself be a sign of poor construction for, as the film illustrates, “multiple points of articulation” are a selling point for toys (the feature is prominently emphasized on Buzz’s packaging).  79  The voice is also an apt marker of the toy’s biological condition for, as Connor points out, “the larynx contains the highest ratio of nerve to muscle fibres of any organ in the body and is therefore ‘exquisitely responsive to intraorganismic changes’” (8).   70 However, perhaps because an overtly poorly constructed toy character does not make for a marketable commodity (and, as will be discussed in Chapter Seven, Pixar has a highly developed film/product synergy), Rex does not appear particularly shoddy.  What remains then, to characterize Rex’s sense of inferiority is his voice (Wallace Shawn’s), a high-pitched voice with a notable lisp, that always conveys a certain edge, a tangible note of neurotic concern, with a mile-a-minute delivery of self-deprecating comments (speaking about which toys might be sold at the yard sale in Toy Story 2, for instance, Rex laments “It’s gonna be me, I know it.  I’m the logical choice I’m already extinct.  It’s my unmanly forearms, they say ‘Hello! Forgot to evolve!’ I can’t even touch my nose!”).  The pitch and tone of his voice is an apt metonym of his insecurities surrounding his to inability perform as a dinosaur should, as much of this anxiety rests on his ineptitude at producing the kind of stentorian roar expected of a T. rex.  And indeed, in Toy Story we see Rex practicing and being coached on this roar. The toys’ autonomous voices also denote their social roles in the hierarchical toy ‘community.’  This is perhaps best illustrated by Wheezy (Joe Ranft) the penguin toy who is pulled from the communal toy box, shelved and left to collect dust when his ‘squeaker’ (his voice) breaks. Though he attempts, as he says, to call for help, without the use of his voice he remains in isolation on the shelf until Woody discovers him by chance.  It is also not by coincidence that Wheezy’s happy reunion with the other toys at the end of Toy Story 2 is simultaneous with the return of his voice and celebrated with an enthusiastic song (sung in the voice of Robert Goulet, no less).  Vocal agency is thus a crucial marker here of social standing and the basis for the toys’ social bonds.  Sid’s mute toys also exemplify the interconnectedness of the voice and social status.  Even though many of Sid’s toys still have mouths (the Meccano spider with a baby doll’s head, the doll with a pterodactyl head and vice versa, all have some   71 form of mouth or beak) none of them have the use of their voices.  These voiceless “mutant” toys are relegated to the shadows of Sid’s room; they are social outcasts who terrify their former owner, Sid’s sister, as well as the other ‘normal’ toys. In keeping, however, with Chion’s estimations of the mute character’s ‘special powers,’ Sid’s toys, though ‘mutated,’ seem to have “hypertrophied talent[s]” (“Voice” 97) that none of the other toys in the film possess.  Initially, Woody and Buzz believe that the toys are cannibals who consume each of Sid’s latest victims.  It is not until the mute/mutant toys re-attach Buzz's severed arm, that the truth is revealed:  Sid’s toys so eagerly pounce on the wounded toys not to eat them, but to fix them, for they have developed an uncanny ability to remodel and repair broken toys.  The mute characters also seem able to see/hear and know things that other characters cannot (i.e. when Sid or Scud the dog are coming, which places in the house are safe, where the dangerous characters are, and even how to navigate through the house using the heating vents.)  The toys’ muteness is inextricably linked to their unique identities, as it is in having been “injured or robbed of one of their senses” (Chion, “Voice” 97), that they have developed certain abilities and heightened senses of hearing and spatial awareness that set them apart from the speaking toys. 80  On the opposite end of the spectrum, Woody asserts his place atop the (toy) social ladder, precisely through the use of his voice. Pete Docter, Toy Story’s supervising animator says of Woody “On the surface [he’s] very relaxed about everything […] But underneath he’s thinking who’s my competition and what do I have to do to stay on top?” (qtd in Lasseter and Daly 29). He is not technologically sophisticated cutting edge, but an old fashioned, even archaic toy  80  The mute toys also play a key role as form of chorus in Woody’s horrifying ‘performance’ for Sid during his escape attempt. Woody leads the toys in an eerie symphony: at his command, broken toys bubble up from the muddy sandbox, dolls claw their way out of the shadows, and maimed toy soldiers drag and scrape their mangled plastic limbs across the yard as Woody delivers his speech to Sid.   72 (Lasseter has frequently stated he envisioned Woody as a ‘hand-me-down’ from Andy’s father); he is also one of the only toys made of wood and cloth, not plastic. 81   While other toys evidence more advanced designs, perhaps more useful features or dexterity, Woody nonetheless remains at the top of the toybox, so to speak.  This is partially due to his status as “favourite toy”; however, Woody also demonstrably secures this prominent position via his voice.  Using a loudspeaker/microphone toy to project his voice for everyone to hear, Woody makes his voice one that commands the other toys’ attention and silence.  To quote Attali, it is Woody’s ability to “impose [his] own noise and to silence others” (87) that allows him to maintain his position atop the toys’ social hierarchy, in spite of his age/wear and the arrival of new, better equipped toys. Notably, Attali also quotes Hitler’s statement in the Manual of German Radio: “Without the loudspeaker, we would never have conquered Germany” (87).  For Woody, it is precisely his loudspeaker that enables him to remain, as Lasseter tellingly describes, the toys’ “governing emcee” (29).  When Woody is accused of murder and stripped of his power and authority, he is also, quite significantly, stripped of his loudspeaker.  Trapped at Sid’s, he attempts to yell at the toys across the yard in Andy’s room, but his words can only reach a few of the toys who find his plea unconvincing.  Moreover, Potato Head, denouncing any former authority Woody might have had, shouts, “I hope Sid pulls your voice box out!” reifying the connection between the voice and agency, and insinuating that the literal and symbolic culmination of stripping Woody of his regency should be the eradication of his voice—a vocal castration.  5.2  Press Here: ‘Toy Voices’ While the toys can express a range of emotional states and nuanced tones/inflections in their autonomous voices, their ‘toy voices’ are restricted to one enunciative form and function.  81  See Kanfer (229-31) for a description of the toy’s lineage.   73 In other words, they can only re-produce pre-programmed lines—triggered by a pull-string, button or other mechanism—that are often based on some sort of generic cliché, i.e. “There’s a snake in my boot!,” “Somebody poisoned the water hole!”  Though the viewer can assume that the mechanism which produces a toy’s ‘toy voice’ is housed somewhere within its body, precisely where this non-synchronous (that is to say, not coordinated to the movement of the toy’s lips) voice comes from is never explicitly shown.  Therefore, the toy voices are always partially acousmatic: we can see the toy itself who is, in a broad sense, the source of the voice, as well as the strings and buttons that set off the phonographic mechanism in its body, but the actual sound projection device from which the toy voice originates remains hidden.  Furthermore, the toy voices can also be understood as acousmachines, as they are machinic voices produced by an unseen mechanical apparatus.  Both acousmêtre and acousmachine, these voices are not visually anchored to any specific source and thus float, in a sense, on the surface of the screen.  It is precisely this floating, unanchored nature of the toy voices that makes them somewhat disturbing, even dangerous; they are uncanny voices that seize or possess their host’s body, discursive intrusions that destabilize the toys’ vocal agency. 82  The threatening nature of the toy voices is best exemplified in a scene in the first Toy Story film.  Attempting to escape from Sid’s house, Woody and Buzz encounter a sleeping dog (Scud), and quietly try to evade him.  Woody’s pull-string, however, becomes caught on the banister and sets off his toy voice.  Though Woody tries to cover his mouth to muffle the sound, the voice can still be clearly heard, for its source is, as previously stated, not his mouth but a phonographic mechanism somewhere in his body.  Woody’s toy voice also leads to his  82  Taken another way, the eeriness of this voice can be read in light of Connor’s assertion that “in technological modernity, the dead and dumb world of matter begins to speak” (42).  The toys’ chattering mechanical voices can be interpreted as a commentary on the proliferation of technologies with phonographic capabilities (such as cell phones), which enable the projection of disembodied voices that cannot be pinned down to any visible source.   74 ‘kidnapping’ from the garage sale in Toy Story 2.  The sound of Woody’s toy voice, activated by a child who picks up the doll and pulls his string, is what causes Woody to be discovered by the film’s villain, Al—a toy store owner and toy aficionado who needs a Woody doll to complete is ‘roundup gang’ collection.  Whereas Chion describes the acousmêtre as “neither inside nor outside” (“Voice” 18), the acousmachinic toy voices thus appear to be both internally anchored and exterior to the toys’ discursive control; they are, paradoxically, a form of external interlocutor embedded deep within the self.   The toy voice also plays a pivotal role in what Wells views as an underlying ideological construct of the Toy Story films: a “necessary, inevitable, and consensual capitulation to corporate ideology and social positioning” (“America” 155).  The toy voices illustrate that, in spite of the distinctly individual personalities the toys all seem to have, they are nonetheless mass produced products whose voices do not belong uniquely to them, but are shared with other identical toys.  It is precisely Buzz’s realization of this doubling that forces him to concede to his status in the corporate structure as a consumable good, to realize that he is not “the real” Buzz Lightyear, but a toy, a “mass produced chunk of plastic standing on a kid’s bedspread” (Lasseter and Daly 31).  While trapped at Sid’s, Buzz stumbles upon a television commercial for a Buzz Lightyear toy like himself.  The onscreen toy both looks identical to, and speaks in the same voice as Buzz, first activated by the toy’s button and subsequently as a voice over accompanying an image of the toy ‘flying.’  Hearing his voice ascribed to another body, Buzz perplexedly reaches down and presses one of his buttons, which repeats the same line he has just heard onscreen (“there’s a secret mission in uncharted space”) but with a slightly more tinny resonance. This disparity is more marked in Buzz’s ‘voice over’ in the commercial, which rehearses the toy’s signature catchphrase “To infinity and beyond!” This voice is significantly fuller, more   75 amplified than Buzz’s autonomous voice that we have heretofore heard in the film.  Gary Rydstrom, sound designer for Toy Story, points to this disparity, stating: “we made a special point with the sound effects on the tv commercial to make them even more unbelievable,” as advertisements tend to do in order to sell more merchandise. The commercial thus ruptures Buzz’s ontological consistency, obliging him to acknowledge that the voice which once constituted an ‘intimate kernel’ of his subjectivity, a formative component of his unique selfhood, is assigned to other bodies and that his autonomous voice (and, in fact he himself) is an imperfect replica of an original model.  Moreover, the demonstrative activation by the boy in the commercial of another Buzz’s ‘toy voice,’ instructs Buzz on his operative function: to be wielded as a child’s plaything.  For Buzz, this is a mirror stage of sorts, a point at which he sees/hears his “complete” self onscreen and apprehends the fragmented nature of his own body in relation to this specular image of ‘himself.’ 83   His ‘communicator’ is just a sticker, his ‘laser’ is just a light bulb, and as he falls from the top of the stairwell, he realizes that his wings are only decorative, and his voice is only a palimpsest, a diaphanous double of the ‘real’ Buzz’s voice.  Ultimately, however, like the infant who moves towards an identification with his/her mirror image in a process of ego formation, Buzz comes to identify with the image of himself as a toy, and to understand his ideological and social positioning in relation to his exchange value as a consumer good. 84  The toy voices are thus a reminder to the toys that, despite their emotional and intellectual capacities, they are but mass-produced doubles, plastic moulds of an ideal model.  In  83  Woody undergoes a similar process of identification with his ‘mirror’ image when is stolen by Al, and uncovers a plethora of Woody-themed memorabilia that is adorned with his image and that speaks in his voice. However, for Woody, this image of his imaginary self is not unsettling, indeed it offers Woody an opportunity to conceive of an identity for himself beyond the paramaters of his use value for Andy that has heretofore defined his existence. 84  This scenario is also re-staged in Toy Story 2 in which Buzz encounters whole shelf of Buzz Lightyears at Al’s Toy Barn and is once again faced, this time much more tangibly, with his commodity status and must again acknowledge and capitulate to this corporate order that governs his identity.   76 other words, the toys are products of what Jacques Attali in Noise: A Political Economy of Music terms a “political economy of repetition,” characterized by “the mold which allows the mass reproduction of an original” and in which the object “loses its personalized, differentiated meaning” (128).  Crucially, Attali argues this repetitive economy “must not be confused with stagnation,” but on the contrary “requires the ongoing destruction of the use-value of earlier repetitions, in other words, the rapid devaluation of past labor and therefore accelerated growth” (130) and simultaneously, the production of demand.  The toys are acutely aware of this destruction of their use value in a multi-billion dollar industry that churns out millions upon millions of new toys every year (the U.S. toy industry topped 22 million dollars in sales in 2006 alone [Hilsenrath and Riley]) and strive to stave off this obsolescence as long as possible—for instance, by rotating toys from the bottom of the toy box so none are forgotten. Even Buzz Lightyear, who is the latest, most sought after “really cool toy” in Toy Story, is already inching towards redundancy in Toy Story 2.  No more than a year after his purchase (in terms of story-time) there is a new, more high-tech Buzz Lightyear (with a ‘multifunction utility belt’) on the market, making Buzz already somewhat out of date.  This perhaps provides another explanation as to why the mute/mutant toys are so disturbing to Woody and Buzz: they are the looming spectre of the toys’ worst fear, obsolescence.  Sid’s mutilated and mangled toys represent both the devaluation of a toy’s original use value, and the destructive impulse of the repetitive economy, which requires the eradication of earlier repetitions for its perpetuation. Moreover, the toys are keenly aware of the ‘production of demand’ that fuels this repetitive economy.  When a commercial for ‘Al’s Toy Barn’—a local toy store—appears on television, the toys panic and scramble to change the channel as quickly as possible exclaiming “Turn it off,   77 someone’s gonna hear!”  This brief scene signals the toys’ recognition that the potential termination of their use value is directly tied to the production of demand for new toys.  Yet, herein lies the underlying irony of the Toy Story films: on a narrative level, the toys resist the very condition that, on an extratextual level, the films perpetuate. 85   As Wells argues, Woody and Buzz “are representations of ‘toys’; material objects which they actually become in the extra-textual ‘real world’ environment” (156). 86   The political economy of repetition that threatens the toys’ existence within the film, becomes the very means by which Pixar markets Toy Story toys—millions of semi-identical replicated objects—to children the world over. 87   A search for “Toy Story toys” on the Disney website alone calls up hundreds of different Toy Story products, from children’s pyjamas to several different types of talking Woody and Buzz dolls— which, as will be discussed in Chapter Seven—are marketed, in part, via the star voices they reproduce.  Toy Story, in fact, seems to present the perfect opportunity for this process of repetition and aesthetic commodification, as the characters in the film are already inherently mass-produced commodities within the narrative—a narrative which engages the viewer to identify with the commodity (the protagonists), thus creating a personal attachment with the toys, and subsequently perhaps a greater desire to purchase their extra-textual reproductions. (See Appendix B for an illustration of such Toy Story toys)  5. 3 Ventriloquial Voices To return to the specific properties of the voice and the vocal play outlined in the introduction to this chapter, the final ‘level’ of the voice in the Toy Story films is that of the  85  Lasseter, in fact, proudly recalls seeing a young boy with a Woody doll no more than five days after the release of Toy Story (“Lasseter Talks Toys Vol. 1”). 86  By extension, fictional locations within the narrative are now also concrete sites.  For example, there is an actual “Pizza Planet” restaurant at Walt Disney’s Hollywood Studios theme park. 87  Moreover, the narrative dilemma of Toy Story 2, and Woody’s choice between “eternal life” in a toy museum and the wear and tear of life as Andy’s toy—i.e. degradation—seems to ultimately champion the destruction of use value that fuels the repetitive economy.   78 ventriloquial voice.  In early storyboards and test sequences for Toy Story, Woody was not conceived as a cowbow doll, but in fact as an old wooden ventriloquist dummy.  In this original form, Woody was somewhat more of a villain at odds with the film’s initial protagonist, “Tinny,” a character from Pixar’s 1988 short “Tin Toy.”  The dummy, however, fared poorly in early tests screenings for Disney executives, who found him too “devious” and the sharp lines running down his chin, carving out his movable jaw, too “spooky” (Price 126).  For them, the ventriloquist dummy seemed to belong more to the horror genre than to Disney’s ‘family friendly’ brand of animation and thus the dummy was abandoned in favour of a stuffed Woody cowboy doll.  Ventriloquism and the ventriloquial voice, however, still play an important part in the vocal makeup of the Toy Story films. In both films, Andy’s ventriloquism neatly assumes the role that Connor assigns to the ventriloquial voice of: “mediator between the human world (characterized by voice, or sound as the expression of animated life) and the inhuman” (42).  Andy’s voice overs similarly structure a form of dialogue between the inhuman toys and their human owner; it is only through the mediating process of ventriloquism that the toys’ and their owner’s voice intersect (if somewhat obliquely).  Andy endows the toys with a voice and the toys serve as proxies for Andy’s voice. The ventriloquial voice is nevertheless the most fully disembodied of all the toys’ voices: whereas the ‘toy voices’ retain a physical anchor to the toys’ bodies, Andy’s performative ‘dubbings’ are necessarily disembodied.  The toys, however, are neither fearful of nor threatened by this disembodied ventriloquist voice, for it is precisely Andy’s voice that serves to reaffirm their use-value.  Connor distinguishes between two forms of ventriloquism: an ‘active’ and a ‘passive’ form, “depending upon whether it is thought of as the power to speak through others or as the experience of being spoken through by others” (14).  Here, however, we see a fusion of the   79 active and passive form, as it is precisely the experience of being spoken through that performs an essential function in allocating power and use value to the toys.  The toys who are ventriloquized are assured of a continued use-value in Andy’s play (and by, extension, life). Jessie (Joan Cusack), in Toy Story 2, patently illustrates this relationship.  As we witness in a musical montage, her place in her owner Emily’s life is secure so long as Emily is still interested in talking to and for her doll.  A shift occurs, however, when Emily becomes more interested in lending her voice to gossiping with her friends and talking on the phone, than ventroloquizing for her doll.  The ventriloquial voice speaking through the toys, thus structures a simultaneously active and passive mode: the toys are limp and yet animated, silent and yet speaking through the discursive powers of the ventriloquist.  Jessie makes this point very clear in stating that, for a toy, when an owner plays with you “it's like, even though you're not moving, you feel like you're alive.”  Andy’s “voice-overs” are therefore crucial to the toys as they both play a part in determining the toys’ social hierarchy (Andy’s favourite toys that are the most played with, or ventriloquized, are the toys with the most social clout) and preserving the toys’ from obsolescence, from destruction within the repetitive economy. Andy’s “voice overs” may also have a part in shaping his toys’ personalities.  While the toys presumably come with a set personality (as seen with the two Buzzes, who both emerge from their boxes already astute and authoritative “space rangers”) it would seem that Andy also has an influence on his toys’ subject formation.  Many of the toys appear to have adopted some of the personality traits that Andy has created for them in his ventriloquial play. For instance, Potato Head and Hamm (John Ratzenberger) who are Andy’s most common choices as “villains” have, to a certain extent, assumed this role in the real world of the toy box.  Though they are not quite the kidnappers or dictators that they are in Andy’s play world, they are smug, sarcastic, as   80 well as the most disposed to questioning and challenging the appointed authority figures in Andy’s room (Woody and Buzz). Of course it is possible, in the story world of the film, that Potato Head and Hamm arrived in Andy’s room with pre-formed identities; however, the uncanny ‘fit’ of Andy’s vocal performance and the toys’ personalities (which, as previously mentioned, are rather at odds with their appearances) suggests that the lines Andy has acted out for the toys have perhaps subconsciously influenced their personalities.  In this sense, Andy’s is a prophetic voice—one of the most ancient functions of the ventriloquial voice, as exemplified by the Delphic Oracle or Pythia—that holds some sway over the toys’ subject formation.  The ventriloquial voice is therefore closely interconnected with the first level of the voice discussed in this chapter—the autonomous voice.  While the toys’ autonomous voices reveal their diverse character traits, Andy’s ventriloquial voice can arguably help shape his toys’ psychological and emotional demeanours.  Indeed, all of the voices in the Toy Story films form a complex network of acousmatic and embodied voices whose interrelationships are a pivotal structural element within the narrative.  The following chapter continues in this investigation of the unique powers and properties of the voice—particularly the de-acousmatized scream and the embodied laugh—in Monsters, Inc..   81 6 The Hollywood Scream Factory: De-acousmatization, the Screaming Point and the Postlinguistic Voice   The diegetic world of Monsters, Inc. is, quite literally, fuelled by the scream. The monsters’ city of Monstropolis—a sort of parallel universe, connected to the human world via children’s bedroom closet doors—is powered by children’s screams, extracted and refined into energy by the titular Monsters, Incorporated energy company.  As a Monsters, Inc. television commercial (with a voice-of-god style of narration designed to mimic 1950s ads) that opens the film describes, Monsters, Inc. harvests children’s screams and converts them into “clean, dependable energy” that lights the monsters’ city, warms their homes, and powers their cars—an equation which cannily reifies Connor’s assertion that the child’s cry “produces a generalized vitalization of the world, in which mass becomes movement, and inertness is subject to excitation” (29).   And, as Tom Myers—who, along with Gary Rydstrom, served as the film’s co-sound designer—notes, the sound of cars passing through the streets in Monsters, Inc. in fact have the sounds of children’s screams mixed into the effect of the car motor at a very low level so as not to be discernibly audible, but perhaps still have a subliminal impact (“Sound Design”).  6.1  “We Scare Because We Care”  The film’s protagonists are two Monsters, Inc. employees: James “Sulley” Sullivan (John Goodman) a record holding “scarer” who provokes children’s screams, and Mike Wazowski (Billy Crystal) his “scare assistant” who collects and tallies the screams Sulley rouses.  The pair work on the “scare floor” of Monsters, Inc.—essentially a cross between a Fordian assembly line and a television studio, where scarers and their assistants work/perform to extract children’s screams. To manufacture scream energy, the assistants (who are all smaller, less imposing looking monsters) first summon one of the millions of doors in the scare floor warehouse—each   82 one a portal to a child’s bedroom closet somewhere in the world.  With the swipe of a card, a door arrives along a mechanical track and is docked at a particular scarer’s station.  The scarers then line up on the factory floor before their respective stations, warm up their scare ‘routines,’ and wait for the floor manager/producer figure to count them in.  Finally, when given the signal, they charged forth in unison through their assigned door to scare an unsuspecting sleeping child and induce a scream.  The scream, once emitted from a child’s body, is collected in a receptacle attached to his/her closet door that allows for scream energy to be captured secured.  But this seemingly streamlined system has developed a serious kink.  Children, now saturated with a range of “scary” imagery: violent and explicit content ubiquitous on television, on the internet and in video games—their technological babysitters, so to speak—are no longer as easily scared by the monsters in their closets.  This is perhaps best illustrated in the aforementioned Monsters, Inc. commercial, in which the company addresses the issue of children’s desensitizing to scaring.  The ad shows a child sitting in front of a flickering television screen, his eyes-glazed over, his mouth agape, so bored into a comatose daze that he plunges his head into his breakfast cereal bowl.  Though we only see the glimmering reflection of the television program on the child’s face, and not precisely what he is watching, we do hear a portion of the program, which gestures towards its “scary” content: several rounds of gunshots are fired, followed by a series of screams, more gunshots followed by even more screams, and finally an overlay of wailing police sirens thrown into the mix.  As the narration accompanying this sequence then explains, “the window of innocence is shrinking, human kids are harder to scare.”  That the monsters must also frequently resort to using a ‘door shredder,’ a wood chipper- like machine that destroys a child’s door if he/she has become impervious to the monsters’ scare tactics, also illustrates children’s increasing insusceptibility to scaring.  Therefore, while Sulley   83 may be breaking all time ‘scare records’ with his frightening endeavours, overall, scream intake is at a perilous low for Monsters, Inc. and Monstropolis is facing increasing energy deficits. The screaming point—and the need to produce and extract screams at all costs, as quickly as possible—thus becomes the fulcrum of the film’s plot and, much in the way that Chion outlines, a point of convergence or black hole within the narrative towards which each character and story arc is inevitably drawn.  Several critics have, as might be expected, read Monsters Inc. as an allegory for contemporary energy concerns—particularly in relation to dwindling crude oil supplies and the global demand for fossil fuels.  Paul Tranter and Scott Sharpe, for instance, discuss the film as a conceptualization of the relationship between peak oil, lifestyle, and children in the Western world.  Geoffrey Whitehall also draws out this analogy, describing Monsters Inc. as a “modern parable” for energy production/consumption: “Just like oil, we find out that fear is a damaging, dirty and dwindling resource […] Exceptions are made, extremes are pushed and previously guarded norms are abandoned in order to […] extract scarcer resources” (2).  Moreover, Booker reads the film as a commentary on “monstrous corporate interests (especially energy companies) [that] derive their resources from the brutal exploitation of the weak and helpless” (85).  Certainly, these readings are instructive in unpacking the socio- economic context of the film’s production, and its potential political subtext in relation to U.S. oil exploration, extraction, and energy independence policies.  In this chapter, however, I will not focus on the film’s allegorical content, but examine the role of the voice, the scream, and the processes of de-acousmatization at play within the film, for it is ultimately a de-acousmatization of the voice which intervenes to resolve the film’s ‘peak scream’ dilemma.  6.2  Scream and Shout  Chion aligns the screaming point with the woman’s voice in particular, distinguishing a   84 woman’s ‘scream’ from a man’s ‘shout’.  He observes that the gendered natured of the scream/shout is in fact built into the very terminological disparity that demarcates the scream— which often denotes a higher pitched expression in the upper ranges of the voice, and the shout— which generally refers to a lower, bassy cry and which is often associated with an exercise of “marking a territory” (“Voice” 78). 88   In Monsters, Inc., however, the screaming point, or rather, points—as there is not simply one climactic screaming point in the narrative, but multiple screaming points—are generated by children’s screams that are undifferentiated in terms of gender. The children’s screams that the monsters call forth, whether emitted by a male or female child, resonate in very much the same register and are consistent in tone and timbre—the young boys’ voices having not yet changed, their falsetto screams land in the same vocal range as the young girls’.  Furthermore, just as the screams do not audibly connote a specific gender, many of the screams are never visually linked with a gendered body within the frame.  On the scare floor, screams are generally only heard emanating from the dark obscurity of a child’s bedroom, just as the closet door is closing.  The source of the scream is therefore not directly inscribed within the onscreen space; screams emanate from the unseen depths behind the children’s doors, and so are neither aurally nor visually linked to a discernable male or female body. 89  Thus, the screaming point(s) in Monsters, Inc. are not readily associable with the male shout or the female scream.  These voices can rather be thought of as what Lacan terms a “cri pur”: a prelinguistic, presymbolic voice.  While the children in Monsters, Inc. are not exclusively infants, they are largely prelingual: able to “babble” by making and mimicking simple sounds,  88  Chion posits Tarzan’s famous call, “fabricated in the 1930s from multiple animal cries; a phallic cry which the male uses to exhibit himself and proclaim his virility,” as emblematic of the male shout (“Voice” 78). 89  These screams are also voiced by actual children and not simply adults playing children, as is the case with a number of animated film and television productions such as, for example, The Simpsons.  For instance, Mary Gibbs, the daughter of one of the film’s story animators provides the voice for the film’s main child character, Boo.   85 but with no real command of language.  Boo (the film’s child protagonist,) for instance—who is described in the film’s script as an “innocent preverbal girl” (Price 197)—giggles, coos, cries and repeats the sound “boo,” but is not able to formulate words and string them together to form sentences. 90   It is this presymbolic voice, one that is (ostensibly) external to structure and signification, that is the object of the monsters’ labour.  They seek a vocal expression that is not a receptacle for language and meaning, but simply sound energy.  Connor offers a similar construction of the child’s “cry,” which he describes as a “pure utterance” the force of the voice “without, or in excess of, its recognizable and regularizing forms” (33).  Dolar terms this cri pur “the zero-point of signification […] the point around which other—meaningful—voices can be ordered” (26).  Indeed, the child’s scream is precisely the point around which the monsters’ voices are ordered and deployed in the pursuit/manufacture of scream energy.  An entire system of vocal operations—from the scarers’ growls to Roz, (Bob Peterson) the scare floor ‘dispatch manager’s,’ bureaucratic voice that constantly demands the monsters’ paperwork—is structured around the cri pur. Yet this very scream that is so vital to the monsters’ existence, also threatens to disrupt the order of their world and silence their own voices.  On a purely material level, uncontrolled screams not properly collected and contained for conversion into energy, are capable of causing power surges, short circuits and blackouts.  Boo, a human child who accidentally crosses through her closet door and into Monstropolis, becoming Mike and Sulley’s illicit charge, demonstrates this disruptive power of the uncontained scream, unwittingly causing a power surge in  90  As stated in the supplemental material on the film’s DVD special features disc, in order to even record any dialogue from the preverbal child who provided the voice for Boo, crew members had to follow her around with a microphone as she played, and then piece together her ‘dialogue’ from the random vocal expressions they were able to record.   86 Mike/Sulley’s apartment with just one scream. 91   Children and their screams are thus strictly controlled and each scream is carefully canned up to stabilize its inherently explosive properties. Furthermore, because each child is a sort of ambulatory, latent screaming point unto itself, which could potentially erupt into a scream at any moment, children (as well as their clothing, toys, or any other object somehow “contaminated” by close contact with a child) are strictly prohibited from entering Monstropolis.  6.3 Appealing Screams Thus, there is constantly a simultaneous vocal seduction and distancing at work within the narrative of Monsters, Inc..  The monsters must ceaselessly draw forth children’s screams for their energy, but must also actively work to separate themselves from the screams they collect and the children by whom they are provided.  This, of course, is first a protective measure against the volatility of the scream, but I would like to propose that it also points to what Lacan discusses as “the transformation of the scream into an appeal” (697).  While the monsters seek a cri pur, a pure scream exterior to signification, nothing more than energy in the form of sound waves, this cri pur inevitably becomes what Lacan calls a “cri pour,” a scream for someone.  For even when a scream is instinctually, even involuntarily emitted by a prelingual child with no particular intended addressee or “definite interlocuter at hand,” (27) it nevertheless enters into the structure of address.  For the moment that it emerges, the auditor interpellated by the scream, even if it offers no reply to the call, assumes the place of the addressee.  In other words, as Dolar succinctly puts it: “the moment the other hears it […] scream retroactively turns into appeal, it is  91   Moreover, though Mike, Sulley, and indeed all the monsters are fully aware of the terrorizing capabilities of Boo’s voice, she herself is unaware of this power, reflecting Connor’s assertion that “the infant’s capacity to produce or project power may exceed its capacity to receive or acknowledge that power as its own” (30).   87 interpreted, endowed with meaning […] The scream becomes an appeal to the other; it needs and interpretation and an answer, it demands satisfaction” (27). Thus, the monsters’ deeply engrained anxieties regarding the scream arguably lie not only in their concerns over power surges, blackouts, or energy shortages, but in the unsettling residual appeal that necessarily accompanies this vocal energy.  In this light, the scream’s disruptive potential lies not only in its material volatility, but in the intrusive address it houses—a call that provokes and threatens to unsettle the other; that pleads with, appeals to, and attempts to engage and seduce, even tame the other; and that interjects itself into and the other’s world of ordered voices and seeks some sort of answer, fulfilment, even love (Dolar 28).  For, as Connor observes, when the infant’s scream does not bring “instant relief” it becomes “the symbol of unsatisfied desire” (31), a remainder of appeal.  It is thus in an effort to keep from having to engage with the child’s desires, to hear/answer its demand for satisfaction from the unwitting addressee, that the monsters treat the child’s scream as a type of unstable element to be isolated and contained. More precisely, in order to keep the child’s voice repressed, to muffle its intrusive call for recognition and response, the monsters attempt to keep the scream disembodied, to separate the scream from the subject whose appeal it voices.  Severing this body-voice connection enables the monsters to effectively divorce the subject voice, the unique voice of an individual human being, an “intimate kernel of subjectivity” (Dolar 14), from the object voice, a presymbolic sound pattern that does not contribute to making meaning.  The disembodiment of the voice, then, is an attempt to extract the cri pur from the cri pour, to halt the transubstantiation of the presymbolic voice into the appeal of the subject. The monsters’ disembodiment of the voice is performed via two central mechanisms. First, the monsters keep the physical source of the voice always partially obscured; they enter   88 into darkened children’s rooms in the dead of night when their target child is barely visible, half- hidden beneath his or her bed sheets.  In this way, the child’s voice always remains at least partially acousmatic or disembodied, as it is not affixed to a fully discernable onscreen body/source.  Second, the monsters deploy what can be described as a type of vocal electrolysis: a splitting of the voice from the body via the shock of a scare to separate and retain each component (voice and body) as a separate entity unto itself.  That is to say, rather than simply inducing a scream and letting it dissipate and scatter into the air as diffuse sound waves, the monsters (through, of course, the magic of Disney/Pixar animation) both divide the (subject) voice from the body, while retaining the (object) voice in a hermetic receptacle—which contains (in a literal and figurative sense) both the scream’s energy and its invasive address. Yet, this dual de-acousmatization proves insufficient in yielding the disembodied object voice the monsters desire.  In spite of their complex vocal electrolysis designed to separate the scream from the subject, an echo of the appeal still remains and cannot be silenced.  It subsists in the material residue of the child that inevitably crosses over into the monsters’ world in the chaotic process of scaring/scream extraction: a sock, a hat, a toy, etc.  Though these objects are not endowed with the same supernatural capabilities as children’s screams, Monstropolis has nonetheless developed an elaborate unit—the “CDA” (or Child Detection Agency)—of hazmat- suited workers devoted to swiftly eliminating any such objects and quarantining/decontaminating any monsters who may have come into contact with these items.  Given that they do not have the capacity to disrupt the power grid or jeopardize energy production in any way, these items should seemingly not pose a threat to the monsters.  However, these errant items, I propose, are menacing because they are remnants of the scream’s connection to a particular child, a link that   89 the monsters’ strive to efface.  Thus these objects do in effect contaminate, as they reinscribe the stain of subjectivity onto the object voice. In an effort to secure a more reliable, safe and gainful method of energy production that would resolve scream shortage issues and reduce the child ‘contamination’ of Monstropolis, Monsters, Inc. CEO Henry Waternoose (James Coburn) recruits the lizard-like Randall (Steve Buscemi)—Sulley’s scare floor rival, and the film’s villain—to devise a type of scream extracting machine to mechanically draw out and separate screams from children’s bodies without having to perform the customary ‘scare.’  Randall, who, as we discover, is Boo’s assigned ‘scarer’ (i.e. he is the monster who goes through her closet door to harvest her screams) kidnaps Boo and attempts to use her as an (involuntary) test subject for the device. The machine is comprised of a chair into which the child is secured—its arms and legs strapped down, and its neck restrained by a metal bar—and a large cone shaped implement resembling an oversized x-ray machine, which is placed before the child’s face.  When the machine is activated, a protruding metal implement emerges from the cone and is fastened down overtop of the child’s mouth to draw out a scream.  On an outward narrative level, this scream extraction machine is proposed as a resolution to the monsters’ aforementioned difficulties in provoking screams from an increasingly desensitized generation of children.  Such a machine would obviate the need for scaring and streamline the scream collection process.  However, from a psychoanalytic perspective, this machine is also a means by which to silence the appeal of the other.  The scream extraction machine circumvents the cognitive chain of emotional and biological impulses and cues that generate a scream, and thus forcibly divorces the subject from the production of the scream.  In other words, the machine technologically wrests the voice from the body without the subject’s consent and thus dispossesses the voice of its intimate subjective   90 link.  The end result of this process is then a static cri pur, one that will not be transformed into an appeal as it is, properly speaking, not the child’s subjective address, but only the material effect of a mechanical operation performed on the child’s body.  That is to say, in much the same way that Charlie Chaplin’s wild, mechanical force-feeding in Modern Times (Chaplin, 1936) cannot properly be regarded as a conscious act of eating, the mechanically induced screams of the extraction machine do not constitute a discursive form of address.  6.4  Comic Relief   On the surface, this machine seems an apt solution to both the film’s material (scream shortage) and symbolic (the appeal of the cri pour) crises.  Yet, it should go without saying that in a G-rated, Disney-backed production, this type of ominous, illicit machine penetrating a child’s mouth to extract a scream—an action which carries a strong implication of a ‘vocal rape,’ a forceful seizure of the voice without the consent of the subject—is far too sinister a plot device to satisfactorily resolve the narrative conflict.  Thus, instead, a serendipitous discovery that children’s laughter is ten times more powerful than children’s screams intervenes and redirects the narrative trajectory away from this darker plot thread of scream extraction.  This discovery of “laughter energy” is initiated by Boo.  Perhaps because she belongs to this new, desensitized generation of children, Boo is not scared by either of the monsters (Sulley and Mike) that she encounters when she ventures beyond her bedroom.  In fact, she is amused by Mike, who unintentionally causes the child to erupt into fits of laughter so powerful that they short circuit all of the light and power fixtures in her vicinity; the effects of Boo’s laughter on her surroundings subsequently enable the monsters to uncover the energy-generating potentials of the laugh. Upon perceiving these capabilities, Monsters, Inc. reorchestrates its energy production system around the provocation and collection of children’s laughter in the place of screams.   91 Monsters, Inc—as we learn through a flash-forward in the final act of the film—converts the “scare floor” into the “laugh floor” and the city switches from screams to laughter as its main energy source.  (Myers, however, does not relay whether the sound of laughter is then also incorporated into the effects of car motors or other appliances in the film that draw power). Instead of entering children’s rooms (via their closets) to scare them, the monsters now sneak into the same rooms to make children laugh, and subsequently refine that laughter for conversion into electrical power.  While this may seem a strikingly similar formula to that employed on the scare floor (indeed the same doors and vocal containers are used in both processes), the manner by which the laughter is induced demonstrates the symbolic difference between children’s screams and their laughter: the former a prelinguistic voice and the latter a postlinguistic voice. Eliciting this laughter in fact requires a complete overhaul of the monsters’ procedures to draw out a vocal manifestation that is at once a physiological reaction (one that, as Dolar argues, can be likened to coughing, hiccupping, or even animal sounds [29]) and, simultaneously, a voice that is directed by a certain cultural conditioning. Dolar describes laughter as “postlinguistic” or in “the realm of the voice beyond language,” a voice that is not simply instinctual and primal, but a highly cultural product.  For Dolar, the laugh is somewhat of a paradox: an “amalgamation of the highest and the lowest, culture and physiology” (29).  It is a vocal expression which looks like a primal regression with its whooping and cackling sounds, a voice that seems to burst uncontrollably forth from the subject, causing “side-splitting” convulsions and even tears, but it is also a cultural voice, one that draws from collectively constructed notions of humour, taboo, the absurd, and so on.  Thus, educing a child’s laughter requires a highly individuated process that caters to the cultural conditioning of the specific subject whose laughter is being collected.  Because laughter is a   92 product of cultural conditioning, the subject cannot be divorced from the acquisition of the laugh, but must be directly engaged.  To do this, the monsters must thus perform precisely the opposite vocal operation than that they originally set in place in collecting screams. Whereas, as previously described, the process of extracting screams centered on disembodying the voice—on separating a scream from the child’s body and containing it as an object voice—collecting children’s laughter requires a de-acousmatization or embodiment of the voice.    This de-acousmatization is also initiated by Boo.  Prior to her appearance in the film, children are only vaguely discernable inside the darkened space of their bedrooms, or heard (as previously mentioned) from somewhere beyond the onscreen space.  Boo, on the other hand comes to occupy a central position within the narrative, and, perhaps more importantly, the film frame.  In fact, when Boo does, on a number of occasions, momentarily disappear from the screen, it often elicits fear and panic in Sulley and Mike (and perhaps the viewer as well), which is only relieved when (after a frantic search) she is reinscribed within the frame.  It is through Boo’s de-acousmatization that Sulley, and consequently the Monsters, Inc. Corporation, simultaneously neutralize the danger of uncontrolled children’s screams and put an end to Monstropolis’s energy crisis. Boo’s de-acousmatization then fuels a much larger-scale de-acousmatization within the narrative: that of each of the millions of children to whom the closet doors on the Monsters, Inc. scare/laugh floor belong.  This de-acousmatization en-masse is characterized by two fundamental elements.  First, this process entails a reinscription of the children’s bodies in the onscreen space, primarily accomplished by illuminating the children’s bedrooms so that their voices are distinctly visually aligned with their bodies.  Secondly, whereas the monsters’ scare performances are largely homogeneous and undifferentiated in regards to a given child, their comic performances   93 are predicated upon a much more complex system.  Scare ‘routines’ seem to be comprised of a limited catalogue of gestures.  The monsters sneak up on children, bare their teeth and claws and hiss or growl, generally displaying their physical dominance over the child.  These tactics then elicit an instinctual reaction, a defence mechanism against an apparent predator (a scream). Calling up a child’s laughter, however, is a far more involved and individuated process. The monsters must tailor their comic performances to each specific subject they address, appealing to the distinct set of cultural codes that inform a particular child’s sense of humour in order to coax out a laugh.  To gauge the effectiveness of their efforts, the monsters must also do more than simply await the scream that sounds their success, they must draw cues from the subject’s physical reaction to their comedic efforts and adjust their performance accordingly.  In other words, whereas the process of collecting screams involves wrenching the voice from the body to obtain an object-voice, summoning laughter requires that the monsters’ engage the subject-voice of an individual child—one which is informed by the child’s particular set of subjective experiences, socialization, cultural conditioning, and so on. Both of these processes are made clear in Mike’s ‘laugh floor’ scene in which he performs a one-man comedy routine (clearly referencing Crystal’s own stand up) for a young boy of about five.  Though Mike enters the room at night, the child—situated squarely in the centre of the frame—quickly turns on his bedside lamp, illuminating much of the room.  Mike then begins his routine with a series of self-deprecating jokes (“I loved kindergarten, best three years of my life!”) but the child proves thoroughly unamused and merely stares blankly ahead in puzzlement.  Acknowledging, albeit somewhat reluctantly, the child’s disengaged response, Mike abandons his stand up bit for a more dynamic, physical comedy routine centered on bodily functions: a brand of humour that one might expect would appeal to a boy of this age.  He   94 swallows his microphone and regurgitates it to create an amplified belch, which yields the desired results: uproarious laughter. As the scene pulls back to the general space of the laugh floor where children’s laughs resonate out from behind numerous doors, it becomes clear that there is no shortage of laughter energy to be had here.  A de-acousmatization of the voice—marked by a transition from the prelinguistic scream to the postlinguistic laugh—thus ultimately puts an end to the monsters’ energy crisis.  Moreover, this shift in energy production methods overturns the film’s initial hierarchical organization of ‘scarers’ and ‘assistants.’  Less imposing monsters such as Mike, and Randall’s former assistant, Fungus (Frank Oz), now play an active role in manufacturing energy, as making children laugh is not predicated upon physical stature, but on an individual’s ability to understand how a subject’s unique set of experiences and sensibilities, as well as age, gender, and linguistic comprehension, govern the production of his/her laughter.  In sum, the monsters’ voices are finally re-ordered around what might be termed the “rire pur” or pure laugh—not a ‘zero-point of signification,’ but a voice that is both “presymbolic and beyond symbolic,” a voice which can spring forth uncontrollably in a series of inchoate cries, but which also falls within “the realm of the voice beyond language, the voice which requires a more sophisticated cultural conditioning than the acquisition of language” (29).  A similar de-acousmatization, or reassignment of a voice to a singular body that is at work within the narrative, also manifests itself extratextually in the marketing and promotional discourses surrounding Monsters, Inc. and its star vocal performers.  The following chapter examines the form and function of this extratextual de-acousmatization of the voice in the promotion, distribution and branding of Monsters, Inc., as well as Pixar’s film franchise as a whole.     95 7 Pixarticulation: Vocal Branding, Intertextuality and Marketing Voxography  Monsters, Inc. stages a scenario of de-acousmatization that neatly hypostasizes Chion’s conception of the process.  The children that the monsters scare—and of whom the monsters, in turn, are terrified—are partial acousmêtres, as their bodies are often not inscribed in the onscreen space, or not clearly distinguishable within the frame.  In spite of the physical dominance the monsters clearly display over the children, they nonetheless deeply fear them: they vigilantly watch for any signs of child “contamination,” and are set in a frenzied panic by the presence of even a child’s article of clothing.  Once, however, Boo’s and subsequently all of the children’s voices are de-acousmatized, embodied, they lose their power to threaten, alarm and destabilize. Thus, once the children’s voices are affixed to a single, visible onscreen source, though they do retain certain “magical powers” as children’s highly potent laughter also has the capacity to provide raw energy, the voices lose their ominous, threatening qualities. De-acousmatization in Monsters, Inc. thus reifies Chion’s (and Dolar, Bonitzer, et al.) conceptualization of de-acousmatization as a deflowering, as stripping the voice of its powers. Animated cinema more generally, has also become a consummate site of de-acousmatization, of affixing animated characters’ voices to a single, determinate source—increasingly a star performer.  This de-acousmatization, however, has had precisely the inverse effect of that which the aforementioned thinkers posit—the de-acousmatized animated voice has not withered away, but gained an unprecedented primacy in animated filmmaking; an animated film’s ‘voxography’ or cast of vocal talent, is often heavily emphasized in its publicity campaign.  This chapter considers the impact of this shift towards de-acousmatized voice actors on the marketing and reception of contemporary animated cinema, continuing to take the Toy Story series and   96 Monsters, Inc. as focal points in this discussion, but also drawing a comparison between Pixar and DreamWorks’s use of the voice and star persona.  7.1 Pulling Back the Curtain: De-acousmatized Animated Voices  The de-acousmatization of animated voice actors follows a long history in animation of keeping vocal talent, by and large, anonymous.  As Lawson and Persons argue, although strong vocal performances are often pivotal to the overall success of a cartoon, traditionally, only film executives and directors received screen credit for their work on an animated picture, while voice talent often remained unrecognized/unrecognizable.  This aural anonymity served two key functions for studios.  First, it was a preventative measure to keep other film and television studios from targeting and potentially hiring away voice talent.  Second, it ensured that the public did not associate a given animated character with a specific person, as that could give the voice actor “leverage to ask for more money” (xvii).  Thus studios could pay their uncredited voice talent lower rates, and could easily replace actors if necessary.  Lawson and Persons provide an apt example of this in their discussion of the Popeye cartoons.  The original voice actor who played the title character, William Costello, was let go when the studio claimed that the “success went to his head” and he was judged “too difficult to work with” (xvii).  The actor that the studio subsequently employed to replace Costello, the cartoon’s animator and writer Jack Mercer, went on to voice Popeye for the next five decades, but he too never received screen credit until the animated character made a cameo appearance in Robert Altman’s live-action Popeye (1980).  There are, nonetheless, a number of examples, throughout animation history, of recognized stars performing as voice actors in animated films, from Peggy Lee in Lady and the Tramp (Hamilton Luske, Clyde Geronimi, and Wilfred Jackson, 1955), to Eva Gabor in The Aristocats (Wolfgang Reitherman, 1970) and The Rescuers   97 (Wolfgang Reitherman, John Lounsbery, and Art Stevens, 1977), and Peter Ustinov in Robin Hood (Wolfgang Reitherman, 1973).  Mel Blanc, the so-called “Man of a Thousand Voices,” is also an important exception to the aforementioned uncredited nature of voice work, Blanc having risen to fame during the Golden Age of Animation, precisely for his voxography—voicing such iconic characters as Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Sylvester and Tweety, Yosemite Sam, Pepé Le Pew, Woody Woodpecker and hundreds of others. 92   Blanc was one of the first voice actors to receive a prominent screen credit for his work: his contract with Warner Bros. stipulated that productions featuring his vocal talents include the screen credit: “Voice Characterizations by Mel Blanc” (Lawson and Persons 52).  Nonetheless, Warner Bros. maintained the rights to “characters, phrases and Blanc’s performances, which would eventually net them untold billions” while Blanc, at least until the mid-1960s, earned less than twenty thousand a year (52). 93   Moreover, while Blanc’s screen credit garnered him both renown and a barrage of offers from other studios, his official recognition was more of an anomaly than a watershed event for voice actors, who still remained, by and large, anonymous through the Golden Age of Animation and beyond.  However, since the late 1980s, due in part, as Daniel Goldmark argues, to the popularity and success of such animated television series as The Simpsons, South Park, Beavis and Butt-head, and The Ren and Stimpy Show (among others) which reinvigorated the public’s interest in animation and helped the form’s credibility, quite the opposite trend has emerged (3).  There has been a pronounced influx of star actors and celebrities into the art and business of animated voice-over acting; studios now actively seek established  92  See Blanc and Bashe for a more detailed discussion of Mel Blanc. 93  Furthermore, Friz Freleng (onetime senior director of Warner’s “Termite Terrace” animation studio), reportedly contended that studio head Leon Schlessinger took advantage of Blanc’s  ‘thousand voices’ in order to save money on voice acting salaries; with Blanc providing “a constant stream of voices” Schlessinger did not have to hire two or three extra voice actors for a cartoon.  Lawson and Persons further argue that Blanc was only awarded his screen credit stipulation in lieu of receiving a pay rise for which he had unsuccessfully lobbied (52).   98 actors to lend their voices to animated films and vocal casting has become an indispensible tool in the financing, mass marketing and distribution of an animated picture.  Animated television series also frequently invite actors/celebrities to make guest appearances for promotional/ratings purposes.  The relationship is equally beneficial for the actors, who receive a lucrative sum for comparatively little time and effort spent in the studio doing voice-over recording work. However, if this recent trend of recruiting star actors to voice animated characters is easily identifiable, it is not for all that a simplistic phenomenon to assess.  Rayna Denison, in her investigation of the use of star actors in the American dubbed versions of Miyazaki’s manga films highlights some of the challenges inherent in theorizing the relationship between star actors and animated vocal performances.  She observes that: At present, the dominant conceptualization of stardom is as an image-based phenomenon traceable through physical appearances of the individual across a network of media texts. This emphasis on stars as image, or on the way audiences have responded to the look of stars means that there are currently several methodological obstacles that must be overcome before stars can be reconnected to their audible signs. (“Ghibli” 130)  While Dyer does stipulate that a star image is not “an exclusively visual sign, but rather a complex configuration of visual, verbal and aural signs” (“Stars” 34), Jacob Smith argues that the voice nonetheless remains an “unfortunate lacuna,” (5) within the discourse on star persona and vocal performance. 94   Smith’s own formative work on vocal performance and sound media Vocal Tracks—which investigates a range of sound media and vocal performances, from early recording star (and blackface comedian) Billy Golden’s records, to the distinct vocalization of Naomi Watts’s two audition takes in Mulholland Dr. (David Lynch, 2001), to stars’ performances “as themselves” on the television show, Crank Yankers—does contribute to  94  Although several studies have incorporated the voice into an analysis of star persona, including for instance, Yvonne Tasker’s “Dumb Movies for Dumb People: Masculinity, the Body, and the Voice in Contemporary Action Cinema,” and Vicky Lowe’s “The Best Speaking Voices in the World’: Robert Donat, Stardom and the Voice in British Cinema.”   99 remedying this critical gap. 95   However, the particular significance of stars’ vocal performances in animated filmmaking remains mostly unexplored in his nonetheless impressive study. Denison’s work is also central in reconsidering the relationship between star persona and image—particularly Miyazaki’s animated images—focusing on “how the star or actor is inscribed through the voice” in animation (“Disembodied Stars”).  The emphasis in star studies on image over voice is arguably symptomatic of the ephemeral nature of the voice, in contrast to the concrete materiality of the image.  As Dolar incisively puts it, while the visible (the material image) presents “a relative stability, permanence, distinctiveness, and a location at a distance,” the voice “presents fluidity, passing, a certain inchoate, amorphous character, and a lack of distance” (79).  Thus, Dolar contends: “the voice is elusive, always changing, becoming, elapsing, with unclear contours, as opposed to the relative permanence, solidity and durability of the seen” (79).  In spite of this apparent elusiveness of the voice, Monsters, Inc. and the Toy Story series provide an apt arena for integrating the voice into discourses on star persona.  Composed of animated, rendered characters as opposed to the physical bodies of actors, the films obviate the actual corporeality of the star performer from the image track; the stars’ voices, however, remain inscribed on the film’s soundtrack.  The voice in the Toy Story films and Monsters, Inc. can therefore be regarded here as a semiotic tether which anchors the abstract animated representation of a star to the material image of the star him/herself.  In other words, it is precisely through the use of celebrity voices that animated images are “indissolubly attached to a star, becoming part of a character/star unit”  (Klinger 14).  Moreover, as Denison observes, the emphasis on animated star voices that  95  Crank Yankers is a show that depicts real prank calls, made by a cast of regular characters and celebrity guests, to unsuspecting individuals.  Puppets are used to dramatize the recorded calls onscreen.  Notable cast members include: Wanda Sykes, Sarah Silverman, Kevin Nealon and Tracy Morgan.  A variety of stars such as Stephen Colbert, Snoop Dogg, Jeff Goldblum, Sharon Osbourne and Dave Chappelle have also made guest appearances on the show.   100 are detached from a corporeal presence, challenges the primacy of physicality and of the visible body in conceptions of star image.  The attachment of an animated character to a star persona via the voice has a number of implications—economic, ideological and representational, which I will explore below in further detail.  7.2 Animating Star Persona Attaching a star name/persona to a film or character for the purposes of marketing, narrative development, style, and so on, is by no means a new tactic and is a concept that has been amply explored in film studies. 96   But the use of the voice and star persona in animation, which, as described above, is a much more recent occurrence, warrants further investigation here. First, in terms of narrative and character development, Pixar’s films play upon an actor’s star persona to create and shore up an identity for an animated character.  Using an actor whose persona carries certain specific and apparent connotations, enables an immediate characterization to take form, even in advance of any narrative development.  This process is patently illustrated in the discourse surrounding Toy Story and the Tom Hanks/Woody and Tim Allen/ Buzz Lightyear character units, as evidenced on the Disney website for the Toy Story video.  A section listing the star performers in the film reads: “Tom Hanks, a hand-crafted piece of Americana himself, is the voice of Woody.  Tim Allen, whose way with power tools has made him known throughout the Gamma Quadrant of Sector Five, brings his star power to the voice of Buzz Lightyear” (“Toy Story: About the Video”).  As this quote indicates, Hanks’s and Allen’s personae are used here to establish specific personality traits for their respective animated  96  From works that espouse a broad approach—such as Richard Dyer’s inceptive Stars (and his continuation of this work Heavenly Bodies), Christine Gledhill’s anthology Stardom: Industry of Desire, Thomas Austin and Martin Barker’s collection Contemporary Hollywood Stardom, and Sean Redmond and Su Holmes more recent anthology, Stardom and Celebrity: A Reader—to more specifically delimited studies such as Diane Negra’s Off-White Hollywood and Adrienne McLean’s Being Rita Hayworth (to name but a few).   101 characters, which are then reified through an extratextual association with the star who voices the particular toy. Tom Hanks’s voice is used to posit Woody as a classic ‘all-American’ character, a piece of old-fashioned American culture (and, as is revealed in Toy Story 2, Woody is in fact a hand- me-down toy from the 50s, and a collectible piece of Americana).  Moreover, as a leading man who rarely plays the role of the villain, Hanks’s voice was chosen to keep audiences identifying with Woody as a tragic, but nonetheless traditional American hero, even when his actions become increasingly reproachable.  As one of the film’s writers, Joss Whedon tellingly explains, “Tom Hanks has a persona he brings with him—you know you’re going to like him.  You know that his values will end up being good, so even if he seems harsh, there’s a point to it” (qtd. in Lasseter and Daly 29).  In much the same way, Tim Allen, whose voice (at least at the time of the film’s release, if not still today) is most readily associated with his Home Improvement television show character, brings to the character of Buzz a distinct set of signifying qualities. 97  Like Allen’s hapless carpenter/television host on Home Improvement, who believes himself to be an expert in his field, Buzz Lightyear is a plastic toy, (as Woody emphatically insists “a child’s plaything!”) who is under the illusion that he is not a mass-produced consumer good, but an actual ‘ranger’ from outer space.  Allen’s persona thus brings a form of ready-made personality that is easily mapped onto Buzz Lightyear: both characters’ identities rest on a certain constructed mythology that surrounds their public persona, yet neither character actualizes this image. Wayne Knight’s casting as the unscrupulous villain, Al, in Toy Story 2, arguably serves a similar end.  Knight’s, known for many years as Seinfeld’s television nemesis Newman, and also  97  In a related acknowledgement of this persona, the toolbox in Sid’s room which falls on Woody in Toy Story is made by “Binford Tools,” the fictional tool company of Home Improvement.   102 for his less-than-savoury characters in Jurassic Park (Steven Spielberg, 1993) and Basic Instinct (Paul Verhoeven, 1992) carries with him a distinct set of connotations, which almost immediately sets Al up as the villain in Toy Story 2.  Before his actions begin to reveal his character’s malevolent plans, Knight’s voice and all the associations it bears, already predispose the audience to viewing Al as a ‘bad guy.’  Finally, even the voice actor for the toy military commander, who has a relatively small role in both Toy Story films, was chosen based upon the actor’s established persona.  R. Lee Ermey, who supplied the voice for the ‘green army’ toy sergeant, is well known for his history as a Marine drill instructor and his many military roles, particularly in Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket (1987) as a Gunnery Sergeant—a rank which Ermey now holds in actuality, as he was awarded an honourary promotion to Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant in 2002.  Ermey also appeared as a helicopter pilot, and acted as a military advisor to Francis Ford Coppola for Apocalypse Now (1979).  More recently, he hosted two so- called “militainment” shows on the History Channel: Mail Call in which he and a panel of military experts respond to viewers’ military-related queries, and Lock N’ Load in which he discusses different types of military weaponry and the history/development of these technologies. The process of foregrounding certain traits or attributes of a star’s persona for the purpose of character formation, can be understood here in regards to what Dyer and others have discussed as an alignment between star persona and character—in this case, between an actor’s voice and an animated image.  Pixar creates immediate associational values (some positive and others negative) for characters, a form of instant character development, via the voice.  The above star/character units are generally reflective of what Dyer terms a “selective use” of star persona, whereby “from the structured polysemy of a star’s image certain meanings are selected in accord   103 with the overriding conception of the character in the film” (“Stars” 127).  Such is the case with Hanks in particular who, though as Whedon acknowledges does often play the hero or ‘good guy,’ also has a diffuse matrix of disparate images, roles, and attributes that comprise his persona.  Hanks’s persona is therefore delimited to several specific characteristics: his ‘all- Americaness’ and his ‘good guy’ or “latter day Jimmy Stewart” (Dumm 91) qualities, to create a condensed set of associational values to map onto Woody. 98   7.3 When Harry Met Sulley… The vocal casting of specific actors plays a central role in Pixar’s films’ marketing campaigns, or, more precisely, what Klinger calls their “promotional epiphenomena”: the various promotional materials from the posters to the theatrical trailers (and now, websites) that surround a film.  Klinger contends that these materials constitute “not only a commercial life-support system for a film, but also a socially meaningful network of relations around it which enter into reception” (119).  An analysis of the emphasis placed on the voice in the promotional epiphenomena associated with Monsters, Inc. will help elucidate the ways in which the voice and vocal casting perform this dual function in marketing Pixar’s films: both providing a commercial support, and structuring reception.  The vocal casting of Billy Crystal and John Goodman was heavily emphasized in the promotional campaign for Monsters, Inc..  The actors’ names are featured centrally, in bold print, on more than half a dozen different posters and print ads which were released before and during the film’s theatrical run, and their names are announced in all three of the television spots which aired in the U.S. and Canada advertising the film’s release.  In fact, the voice over portion of one of these three commercials consists solely of the film’s title,  98  Given Ermey’s almost exclusively military-oriented film and television persona, he might more aptly be grouped in Dyer’s second categorization of “perfect fit,” in which “all the aspects of a star’s image fit with all the traits of a character” (“Stars” 129).   104 the names “Billy Crystal, John Goodman” and “Rated G” (See Appendix C for examples of this promotional material). The voice is also the fulcrum of one of the theatrical trailers for Monsters, Inc., which aired in multiplex theatres during the film’s theatrical run.  The trailer consists of a mini narrative, unrelated to the film’s diegesis, in which Mike and Sulley play a game of Charades.  In attempting to divine the movie title, Harry Potter, Mike hazards a string of outlandish guesses, before exclaiming “When Harry Met Sulley!” in an obvious reference to one of Crystal’s best- known films, When Harry Met Sally… (Rob Reiner, 1989).  The scene this (approximately one and a half minute long) trailer stages never appears in the film, does not convey any information concerning the film’s story or themes, and does not give the viewer a real glimpse at the technical artistry of the film (one of the major points of attraction for Pixar’s films, which are known for their sophisticated computer animation), as the scene takes place in one small, relatively unadorned environment.  As with the previously mentioned print and television materials then, the voice—Billy Crystal’s in particular—is an important locus of signification in this trailer which serves both the commercial purpose of creating a “consumable identity” for the film (i.e. a Crystal comedy/buddy film) but also, following Klinger’s assertion, “represents a sphere of intertextual discourse” that structures the reception of the film (119). In the first place, the vocal reference to Crystal’s previous work draws attention to the star’s presence in the film, and associates Monsters, Inc. with Crystal’s other successful comedies and his particular comedic style—a link which arguably serves the commercial purpose of marketing the film to a wider demographic of viewers that extends beyond the general target market of Disney animated films: child and family audiences.  This is a key function of vocal casting in Pixar films, which target a very broad demographic, as will be discussed in   105 greater detail further along in this chapter.  The trailer not only alludes to the title When Harry Met Sally, but can also be read as a reference to a particular scene in the film in which Harry and Sally play a game of Pictionary that culminates in a similar series of increasingly preposterous and unsuccessful guesses (Baby fish mouth!).  Moreover, while the reference here is to a romantic comedy, the dynamic between the two male characters in the scene is also reminiscent of Crystal’s prior buddy comedies such as Analyse This (Harold Ramis, 1999), and the City Slickers films (Ron Underwood, 1991; Paul Weiland, 1994), thus also positing Monsters, Inc. in the lineage of Crystal’s ‘buddy pictures.’  And indeed, with its focus on the two male protagonists’ friendship in the face of a common threat, Monsters, Inc. can (much like the Toy Story Films) be read as a buddy film. In regards to structuring audience response, the vocal reference to Crystal’s past work encourages a particular mode of reception, whereby the viewer is encouraged to draw associations between the animated character and Crystal’s films/persona.  In other words, the emphasis on Crystal’s voice in these promotional forms, creates an intertextual frame through which to view or rather, hear, the film.  In this way, the voice guides the viewer towards what Klinger dubs “digressions,” reactions fostered by an intertextual link between promotional and textual media, which redirect the viewer’s focus from narrative exegesis towards recognizing and exploring extrafilmic frames of reference.  Highlighting Crystal’s voice in the marketing of Monsters, Inc.—creating a star/character unit of Mike/Crystal—encourages such a ‘digressive’ response in viewing the film that directs the viewer beyond the diegesis, and into an extratextual network of signification surrounding Billy Crystal: his previous roles, his stand-up comedy style, his buddy films, and so forth.   106 Furthermore, the digressive mode of reception that the promotional materials for Monsters, Inc. activates, is not only predicated upon the signifying (vocal) presence of Billy Crystal.  The aforementioned theatrical trailer illustrates how the promotional epiphenomena surrounding the film also structure a much broader potential for digressive readings in Monsters, Inc..  In addition to highlighting Crystal’s vocal performance in the film, the trailer stages an interplay with contemporary film and pop culture.  The trailer was designed to air in North American movie theatres during Monsters, Inc.’s first-run theatrical release and was played only on a specific (but, nonetheless, very sizeable) selection of screens: those screening the newly released Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (Chris Columbus, 2001). 99   As previously noted, the actual film title that Mike is attempting to deduce is “Harry Potter.”  Once Mike eventually guesses the correct title, the screen fades to black and a series of captions appear across the screen, which read: “Monsters, Inc.…Now showing at a theatre near you…Really near you…Like, maybe, right next door.”  The trailer is thus also an overt intertextual reference to a significant film/literary/pop culture phenomenon, and it engages the viewer in recognizing and decoding a panoply of Harry Potter iconography: in the midst of the Charades game, Sulley appears with a broomstick, an owl, a lightning bolt mark down his brow and, of course, Harry Potter’s signature glasses. In addition to this trailer, and the previously discussed promotional materials, interviews and news stories that appeared over the course of Monsters, Inc.’s run, also shaped the intertextual discourse and potential digressive responses associated with the film.  In particular, Billy Crystal provided a number of interviews and statements in the media during the film’s promotional campaign, addressing various details of his voice work for the film.  In addition to commenting on the process of sound recording, and the experience of working in the studio with  99  Released as Harry Potter and the Socerer’s Stone in the U.S.   107 John Goodman, 100  Crystal, on numerous occasions, highlighted his eagerness to work on the project and his regret at not having accepted the role of Buzz Lightyear in Toy Story (which Pixar had originally offered him), stating: “It was the biggest mistake I ever made in my life.  I voted Toy Story for Best Picture that year.  Only thing I ever turned down that I felt bad about.” (“Billy Crystal Turned Down Chance”); “I was the dope who said no to being Buzz Lightyear in Toy Story” (qtd. in Daly F04); “the worst mistake of my career” (qtd. in T. Lawson 4).   Moreover, Crystal emphasized the lineage of the voice he created for Mike.  An ABC story, for example, titled “Billy Crystal’s ‘Monster’ Regret” published on the ABCnews website one day before the film’s release, chronicles Crystal’s description of this process.  Pixar animators first showed Crystal an audition tape of sorts, animated footage of Mike synchronized to dialogue from Crystal’s 1998 film My Giant (Michael Lehmann).  Crystal recalls: “They used a test from My Giant where I’m saying ‘Without Goliath, David is just a punk throwing rocks” (qtd. in Schaefer).  The voice, however, did not seem quite right, so Crystal added a different characterization from his ‘vocal repertoire’ so to speak: “I’d done this character on Saturday Night Live, Willie, who was a masochist.”  For Mike, I edged him up and gave him espresso” (qtd. in Schaefer). These stories thus serve a dual marketing function: they demonstrate Crystal’s ties to the film, and link it to his filmography, and they serve as an advertising plug for Toy Story (which Crystal lauds as the best film of 1995 and the one project he regrets not taking), which had recently been released to dvd for the first time in late 2000 in a two dvd set with Toy Story 2. Moreover, these news items can be read as part of what Klinger terms “re-narrativizing”: the  100  An unusual practice, as Pixar, like many animation studios, generally records actors’ dialogue separately and edits it together in post-production.  Crystal, however, requested that he and Goodman record their scenes together, stating “I did the first two sessions [alone] and didn’t like it at all.  It was dull and they kept wanting something different and I can’t do something differently if I don’t have the other actor […]” (qtd. in Wadowski).   108 process of “placing specific textual elements within other narratives” (129).  In other words, these factual tidbits and anecdotes place the Mike/Crystal star unit in another narrative—in this case a background story on how the star came to the project—that in turn endows the unit with surplus meaning or “additional semiotic baggage” (129).  Thus Crystal’s voice in the film is again situated in an intertextual (and intermedial) frame, perpetuating a digressive acknowledgement of Crystal’s voice across a range of media during the viewing process—from a film he produced, starred in, and co-wrote (My Giant) based on his personal experience working on a previous film with André the Giant (The Princess Bride [Rob Reiner 1987]), to the iconic television show that provided the inspiration for the Monsters, Inc. voice (SNL). The presence of Crystal’s voice in Monsters, Inc. thus leads the viewer to effectuate “momentary guided exits from the text […] into the series of other narratives that the film’s promotion has engendered” (129), connecting his voice in the film to various points of signification highlighted in promotional materials.  The viewer may therefore read Mike and Sulley’s relationship in relation to the dynamic of Crystal’s previous ‘buddy’ pairings, or may consider the impact of his SNL or stand up comedy history on the vocal development of the character.  In sum, Klinger argues that promotion “acts semantically on a film” by developing specific filmic elements in a carefully constructed network of advertising texts, and endowing them with an “intertextual density” that will enter into the text’s reception.  The voice, as evidenced in the promotion of Monsters, Inc. operates as such an ‘intertextually dense’ element, a specialized or “starred” (126) feature of Pixar’s films that helps to establish their ‘consumable identity.’  Mini or ‘other’ narratives disseminated in the promotion of Pixar’s films—from the aforementioned backstories involving Crystal, to Andrew Stanton’s remarks on the Finding Nemo dvd commentary that he chose Ellen DeGeneres to perform in his film because of the   109 qualities of her voice on her daytime talk show: “[Ellen] changed the subject five times before one sentence had finished”—are a key component of this promotional intertextuality that enables the voice to galvanize a digressive mode of reception.  Put in other terms, the voice can be regarded as a filmic element that is never, as Klinger writes, “just ‘itself,’” never reducible to a purely narrative function, but the “grist” for extratextual signification (128).  7.4  Mr. Potato Head and Robert Goulet  Like Barthes and Eco, Klinger understands digression as a form of textual fragmentation, or, as Barthes deems it, a “manhandling” or “interruption” of the text (“S/Z” 15).  Klinger argues the process of extracting and developing certain “starred” elements from the text in the process of promotion “fragment[s] and extend[s] the text for the purposes of consumption” (123), dislocates textual elements so as to accentuate them, but in doing so interrupts the linear coherence of the text.  Martin Barker challenges this conception of digressive responses as agents of textual fragmentation, suggesting that such a construction belies an assumption that there exists a ‘proper’ or coherent mode of viewing—an inherent enthrallment to the text.  Thus Barker reads promotional forms not as elements which incite ‘momentary guided exits’ from textual enthralment, “like momentary lapses in concentration,” but as materials which guide the viewer’s response to the film.  Similarly, I would like to propose that the intertextual discourse that Pixar’s promotion engenders does not necessarily fragment the text, wrench the viewer from a form of textual enthralment, but opens the text to a multifaceted mode of reception.  Pixar’s marketing campaigns form a complex intertextual discourse surrounding the films that allows viewers to decipher certain spheres of signification beyond the diegesis; however, this ‘digressive’ or ‘guided’ mode of reception and narrative engagement are not mutually exclusive. Both modes of reception can structure the viewer’s experience of the film.   110 Noël Carroll’s writing on allusionism and referential gameplay is instructive to thinking this multifaceted mode of reception.  The use of the voice in the promotion of Pixar’s films can be read in the framework of what Carroll calls “a two-tiered system of communication which sends and action/drama/fantasy-packed message to one segment of the audience and an additional hermetic, camouflaged, and recondite one to another” (245) and thus allows for multiple, simultaneous modes of reception in viewing a film.   On the one hand, the intertextual interplay (which pivots on the voice) in the promotion of Pixar’s films, sets the viewer up for digressions, or what Eco terms “inferential walks” (32), moments in which the reader must ‘walk’ outside the text to decipher a particular intertextual frame—for example, into Billy Crystal’s filmography.  This corresponds, within Carroll’s ‘two-tiered system,” to a more “hermetic” or “recondite” discourse, a level of extratextual signification that encourages a digressive response, a ‘walk’ outside the narrative to decode this hermetic meaning. This discourse, however, does not necessarily fragment the text or break up the viewer’s understanding of the film, but allows for multiple readings.  For instance, references in Toy Story 2 (and the trailers for the film) to Tom Hanks’s performance in Forrest Gump (Robert Zemekis, 1994)—Slinky dog states “I’m not a smart dog, but I know what roadkill is,” referencing Hanks’s line “I’m not a smart man but I know what love is”—constitute an intertextual frame that opens the possibility for a digressive response.  The line, however, does not obscure the linear flow of the narrative, it also communicates a level of basic narrative information relating to the diegesis, as the characters are attempting to cross a busy street.  The vocal reference to Hanks’s past role allows for the possibility of heteregenous forms of semantic interpretation, multiple modalities of reception that are not inherently mutually exclusive.  That is to say, an acknowledgement of the intertextual association of the line, does not preclude an understanding   111 of the narrative action, but rather structures a multi-tiered mode of reception that can comprise, on one level, the viewer’s interpellation of an extratextual reference, and a level of narrative engagement. The Toy Story films clearly evince this type of multi-tiered system of communication, particularly through vocal allusions to film, music, and various pop culture phenomena.  For example, in Toy Story, Potato Head shouts at a hockey puck toy of Andy’s “What are you looking at ya hockey puck?”  On a narrative level, the line is a comedic device, and betrays Potato Head’s curmudgeonly personality that is ironically at odds with his fanciful appearance. The line can also prompt a digressive recognition of Don Rickles’s (who voices Potato Head) comedy, as the line is also a reference to one of his signature catchphrases; however, a recognition of this extratextual link does not obviate the comedic potentials of the line in the story, but merely layers other significatory potentials onto the dialogue.  Robert Goulet’s cameo as Wheezy’s singing voice in Toy Story 2 operates in a similar way.  Wheezy the toy penguin’s rendition of “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” (the Randy Newman theme song for the film), sung by Robert Goulet, is the musical culmination of the film following the restoration of dramatic stasis and the requisite Disney ‘happily ever after.’  Concurrently, the song is a tongue-in-cheek hyperbolization of the ballads for which Goulet’s voice is best known.  This extra level of signification adds a note of irony to this somewhat cliché moment: Wheezy, who has had a gravelly whisper of a voice throughout the film, is suddenly, with a new squeaker, not only able to speak but is endowed with a theatrical crooner’s voice.  Again, the transformation of Wheezy’s voice here can be read in various parallel modes.  The ‘second tier’ or extratextual signification of Goulet’s voice does not prevent the viewer from gleaning the narrative information of the lyrics, the emotive qualities of the melody, or the song’s function as a diegetic   112 coda, but opens an avenue for digressive modes of reception.  Intertextual frames thus do not necessarily demand a preordained exit from the text, but provide an opening for a multiplicity of readings.  In this way, intertextual frames and digressions can be viewed as part of a process of semantic layering that allows for hetereogenous unfoldings of the text, rather than as a form of textual fragmentation.  7.5 DreamWorks and Pixar The de-acousmatization of animated voices is not wholly unique to Pixar, but is apparent in a large percentage of contemporary animated films.  However, Pixar’s particular selection and deployment of de-acousmatized voices sets it apart from other animation studios, and is a central component of the studio’s sophisticated and incredibly successful branding and marketing processes, which have enabled them to consistently remain at the top of their market.  A comparison of Pixar’s Monsters, Inc. and their main rival studio, DreamWorks’s, Shrek (Andrew Adamson and Vicky Jenson, 2001) will help to elucidate this difference.  Viewed alongside the vocal cast of Shrek, released the same year as Monsters, Inc. (and which also beat it out for the inaugural Academy Award for Best Animated Feature in 2001) the voice cast of Monsters, Inc. is relatively low profile.  While Shrek features the voices of leading men Mike Myers as the hero (Shrek), and Eddie Murphy as his sidekick (Donkey), as well as that of Cameron Diaz as the film’s damsel in distress (Princess Fiona), the main protagonist of Monsters, Inc. is voiced by John Goodman, an actor best known for his supporting roles in several Coen brothers films (Raising Arizona [1987], Barton Fink [1991], The Big Lebowski [1998] and O Brother, Where Art Thou [2000]) and for his nine year run on the ABC sitcom Roseanne.  Other supporting cast members include the previously discussed Billy Crystal as Goodman’s sidekick, Steve Buscemi, and James Coburn as the film’s villains, and Jennifer Tilly as Crystal’s love interest, Celia.   113 The stars of Shrek could all be considered “A-List” celebrities at the time of the film’s production—according to Forbes Magazine’s 2008 ranking of Hollywood’s top earning actors, Eddie Murphy and Mike Myers tied for 3 rd  as the highest paid actors in the business (after Will Smith and Johnny Depp), each pulling in $55 million in 2008 alone (Rose, “Hollywood's Best- Paid Actors”), while, in the female category, Cameron Diaz ranked as the top-earning actress, bringing in $50 million (Rose, “Hollywood's Top-Earning Actresses”).  Thus, Shrek arguably mirrors Steven Levitt’s economic hypothesis as to why animated films use ‘such famous voices’ (outlined in Chapter One): that signing multi-million dollar contracts with bankable stars posits a film as a blockbuster hit before it is even made.  The stars that lent their voices to Monsters, Inc., on the other hand, are not on any such ‘top earner’ lists, and do not have the same type of ‘bankable’ appeal required in this formula.  However, their voices do bring a certain added value to the film.  Their appeal, I propose, is not based on economic, but cultural capital.  These particular star voices are also used to draw in a very broad audience demographic—extending the traditional target markets of animation (particularly Disney animation)—and play a vital role in Pixar’s extensive branding processes. In an analysis of the cultural capital of Kenneth’s Branagh’s star persona in filmic adaptations of Shakespeare, Nick Cox argues that: Branagh’s identification with the concept of Shakespeare/theatre/Englishness means that he is able to operate as a kind of guarantor of legitimacy […his] function is to proclaim to an audience who are suspicious of mere entertainment that these films offer something more than he quotidian delights of popular cinema […] this explains the likely appeal of these films to an audience whose members would not regard mainstream cinema as part of their cultural domain. (146-147)  Vocal performers such as Christopher Plummer and Peter O’Toole, for instance—each of whom possesses a significant cultural prestige for their work in ‘high culture’ theatre and film productions—proffer a comparable seal of legitimacy onto Pixar’s films (Plummer having   114 provided the voice for the villain Charles Muntz in Up and O’Toole that of the discerning food critic Anton Ego in Ratatouille [Brad Bird, 2007]). 101   The presence of such actors’ voices, endows Pixars films with a certain cultural capital associated with the performers and thus increases the films’ appeal among groups who might generally regard animation, or Disney- backed animated features, as outside of their “cultural domain.”  The inclusion of such actors does not for all that guarantee a film’s success; however, it operates within a system of cultural demarcation that (vocally) distinguishes Pixar’s films within the sphere of animated cinema. Pierre Bourdieu’s assessment of the accumulation of cultural capital as a process whereby: “a legitimate disposition that is acquired by frequent contact with a particular class of works, namely, the literary and philosophical works recognized by the academic canon, comes to extend to other, less legitimate works […] or to areas enjoying less academic recognition, such as cinema” (26), is useful in defining this operation in Pixar’s films.  By deploying voices associated with such culturally ‘legitimate’ forms as the theatre, highly regarded canonical films, and auteur cinema, Pixar benefits from a similar ‘extension’ of legitimacy that (as emphasized throughout this study) has not often been assigned to animated, and especially, Disney animated cinema.  Thus, the voice participates in Pixar’s self-branding as a ‘legitimate’ cultural form.  Yet this practice is more involved than simply casting some of the most distinguished classical actors, and rather, can be understood as a complex branding mechanism that designates Pixar’s films as culturally and artistically important.  To further illustrate this branding process, I will take Monsters, Inc. as an example once more. Monsters, Inc.’s vocal casting of John Goodman and Steve Buscemi reproduces a pair of actors known for their work as an acting “duo” of sorts in a particular branch of American auteur cinema—that of the Coen brothers, the two actors having appeared together in three of the  101  Co-directed by Jan Pinkava.   115 Coen’s films prior to Monsters, Inc.. 102   Jennifer Tilly, who garnered a cult following for her role in the Wachowski brothers’ Bound (1996), also brings a contemporary Hollywood auteur association to the film.  Deploying these actors’ voices not only creates an intertextual link to the Coens and Wachowskis, but signals to the audience that, unlike DreamWorks films which tend to bank on the appeal of highly popular, ‘top earning’ performers in mainstream cinema (the casting of Brad Pitt, Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michelle Pfeiffer in Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas [Patrick Gilmore and Tim Johnson, 2003] provides another illustrative example of this), Pixar generally selects actors with a greater cult appeal and ‘auteur credentials’ that potentially offer the viewer more than the so-called ‘quotidian delights’ of popular Hollywood fare. This is not to say that Pixar film’s are not popular Hollywood fare, they are produced by a major film studio (and one of the world’s largest corporations) distinctly within the parameters of the Hollywood system; however, just as Branagh’s presence in American-produced film adaptations of Shakespeare (such as his 1996 Hamlet) reinforces an “authentically Shakespearean character or Englishness” (147) of the films, Pixar’s use of voices readily associable with auteur cinema or ‘high’ cultural forms, becomes a marker of distinction and of cultural capital, that then influences the patterns of its films’ cultural consumption.  Pixar’s branding strategies thus seem to mirror Caldwell’s assessment that branding in the ‘information age’ is no longer solely predicated upon traditional conceptions of cornering “market share”—for example through the use of a ‘bankable’ star actor—but on capturing “mind and emotions share,” (245) as with the Pixar’s casting of actors with a certain cultural capital or resonance.  As a result of this intensive branding, this process of cultural legitimization, or securing “mind and emotions share,” Pixar has courted a demonstrably wide viewing demographic.  There  102  Barton Fink, The Hudsucker Proxy (1994) and The Big Lebowski.  Both actors have also appeared in a total of five Coen brothers films to date.  Moreover, in light Buscemi’s intertextual link to the Coens, the sinister door shredded in Monsters, Inc. can perhaps be read as a reference the infamous wood chipper in Fargo (1996).   116 is what Denison, in her analysis of Miyazki’s audience demographics, deems an “elasticity” (“Ghibli” 140) in the market for Pixar’s films, which have shown consistent success in attracting a variegated audience spanning many demographic categories.  To take a recent example, Mark Zoradi, president of Walt Disney Motion Pictures, has noted Pixar’s latest feature film to date, Up, drew in an unusually high percentage of adult viewers.  According to Zoradi, five percent of the ticket buyers for Up were over the age of fifty, a highly atypical figure for an animated film (Barnes).  This demographic appeal is indivisibly linked to Pixar’s branding strategies and cultivation of cultural ‘legitimacy.’  Up, which became the first animated film selected to open the Cannes Film Festival (in 2009), is both a marker of Pixar’s already established cultural renown and an important reifying component of its own legitimizing discourses.  Its currency as the inaugural film of a prestigious festival, along with its vocal cast of veteran actors (Ed Asner, in addition to Plummer) arguably increased its appeal for adult viewers. 103   7.6 “What Kind of Cut-Rate Production Is This?” On a final level, the voice serves a key role in the synergistic, transmedial promotion of Pixar’s films and other diverse products.  Pixar is well known for the so-called “easter eggs” that proliferate in its films, dvds and video games—from hidden Wall-Es that appear as far back as the first Toy Story film (more than ten years before the release of Wall-E), to the Nemo and Jessie dolls in Boo’s bedroom in Monsters, Inc..  Easter eggs are hidden features—often in-jokes, references, or extra features—embedded in dvds and video games that can be discovered or unlocked by users.  The notion of ‘hiding Easter eggs,’ though originally applied to user controlled video games and dvds, is also applicable to the diegetic worlds of Pixar’s films which  103  That the film’s protagonist is a septuagenarian, very likely also increased its pull for a 50+ audience demographic, yet the specific vocal casting of Ed Asner—who would be best known to the generation of viewers who remember him in his iconic roles on the Mary Tyler Moore Show and Lou Grant—is no doubt an operative component of this appeal.   117 feature innumerable hidden references to other Pixar films—both past and future, as the above examples illustrate.  These references are both visible and audible, and also extend beyond cannibalistic reiterations of Pixar’s own films to include allusion to other films, television shows, animators’ ‘inside jokes,’ advertisements and various bits of cultural debris, scattered throughout Pixar’s films, for pop culture exegetes to uncover.  Yet the most pronounced and prolific of these easter eggs are undoubtedly those that refer back to Pixar’s own films and characters. 104   In this respect, inasmuch as Budd argues that, given its “highly developed corporate synergy” “every Disney product is both a commodity and an ad for every other Disney commodity” (1), it is also possible to argue that every Pixar product is also an ad for every other Pixar product. 105   The voice is a key operative element in this synergistic network that essentially creates in-built advertisements within each Pixar film to other Pixar films and products (even films that will not be produced for another decade!). The vocal dimensions of this referential network are, in the first place, observable in the presence of John Ratzenberger as a vocal performer in all of Pixar’s feature films to date.  The recurrence of his voice creates a vocal link in each of Pixar’s films to another character in every other Pixar film.  The re-use of Ratzenberger’s voice is in fact highlighted in the closing credits of Cars (in which he provides the voice for “Mack the Truck”).  During the credit sequence Mack is depicted watching a sequence of Cars ‘remakes’ of other Pixar’s movies at the drive-in. That is to say, scenes from other Pixar films, only with car versions of every character (“Toy Car  104  For instance, each Pixar feature contains a reference to “A113,” the number of a classroom at CalArts, of which many Pixar animators are alumni (this reference also appears in other animated fare such as The Simpsons and South Park), as well as to “Pizza Planet,” a restaurant introduced in Toy Story.  Moreover, the ‘Abominable Snowman’ in Monsters, Inc. describes children in the Himalayan village above which he lives as "tough kids, sissy kids, kids who climb on rocks”, referencing a classic Armour hot dogs jingle. 105  As well as many Disney products: posters for Disney theme parks appear on a child’s wall in Monsters, Inc. and Buzz Lightyear is branded with a Disney Corporation Logo.  Moreover, there are ‘Hidden Mickeys’—covertly placed symbols of Mickey Mouse, which were hidden by the original ‘Disney Imagineers’ throughout the Disney theme parks, a practice which continues to this day—throughout the film.   118 Story” with, fittingly, a station wagon Woody; “Monster Trucks, Inc.” with a monster truck Sulley, and so on).  Each scene also features Ratzenberger’s character in the given film, and showcases a ‘car-themed’ line of dialogue that his character speaks in the original film being referenced.  After his character speaks that bit of dialogue, the scene cuts back to Mack watching the films; each time, Mack comments on the quality or talent of the vocal actor—himself. (“Whoever does the voice of that piggy truck, I tell ya he’s one great actor” and “That abominable snowplow is quite the comic thespian.”) 106   At the closing of the credits, however, Mack, realizing that they are in fact all the same voice (though not acknowledging it is also his own), states: “Wait a minute here, they’re just using the same actor over and over.  What kind of cut-rate production is this?”  This, albeit brief, scene highlights Pixar’s cross-promotional deployment of the voice in its films in a dual fashion.  First, Ratzenberger’s acknowledgement of the multiplication of his voice in Pixar’s features, calls attention to the studio’s vocal synergy.  In addition, each of the film clips Mack views feature some of the original voice cast of the films being referenced (Hanks, Allen, Crystal, Goodman and Dave Foley); therefore, this sequence also contains an embedded vocal allusion to the respective features in which these stars perform. This system of cross promotion can also be understood in relation to Pixar products beyond the realm of feature films.  The recent re-packaging of Pixar’s ‘official’ Toy Story toys on the occasion of the theatrical re-release of Toy Story and Toy Story 2 as a 3D double feature, is a fitting example of this extrafilmic dimension.  Several of these toys are talking toys, and speak bits of dialogue from the Toy Story films.  As John Lasseter stresses in a series of promotional videos advertising the toys on the official website for Toy Story 3 (another example of synergistic promotion in itself), these toys are “the exact authentic toys that Andy always  106  Ratzenberg provides the voice for Hamm the piggy bank (here a ‘piggytruck’) in Toy Story and the Abominable Snowman (here a snowplow) in Monsters, Inc, and P.T. Flea (here a Volkswagen Beetle) in A Bug’s Life (John Lasseter and Andrew Stanton [co-director], 1998).   119 played with” (“Lasseter Talks Toys Vol. 1”).  Lasseter also stresses several times that the toys have precisely the same voices as the toys in the film: “Rex is […] exactly the same toy that Andy plays with […] and he’s got the voice and personality of Rex in the movie” (“Lasseter Talks Toys Vol. 3”).  Thus, the voice also becomes a marketable feature that serves as a selling point for Toy Story toys and in turn, each toy that speaks, for example, in Wallace Shawn’s or another cast member’s voice, becomes a transmedial vocal reference back to the films themselves: the voices in the films are used to promote the toys, and the toys themselves can be viewed as a form of advertisement for the films’ star vocal casts.  A similar feedback loop is established in Pixar’s many video games and theme park rides, which also feature the star voices from their films.  For example, the Cars video game featured most of the film’s original voice cast, including Owen Wilson, Bonnie Hunt and Paul Newman.  The de-acousmatized voice in Pixar’s animation performs a number of economic, cultural and aesthetic functions: participating in the marketing and promotional discourses surrounding its films, structuring audience reception, and underpinning some of the studio’s key branding processes.  Certainly, other animated films, for example those of DreamWorks, also use de- acousmatized star voices to similar ends, and many DreamWorks films have also been quite successful and popular among various demographic groups.  However, the demographic sprawl and cultural resonance of Pixar’s films remains unparalleled in animation arguably due, at least in part, to the studio’s aggressive branding via the voice and the intertextual density of the voice in its films, which contribute to enticing a broad audience to viewing, and crucially, hearing Pixar’s films.   120 8 Conclusion  My master made me this collar. He is a good and smart master and he made me this collar so that I may speak.  Squirrel!  –Dug, Up  The term “Disneyfication” is a well-worn and widely circulated phrasing in academic and popular writing.  Indeed, as previously touched upon, the designation arose as early as the late 1930s as a pejorative description of the increasingly commercial sensibility and “formulaic quality” of Disney’s animation, as well as the “sanitization” and “homogenization” of Disney’s adaptations of (commonly European) classic folk and fairy tales (Budd 7) and continues to bear upon contemporary Disney criticism. 107   Mirroring Disney’s own immense expansions since the 1930s, recent academic ventures have greatly extended the scope of the term, exploring its applications within Disney’s many artistic/commercial worlds and extrapolating it to, as Budd describes: examinations of “large socio-economic changes that give the name of Disney to broad historical transformations” (7). A particularly germane branch of the latter form of criticism grapples with the phenomenon of the Disneyfication or what Alan Bryman terms “Disneyization” of urban space. Sharon Zukin, for instance, in her study of contemporary urban culture, considers the effects of Disney on urban planning, pointing to a commercial co-optation and homogenization of public space.  In his Disneyization of Society, Bryman maps the increasing reconfiguration of consumer culture and social environments—from restaurants to shopping centres—towards a Disney-based model of product convergence, intensive brand merchandising, performative labour/social interactions (Disney employees are tellingly deemed “cast members”), and “control and  107  To illustrate the popular dissemination of the term: a Google search of the word “Disneyfication” yields 38,600 results (as of February 1 st  2010).   121 surveillance of consumers and workers” (Budd 7).  Similarly, Dick Hebdige’s discussion of what he terms “dis-gnosis”—literally the opposite of knowledge, or more precisely, Disney’s suppression of any knowledge that interferes with the proliferation/consumption of its products and ideology—discusses a diverse array of “disneyfied effects” on “everything from work, retail and consumer culture, to contemporary art and architecture” (37).  Finally, and certainly most acrimoniously, Carl Hiaasen laments the Disneyfication of Times Square—irreverently championing the “donkey films and giant rubber dicks” of one of the area’s remaining sex shops, “Peep Land,” as a “subversive triumph” (9) in the face of this ‘wholesome’ remodelling.  8.1 The Pixarification of Disney What became patently clear, however, in a recent 2009/2010 visit to the Disney World Resort—as I walked down “Main St. USA,” around “Tomorrowland,” and, most tellingly, through the gates of “Pixar Studios” in Disney’s Hollywood Studios theme park—is that Disney itself is undergoing a widespread urban, aesthetic and economic transformation, one which I would like to here term “Pixarification.”  That is to say, insofar as it is possible speak of a Disneyfication/Disneyization of urban environments and contemporary culture, it is also possible to observe a Pixarification of Disney—from its theme parks, animated media output, and merchandise lines, all the way up to its majority shareholders and board of directors (with the instalment of Jobs, Catmull and Lasseter in prominent positions).  At the level of Disney’s theme parks, this process is manifest in the widespread implementation of Pixar-themed rides and attractions in each of the four Walt Disney World parks in Florida, the Disneyland and California Adventure parks in Anaheim, Disneyland Paris’s two theme parks, as well as Tokyo Disneyland   122 and Hong Kong Disneyland. 108  (For a listing and description of a number of newly implemented or proposed Pixar-themed attractions at various Disney Parks & Resorts see Appendix D). The Disneyland website aptly describes this Pixarification process in a synopsis of its recently inaugurated Pixar parade: “familiar faces from every Disney-Pixar film are along for the ride” (“Pixar Play Parade”).  Indeed, it seems that Pixar is undoubtedly ‘along for the ride’ at all at Disney’s worlds, lands and at every level of the multinational corporation’s massive operations; Pixar is increasingly inextricable from Disney’s commercial and creative practices. Crucially, this transformation is more than just a thematic retooling or updating of Disney attractions and urban environments with the inclusion of Pixar characters; it is also an aesthetic reshaping of Disney’s animated films.  Pixar’s introduction of the first CGI film radically reshaped the landscape of Disney animation, and arguably the animated medium as a whole— numerous studios having all but disassembled their tradition animation wings in the wake of Pixar’s popularization of digital animation. This widespread Pixarification underscores the need for more sustained analyses of Pixar—of its films, toys, rides, video games, and myriad other products—within and even beyond the borders of Disney studies.  If, as Smoodin argues, the Walt Disney Company “had its finger in more sociocultural pies than perhaps any other twentieth century producer of mass entertainment,” (2) Pixar no doubt has extended Disney’s sprawling reach into new technological, demographic, artistic and cultural territories. Thus an examination of Pixar is critical to understanding how Disney and American corporate interests more generally, are  108  The second theme park of the Tokyo Disney resort—Tokyo DisneySea—does not, as yet, appear to host any Pixar-themed rides, however, according to a May 2009 press release issued by the Oriental Land Company (the corporation which owns and operates Tokyo Disney—licensing the themes and characters from the Walt Disney Company—DisneySea is set to introduce its own version of the “Toy Story Mania” ride in 2012.  Hong Kong Disneyland, for its part, already features a Pixar attraction based on the Buzz Lightyear ride at the Magic Kingdom. Moreover, according to a December 2009 press release by Hong Kong International Theme Parks—the corporation jointly owned by the Disney Corporation and the Hong Kong government which runs HK Disney—HK Disney has begun construction on three new themed areas, one of which will become “Toy Story Land.”   123 shaping contemporary mass culture.  Moreover, while the parameters of this study have only allowed for an analysis of the voice in a selection of Pixar’s films, the aural landscape of Pixar animation, much of which still remains unexplored, offers a particularly apposite site for film sound studies.  Just as Pixar’s 3D animated worlds are created using computer imaging technologies, the soundscapes of its films are similarly ‘rendered,’ created entirely in post- production, as the very nature of the medium precludes ‘location sound’ recording.  Thus inasmuch as Pixar’s films feature highly sophisticated and detailed digital environments, this very complexity necessitates an equally rich sound design—of dialogue, music, and sound effects—to truly animate these fantastic worlds. 109   8.2 “Did that Dog Just Say ‘Hi There’?”  Disney animation has a long history of creating anthropomorphic animal characters, its most iconic undoubtedly being Mickey Mouse (as Walt Disney’s often cited saying goes, “it was all started by a mouse”).  Up, the 2009 Pixar film from which the epigraph to this chapter and the above quote are taken, cannily deconstructs this anthropomorphic tradition, with its troupe of dogs that speak in distinctly human voices, though not through their mouths, but via a partially acousmatic and acousmachinic voice produced by a special collar around each dog’s neck.  The continual interjections of this acousmachinic voice throughout the film illuminate an additional dimension of the disembodied voice in Pixar’s films.  While the dogs’ uncanny voices are at times unsettling or disturbing (as with the acousmatic voices in Toy Story and Monsters, Inc.) these dog collar voices are also a central comic device in Up and one that serves to mitigate the film’s markedly more ‘serious’ or adult subject matter (as compared to its earlier works): a  109  Pixar’s use of silence—particularly in the first half of Wall-E, which features very little dialogue, and the silent montage sequence in the opening act of Up—is an equally significant component of its films’ sound design, and one that warrants further study.   124 widower coming to terms with the death of his wife.  Dug and Alpha’s voices (both provided by Bob Peterson), best evidentiate this function, in terms of the earnest phrasings/intonation and staccato cadence of Dug’s voice, and the uncharacteristically chipmunk-like quality of Alpha’s voice that belies the expected ‘grain’ the Doberman Pinscher’s body suggests. Up’s acousmatic play (which was also heavily featured in the film’s theatrical trailers), and its ironic, intertextual commentary on Disney’s anthropomorphic tradition, gesture towards some of the wider applications of a vocally-centered analysis of Pixar’s films.  While such an approach may seem narrow or limited in scope, as this study has sought to demonstrate, negotiating the complex narrative and extratextual significance of the voice in Pixar’s films and in the broader context of contemporary animation, requires a multifaceted or triangulated understanding of the wider historical, aesthetic and commercial conditions, which necessarily frame the use of these voices.  And if, as Barthes argues, no discrete analytical science (physiology, history, aesthetics, psychoanalysis) could ever “épuise,” or exhaust the subject of the human voice (“La Musique, la voix” 881), then such an interdisciplinary approach, which incorporates a range of methodologies, is indispensable to navigating Pixar animation’s babel of screaming, laughing, ventriloquizing, threatening, seducing, adoring, and, no doubt, captivating voices.         125 Filmography  “The Adventures of André and Wally B.” Dir. Alvy Ray Smith. Writ. Alvy Ray Smith. Pixar Short Films Collection Volume 1. Walt Disney Home Video, 2007. DVD. Akira. Dir. tomo Katsuhiro. Perf. Sasaki Nozomu, Koyama Mami, Iwata Mitsuo, and Genda Tessh. Pioneer Video, 2001. DVD. Aladdin. Dir. John Musker and Ron Clements. Perf. Scott Weinger, Robin Williams, Linda Larkin, and Jonathan Freeman. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2004. DVD. Alice in Wonderland. Dir. Clyde Geronimi, Hamilton Luske, and Wilfred Jackson. Perf. Kathryn Beaumont, Ed Wynn, Richard Haydn, and Sterling Holloway. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2004. DVD. Analyze This. Dir. Harold Ramis. Perf. Robert De Niro, Billy Crystal, Lisa Kudrow, and Joe Viterelli. Warner Home Video, 1999. DVD. Apocalypse Now. Dir. Francis Ford Coppola. Perf. Marlon Brando, Robert Duvall, Martin Sheen, and Frederic Forrest. Paramount Home Video, 2001. DVD. The Aristocats. Dir. Wolfgang Reitherman. Perf. Phil Harris, Eva Gabor, Sterling Holloway, and Scatman Crothers. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD. Avatar. Dir. James Cameron. Perf. Sam Worthington, Zoe Saldana, Sigourney Weaver, and Stephen Lang. 20th Century Fox Film Corporation, 2009. Film. Barton Fink. Dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen (uncredited). Perf. John Turturro, John Goodman, Judy Davis, and Michael Lerner. 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2003. DVD. Basic Instinct. Dir. Paul Verhoeven. Perf. Michael Douglas, Sharon Stone, George Dzundza, and Jeanne Tripplehorn. Artisan Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD.    126 Beauty and the Beast. Dir. Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise. Perf. Paige O'Hara, Robby Benson, Angela Lansbury, and Jerry Orbach. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 1991. DVD. Beavis and Butt-Head. Dir. Mike Judge and Yvette Kaplan. Perf. Mike Judge, Dale Revo, Tracy Grandstaff, and Adam Welsh. MTV. 1993-1997. Television. The Big Lebowski. Dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen (uncredited). Perf. Jeff Bridges, John Goodman, and Steve Buscemi. Universal Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD. Blow Out. Dir. Brian De Palma. Perf. John Travolta, Nancy Allen, John Lithgow, and Dennis Franz. MGM Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD. Bound. Dir. Andy Wachowski and Lana Wachowski. Perf. Jennifer Tilly, Gina Gershon, and Joe Pantoliano. Republic Pictures Home Video, 2001. DVD. A Bug’s Life. Dir. John Lasseter and Andrew Stanton (co-director). Perf. Dave Foley, Kevin Spacey, and Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 1999. DVD. City Slickers. Dir. Ron Underwood. Perf. Billy Crystal, Daniel Stern, Bruno Kirby, Patricia Wettig, and Jack Pallance. MGM Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD. City Slickers II: The Legend of Curly’s Gold. Dir. Paul Weiland. Perf. Billy Crystal, Daniel Stern, Jon Lovitz, and Jack Pallance. Warner Home Video, 2003. DVD. Coraline. Dir. Henry Selick. Perf. Dakota Fanning, Teri Hatcher, Jennifer Saunders, and Dawn French. Universal Studios Home Entertainment, 2009. DVD. The Cowboys. Dir. Mark Rydell. Perf. John Wayne, Roscoe Lee Browne, Bruce Dern, and Colleen Dewhurst. Warner Home Video, 1998. DVD. Crank Yankers. Creators. Adam Carolla, Daniel Kellison, and Jimmy Kimmel. Perf. Artie Esposito, Paul McGinnis, Victor Yerrid, and Biz Markie. Comedy Central, MTV2. 2002- 2007. Television.   127 “Dances with Smurfs.” South Park. Dir. Trey Parker. Writ. Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Perf. Trey Parker, Matt Stone, April Stewart, and Sebastian Yu. Paramount Home Entertainment, 2010. DVD. Dumbo. Dir. Ben Sharpsteen. Perf. Edward Brophy, Herman Bing, Sterling Holloway, Vera Felton, and Cliff Edwards. Walt Disney Home Entertainment, 2006. DVD. “El hotel eléctrico.” Dir. Segundo de Chomón. Perf. Segundo de Chomón and Julienne Mathieu. Pathé Frères, 1908. Film. “Fantasmagorie.” Dir. Émile Cohl. Saved from the Flames: 54 Rare and Restored Films 1896- 1944. Flicker Alley, 2008. DVD. Fargo. Dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen (uncredited). Perf. William H. Macy, Frances McDormand, and Steve Buscemi, and Peter Stormare. MGM Home Entertainment, 2003. DVD. Finding Nemo. Dir. Andrew Stanton and Lee Unkrich (co-director). Perf. Eric Bana, Nicholas Bird, Albert Brooks, Willem Dafoe, and Ellen DeGeneres. Buena Vista Home Entertainment. 2003. DVD. Forrest Gump. Dir. Robert Zemeckis. Perf. Tom Hanks, Robin Wright Penn, Gary Sinise, and Sally Field. Paramount Home Video. 2001. DVD. The Fox and the Hound. Dir. Ted Berman and Richard Rich. Perf. Mickey Rooney, Kurt Russell, and Pearl Bailey. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2006. DVD. Full Metal Jacket. Dir. Stanley Kubrick. Perf. Matthew Modine, Adam Baldwin, Vincent D’Onofrio, and R. Lee Ermey. Warner Home Video, 2003. DVD. “Gertie the Dinosaur.” Dir. Winsor McCay. Perf. Winsor McCay, George McManus, and Roy McCardell. Winsor McCay—The Master Edition. Image Entertainment, 2004. DVD.   128 Hamlet. Dir. Kenneth Branagh. Perf. Kenneth Branagh. Derek Jacobi, Richard Briers, Julie Christie, and Kate Winslet. Warner Home Video, 2007. DVD. Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Dir. Chris Columbus. Perf. Richard Harris, Maggie Smith, and Robbie Coltrane, and Daniel Radcliffe. Warner Home Video, 2002. DVD. “The Haunted Hotel.” Dir. James Stuart Blackton. Perf. Paul Panzer, and William V. Ranous. Vitagraph, 1907. Film. Home Improvement. Creators. Carmen Finestra, David McFadzean, and Matt Williams. Perf. Tim Allen, Patricia Richardson, and Richard Karn. ABC. 1991-1999. Television. Home on the Range. Dir. Will Finn and John Sanford. Perf. Roseanne Barr, Judi Dench, Cuba Gooding Jr., and Dennis Quaid. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2004. DVD. “Humorous Phases of Funny Faces.” Dir. James Stuart Blackton. Origins of American Animation. The Library of Congress Smithsonian Video, 1995. VHS. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Dir. Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise. Perf. Tom Hulce, Demi Moore, Jason Alexander, and Tony Jay. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2006. DVD. The Incredibles. Dir. Brad Bird. Perf. Craig T. Nelson, Holly Hunter, Sarah Vowell, Spencer Fox, and Jason Lee. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD. Ivan the Terrible Part I. Dir. Sergei Eisenstein. Perf. Nikolai Cherkasov, Lyudmila Tselikovskaya, and Serafima Birman. Media International, 2007. DVD. Jurassic Park. Dir. Steven Spielberg. Perf. Sam Neill, Laura Dern, Jeff Goldblum, and Richard Attenborough. Universal Home Entertainment, 2002. DVD. Kiki’s Delivery Service. Dir. Miyazaki Hayao. Perf. Kirsten Dunst, Janeane Garofalo, Phil Hartman, Tress MacNeille and Matthew Lawrence. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD.   129 King Kong. Dir. Merian Cooper and Ernest Schoedsack. Perf. Fay Wray, Robert Armstrong, Bruce Cabot, and Frank Reicher. Warner Home Video, 2006. DVD. Lady and the Tramp. Dir. Hamilton Luske, Clyde Geronimi, and Wilfred Jackson. Perf. Peggy Lee, Barbara Luddy, and Larry Roberts. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2006. DVD. The Lion King. Dir. Roger Allers and Rob Minkoff. Perf. Matthew Broderick, Jeremy Irons, James Earl Jones, Whoopi Goldberg, and Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Walt Disney Studios Home Video, 2003. DVD. The Little Mermaid. Dir. John Musker and Ron Clements. Perf. Jodi Benson, Samuel E. Wright, and Rene Auberjonois. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2003. DVD. “Little Nemo.” Dir. Winsor McCay. Perf. Winsor McCay, John Bunny, and George McManus. Winsor McCay—The Master Edition. Image Entertainment, 2004. DVD. Lock n’ Load with R. Lee Ermey. Dir. French Horowitz and Rick Wilkinson. Perf. R. Lee Ermey. A&E Home Video, 2010. DVD. “Luxo Jr.” Dir. John Lasseter. Writ. John Lasseter. Pixar Short Films Collection Volume 1. Walt Disney Home Video, 2007. DVD. Madagascar. Dir. Eric Darnell and Tom McGrath. Perf. Ben Stiller, Chris Rock, David Schwimmer, and Jada Pinkett Smith. DreamWorks Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD. Mail Call. Writ. Susan Michaels and Tony Long. Perf. R. Lee Ermey. The History Channel.  2002-2005. Television. Mary Poppins. Dir. Robert Stevenson. Perf. Julie Andrews, Dick Van Dyke, Karen Dotrice, and Matthew Garber. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2009. DVD.     130 The Mickey Mouse Club. Creators. Hal Adelquist, Walt Disney, and Bill Walsh. Perf. Don Grady, Tommy Cole, Eileen Diamond, and Annette Funicello. ABC. 1955-1959 Television. Modern Times. Dir. Charlie Chaplin. Perf. Charlie Chaplin, Paulette Goddard, Henry Bergman, and, Tiny Sandford. Warner Home Video, 2006. DVD. Monsters, Inc. Dir. Pete Docter, David Silverman (co-director), and Lee Unkrich (co-director). Perf. John Goodman, Billy Crystal, Steve Buscemi, James Coburn, and Jennifer Tilly. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2002. DVD. Mulholland Dr. Dir. David Lynch. Perf. Naomi Watts, Laura Harring, Justin Theroux, and Ann Miller. Universal Studios, 2002. DVD. My Dinner with André. Dir. Louis Malle. Perf. Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory. The Criterion Collection, 2009. DVD. My Giant. Dir. Michael Lehmann. Perf. Billy Crystal, Kathleen Quinlan, Gheorghe Muresan, Joanna Pacula, and Zane Carney. Turner Home Entertainment, 1998. DVD. My Neighbor Totoro. Dir. Miyazaki Hayao. Perf. Dakota Fanning, Elle Fanning, Timothy Daly, and Lea Salonga. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2002. DVD. Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind. Dir. Miyazaki Hayao. Perf. Alison Lohman, Patrick Stewart, Uma Thurman, and Shia LaBeouf. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD. The Nightmare Before Christmas. Dir. Henry Selick. Perf. Chris Sarandon, Catherine O’Hara, and William Hickey. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD. O Brother, Where Art Thou? Dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen (uncredited). Perf. George Clooney, John Turturro, Tim Blake Nelson, John Goodman, and Holly Hunter. Touchstone Home Video, 2001. DVD.   131 101 Dalmations. Dir. Wolfgang Reitherman, Hamilton Luske, and Clyde Geronimi. Perf. Rod Taylor, Cate Bauer, and Getty Lou Gerson. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD. Peter Pan. Dir. Hamilton Luske, Clyde Geronimi, and Wilfred Jackson. Perf. Bobby Driscoll, Kathryn Beaumont, and Hans Conried. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2007. DVD. “Plane Crazy.” Dir. Walt Disney and Ub Iwerks. Perf. Walt Disney. Vintage Mickey. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD. Popeye. Dir. Robert Altman. Perf. Robin Williams, Shelley Duvall, Ray Walston, Paul Dooley, and Paul L. Smith. Paramount Home Entertainment, 2003. DVD. The Princess and the Frog. Dir. John Musker, and Ron Clements. Perf. Anika Noni Rose, Bruce Campos, Keith David, and Jennifer Lewis. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2010. DVD. The Princess Bride. Dir. Rob Reiner. Perf. Cary Elwes, Mandy Patinkin, Chris Sarandon, and Robin Wright. MGM/UA Home Entertainment, 2006. DVD. Princess Mononoke. Dir. Miyazaki Hayao. Perf. Billy Crudup, Claire Danes, Gillian Anderson, Billy Bob Thornton, and Minnie Driver. Miramax Films, 1999. DVD. Psycho. Dir. Alfred Hitchcock. Perf. Anthony Perkins, Janet Leigh, Martin Balsam, and Vera Miles. Universal Home Entertainment, 1998. DVD. Raising Arizona. Dir. Joel Coen and Ethan Coen (uncredited). Perf. Nicolas Cage, Holly Hunter, Trey Wilson, and John Goodman. 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 1999. DVD. Ratatouille. Dir. Brad Bird and Jan Pinkava (co-director). Perf. Patton Oswalt, Ian Holm, Lou Romano, Peter O’Toole, and Janeane Garofolo. The Rescuers. Dir. John Lounsbery, Wolfgang Reitherman, and Art Stevens.   132 The Ren & Stimpy Show. Dir. John Kricfalusi, Bob Camp, Vincent Waller and Tom McGrath. Perf. John Kricfalusi, Billy West, Cheryl Chase, Harris Peet, and Bob Camp. Nickelodeon. 1991-1996. Television. The Rescuers. Dir. Wolfgang Reitherman, John Lounsbery, and Art Stevens. Perf. Bob Newhart, Eva Gabor, and Geraldine Paige. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2003. DVD. Robin Hood. Dir. Wolfgang Reitherman. Perf. Brian Bedford, Phil Harris, Andy Devine, Monica Evans, and Peter Ustinov. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2006. DVD. Shark Tale. Dir. Vicky Jenson, Bibo Bergeron, and Rob Letterman. Perf. Will Smith, Robert De Niro, Renée Zellweger, Jack Black, and Angelina Jolie. DreamWorks Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD. Shrek. Dir. Andrew Adamson and Vicky Jenson. Perf. Mike Myers, Eddie Murphy, Cameron Diaz, and John Lithgow. DreamWorks Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD. The Simpsons. Creator. Matt Groening. Perf. Dan Castellaneta, Nancy Cartwright, Julie Kavner, and Yeardley Smith. 20th Century Fox. 1989-. Television. The Simpsons Movie. Dir. David Silverman. Perf. Dan Castellaneta, Julie Kavner, Nancy Cartwright, and Yeardley Smith. 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2007. DVD. Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas. Dir. Patrick Gilmore and Tim Johnson. Perf. Brad Pitt, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Joseph Fiennes. DreamWorks Home Entertainment, 2003. DVD. “The Sinking of the Lusitania.” Dir. Winsor McCay. Winsor McCay—The Master Edition. Image Entertainment, 2004. DVD. Sleeping Beauty. Dir. Clyde Geronimi. Perf. Mary Costa, Bill Shirley, Eleanor Audley, and Verna Felton. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD.   133 Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Dir. David Hand. Perf. Adriana Caselotti, Harry Stockwell, and Lucille La Verne. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2009. DVD. Song of the South. Dir. Harve Foster and Wilfred Jackson. Perf. Ruth Warrick, Bobby Driscoll, James Baskett, and Luana Patten. Buena Vista Pictures, 1986. Film. South Park. Creators. Trey Parker and Matt Stone. Perf. Trey Parker, Matt Stone, Isaac Hayes, and Mona Marshall. Comedy Central. 1997-. Television. Spirited Away. Dir. Miyazaki Hayao. Perf. Daveigh Chase, Suzanne Pleshette, and John Ratzenberger. Buena Vista International, 2002. DVD. Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. Dir. Nicholas Meyer. Perf. William Shatner, Leonard Nimoy, DeForest Kelley, and James Doohan. Paramount Home Video, 2000. DVD. Star Wars Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi. Dir. Richard Marquand. Perf. Mark Hamill, Harrison Ford, and Carrie Fisher. 20 th  Century Fox Home Entertainment, 2006. DVD.  “Steamboat Willie.” Dir. Ub Iwerks and Walt Disney (uncredited). Vintage Mickey. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD “Strangers in Paradise.” The Fifth Estate. Dir. Claude Vickery. Writ. Hana Gartner. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. CBC, Vancouver. 26 Oct. 2009. Television. Tarzan. Dir. Chris Buck, Kevin Lima. Perf. Tony Goldwyn, Minnie Driver, and Glenn Close. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD. “Tin Toy.” Dir. John Lasseter. Pixar Short Films Collection Volume 1. Walt Disney Home Video, 2007. DVD. Toy Story. Dir. John Lasseter. Perf. Tom Hanks, Tim Allen, Don Rickles, Jim Varney, and Wallace Shawn. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD.    134 Toy Story 2. Dir. John Lasseter, Ash Brannon (co-director), and Lee Unkrich (co-director). Perf. Tom Hanks, Tim Allen, Joan Cusack, and Kelsey Grammer. 1999. Buena Vista Home Entertainment, 2005. DVD. Treasure Planet. Dir. John Musker and Ron Clements. Perf. Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Emma Thompson, and Martin Short. Walt Disney Home Video, 2003. DVD. Up. Dir. Pete Docter and Bob Peterson (co-director). Perf. Ed Asner, Christopher Plummer, Jordan Nagai, and Bob Peterson. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2009. DVD. Wall-E. Dir. Andrew Stanton. Perf. Ben Burtt, Elissa Knight, Jeff Garlin, John Ratzenberger, and Kathy Najimy. Walt Disney Studios Home Entertainment, 2008. DVD. Waltz With Bashir. Dir. Ari Folman. Perf. Ari Folman, Ron Ben-Yishai, Ronny Dayag, Dror Harazi, and Yehezkel Lazarov. Seville Pictures, 2008. DVD. When Harry Met Sally. Dir. Rob Reiner. Perf. Billy Crystal, Meg Ryan, Carrie Fisher, and Bruno Kirby. MGM Home Entertainment, 2001. DVD. Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Dir. Robert Zemeckis. Perf. Bob Hoskins, Christopher Lloyd, Joanna Cassidy, and Charles Fleischer. Touchstone Home Video, 1999. DVD. The Wizard of Oz. Dir. Victor Fleming. Perf. Judy Garland, Billie Burke, Ray Bolger, Jack Haley, and Margaret Hamilton. Warner Home Video, 2009. DVD. Young Sherlock Holmes. Dir. Barry Levinson. Perf. Nicholas Rowe, Alan Cox, Sophie Ward, and Anthony Higgins. Paramount Home Video, 2003. DVD.    135 Bibliography  Adams, Guy. “Leap of faith: The Princess and The Frog.” The Independent. Independent News and Media Limited, 18 Jan. 2010. Web. 1 Feb. 2010. 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Rosenfeld. “Father-daughter relationships in Disney's Animated films.” The Southern Communication Journal 68.2 (2003): 107. Print. Zukin, Sharon. The Culture of Cities. Cambridge, MA: Blackwell, 1995. Print.  Source: David Price The Pixar Touch: The Making of A Company (2009): 269. Appendix A: Pixar Filmography   Feature Films  Toy Story (1995) A Bug’s Life (1998) Toy Story 2 (1999) Monsters, Inc. (2001) Finding Nemo (2003) The Incredibles (2004) Cars (2006) Ratatouille (2007) Wall-E (2008) Up (2009)   Short Films  “The Adventures of André and Wally B.” (1984) [As the Lucasfilm Computer Division]  “Luxo Jr.” (1986) “Flags and Waves” (1986) “Beach Chair” (1986) “Red's Dream” (1987) “Tin Toy” (1988)           “Knick Knack” (1989) “Luxo Jr. in ‘Surprise’ and ‘Light and Heavy’” (1991)  “Geri's Game” (1997) “For the Birds” (2000) “Mike's New Car” (2002) “Exploring the Reef” (2003) “Boundin'” (2003) “One Man Band” (2005) “Jack-Jack Attack” (2005) “Mr. Incredible and Pals” (2005) “Mater and the Ghostlight” (2006) “Lifted” (2006) “Your Friend the Rat” (2007) “Presto” (2008) “BURN-E” (2008) “Partly Cloudy” (2009) “Dug's Special Mission” (2009) “George & A.J.” (2009) [Released exclusively on iTunes and the Disney/Pixar Facebook and Youtube pages]  Appendix B: Toy Story Toys at Walt Disney World  Appendix C: Monsters, Inc. Promotional Materials Since Disney and Pixar joined forces in 2006, innovation has increased to new heights, creating even more dynamic, immersive experiences both inside and outside Disney parks.  The merging of the two imaginative powerhouses has widened the drawing board and provided another platform for reinforcing the Disney brand.  Creative content from Disney•Pixar is transforming Disney parks and bringing new life to stories and characters for years to come.  It's the “Disney Difference” at its best – creative content that can surpasses cultural and national boundaries that adapts from one platform to another and lasts for generations. The following are examples of how the Pixar franchise comes to life in Disney parks around the world: “Toy Story” & “Toy Story 2” Toy Story – The Musical – Preserving the warmth of the original “Toy Story” film, Toy Story - The Musical explores the true meaning of friendship as Buzz Lightyear and Woody start out as jealous adversaries who become friends by learning to work together to overcome obstacles. (Disney Cruise Line). Buzz Lightyear's Space Ranger Spin – Guests are the pilot as they careen through cosmic cosmos on a daring mission to escape Emperor Zurg by earning points with their laser pointers aboard spin cruisers. (Magic Kingdom, Walt Disney World Resort). Buzz Lightyear Astro Blasters – Blast off to "infinity and beyond" as Guests join Buzz Lightyear in an interactive and intergalactic battle against the Evil Emperor Zurg. The fate of the universe is in their hands as they pilot their Star Cruiser through the treacherous terrain while zapping enemy targets and racking up points. Guests at home can now play too by teaming up with Disneyland Guests online.  (Disneyland - Disneyland Resort, Disneyland - Tokyo Disneyland, Hong Kong Disneyland). The Art of Animation (Opening 2008) – It is both a celebration and a tribute to that legacy. Guests will see artwork, sketches, drawings and maquettes, taking them from the earliest years of Mickey Mouse, through Disney and Pixar's classic animated features to the stories and characters being created today. The highlight of the experience is the fully dimensional Pixar Zoetrope, which creates the illusion of movement by presenting a rapidly changing sequence of images – actual three- dimensional models – of characters from the Pixar animated classic “Toy Story” and “Toy Story 2.” (Hong Kong Disneyland Resort). Toy Story Mania! (Opening summer 2008) – Guests will board fanciful ride vehicles and zip into a world of exciting midway-style games hosted by many of their favorite “Toy Story” characters to see who can rack up the most points by launching virtual darts at balloons, rings at aliens and eggs at whimsical barnyard targets. (Disney's California Adventure - Disneyland Resort, Disney's Hollywood Studios - Walt Disney World Resort). WALT DISNEY PARKS & RESORTS BRINGS THE PIXAR FRANCHISE TO LIFE IN NEW AND IMMERSIVE WAYS Contact: 818-560-4107 Walt Disney Parks and Resorts Worldwide Public Affairs 500 S. Buena Vista Street Burbank, CA 91521 Appendix D: Pixar Attractions Toy Story – The Musical – explores the true meaning of friendship aboard the Disney Wonder Toy Story Mania! – board fanciful ride vehicles and zip into a world of exciting midway-style games “A Bug's Life” a bug's land – Bug-out to Bountiful Valley Farm in a bug's land to meet Flik, the star of Disney•Pixar's “A Bug's Life” who is always glad greet Guests. Flik will be happy to pose for pictures or give Guests a big bug hug.  Bring your autograph book, but leave your magnifying glass at home. (Disney's California Adventure, Disneyland Resort). It's Tough to be a Bug! – See the world through a bug's eyes as you peek into the hilarious and dazzling 3-D world of amazing and amusing insects as they astound you with a one-of-a-kind stage show. Laugh at the fun and startling in- theater effects like overhead giant spiders! The only thing that will "bug" you is if you miss it! (Disney's Animal Kingdom – Walt Disney World Resort, Disney's California Adventure – Disneyland Resort). Flik's Flyers – Ride in Flik's bug-made contraption fashioned from man-made objects, proving “one man's trash is another bug's treasure.”  Leaves and twigs stitched together become “balloons” that Guests ride and whirl around. (Disney's California Adventure, Disneyland Resort). “Finding Nemo” The Seas with Nemo & Friends – In a stunning display of entertainment technology, guests join Nemo's friends to search for the playful clownfish in one of the world's largest saltwater aquariums. (Epcot, Walt Disney World Resort). Finding Nemo Submarine Voyage – Inspired by the hit Disney•Pixar film, this attraction takes guests on a real (and unbelievable) underwater excursion. (Disneyland, Disneyland Resort). Crush's Coaster – Step through the soundstage set of Sydney Harbour into an awesome adventure onboard a spinning turtle shell and surf the East Australian Current. (Walt Disney Studios, Disneyland Resort Paris). Finding Nemo – The Musical – Also inspired by the hit Disney•Pixar film, the musical brings the Great Barrier Reef to life with spectacular scenery, elaborate puppetry and music by a Tony Award- winning composer. (Disney's Animal Kingdom, Walt Disney World Resort). Turtle Talk with Crush (Opening 2008) – Guests have a chance to participate in unscripted, real-time conversations with Crush, the beloved laid-back sea turtle from the popular Disney•Pixar animated film “Finding Nemo.” From his digital world under the sea, Crush chats, plays and jokes with Guests in a unique, personalized way. The 152-year-old turtle recognizes Guests and asks them questions about themselves and the human world in this live, real-time animated show. (Hong Kong Disneyland Resort). a bug's land – bug-out to Bountiful Valley Farm in a bug's land to meet Flik, the star of Disney•Pixar's “A Bug's Life” The Finding Nemo Submarine Voyage – a real and unbelievable underwater excursion with Nemo and friends Finding Nemo – The Musical –  the undersea world comes to life with magnificent special effects, innovative lighting, sound and more Crush's Coaster – an awesome adventure where Guests board a spinning turtle shell and surf the East Australian Current “Monsters, Inc.” Monsters, Inc. Laugh Floor – Guests at this attraction find the power of laughter in a highly interactive adventure inspired by Disney•Pixar's “Monsters, Inc.” (Magic Kingdom, Walt Disney World Resort). Monsters, Inc. Mike & Sulley to the Rescue! – Open the door to a wild ride through the streets of Monstropolis! Hop in a taxi and follow along as Mike and Sulley embark on a mad scramble to return Boo to her bedroom, while keeping her safe from the sneaky Randall Boggs and the Child Detection Agency. Scare up some monstrous fun in the Hollywood Pictures Backlot, chase through scenes inspired by Disney•Pixar's film, “Monsters, Inc.” and receive a personal farewell from the ever-watchful Roz. (Disney's California Adventure, Disneyland Resort). “Cars” Cars Race Rally – Guests take a spin through the desert landscape on a wild, figure-8 racecourse, with encouragement from Lightning McQueen and Mater from the hit Disney•Pixar film “Cars.” (Walt Disney Studios, Disneyland Resort Paris). Cars Land – (Coming soon) Culminating the major expansion is the entirely new, 12-acre addition: Cars Land, immersing guests into a world inspired by the hit DisneyCrush's Coaster - an awesome adventure onboard a spinning turtle shell and surf the East Australian CurrentPixar film, “Cars.” (Disney's California Adventure, Disneyland Resort). Radiator Springs Racers – (Coming soon) This “E-ticket” attraction inside Cars Land places Guests right in the middle of the amazingly detailed, dimensional “Cars” world of Mater, Lightening McQueen, Doc and Sally. Guests get a quick race briefing from Doc and Lightening, and suddenly find themselves in the midst of an exciting race around hairpin turns, and steep banks. Cars Land increases capacity to the park with two additional immersive family rides, featuring Luigi and Mater from the film. (Disney's California Adventure, Disneyland Resort). Other Block Party Bash –The Disney•Pixar fun will continue to rock and roll throughout Disney's Hollywood Studios at Walt Disney World Resort in 2008, as characters from smash-hit animated films like “Toy Story,” “The Incredibles,” “Monster's, Inc.” and “A Bug's Life” take to the street in Block Party Bash. (Disney's California Adventure, Disneyland Resort). Pixar Play! Parade – Disneyland Resort is the home to the new Pixar Play! Parade, an all-new DisneyCrush's Coaster – an awesome adventure onboard a spinning turtle shell and surf the East Australian CurrentPixar-inspired parade that invites guests to play and dance along with favorite characters from hit films like “Toy Story,” “A Bug's Life,” “Monsters, Inc.,” “Finding Nemo,” “The Incredibles,” “Cars” and “Ratatouille.” (Disney's Hollywood Studios, Walt Disney World Resort). Monsters, Inc. Laugh Floor – find the power of laughter in a highly interactive adventure Cars Race Rally – take a spin through the desert landscape on a wild, figure- 8 racecourse with Lightning McQueen and Mater Pixar Play! Parade – a Disney•Pixar- inspired parade that invites guests to play and dance along

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