Review: The Secret of Kells, Song of the Sea, Wolfwalkers

I’ve been meaning to do a post on animation studio Cartoon Saloon for a while now, as their films are truly some of my absolute favourites – yet still woefully undiscovered by mainstream audiences. It drives me nuts that Pixar takes home the Oscar for Best Animated Feature every year, when Cartoon Saloon’s offerings are substantially and undeniably superior (somehow Big Hero 6 won out over Song of the Sea in 2014, and that Soul beat Wolfwalkers this year is just absurd).

The studio is based in Kilkenny, Ireland, and has managed to remain independent despite several offers to buy it out since 2009, which mercifully means their distinctive style and hand-drawn artistry remains untampered with. As of this post, they’ve released four feature films, seven short films, and worked on five television series, all of which have been wonderful. (If you haven’t seen Puffin Rock on Netflix yet, then what are you waiting for? It’s adorable).

I could have discussed The Secret of Kells and Song of the Sea years ago, but knowing that writer/director Tomm Moore was always planning to release a third film called Wolfwalkers to complete what’s unofficially known as his “Irish triptych,” I’ve been holding off in order to comment on all of them together.

The three films are referred to as a triptych rather than a trilogy because they aren’t related to each other in regards to story; they’re not prequels or sequels to each other. But they all speak the same cinematic language, and are all of one artistic vision. The human figures have distinctly round heads and bodies, and exist within deeply stylized settings with recurring patterns and motifs: for example, circles denote safety and beauty, angles suggest danger and strife.

Each film is set in Ireland. All draw heavily from the mythology and folklore of that land. Each one features two children as its protagonists, one from the ordinary world and one that's more supernatural in origin. Also present is a stern father figure who isn’t really so bad. All have reconnection and reconciliation between two people (and by extension, two belief systems) as a central theme.

This is largely captured in the presence of both Christianity and paganism in each of the films, not necessarily in conflict with one another, but existing side-by-side – in practice, in symbolism, and in the way each one influences and illuminates the storylines.

All are directed by Tomm Moore, all are rendered in beautiful hand-drawn animation, and each one is extremely uplifting, thought-provoking and visually stunning. Like all good fairy tales, they touch on ancient truths and rhythms, but contain a freshness and originality that set them apart from anything you’ve seen before.

Oh, and though they can be watched in any order, the latter two films contain little Easter eggs that reference their predecessors (Aisling can be spotted on the bus in Song of the Sea, and Mebh casually pulls the Eye of Crom out of Robyn’s bag in Wolfwalkers).

SPOILERS BELOW

It all started in 2009 with the release of The Secret of Kells, which sets the tone and general vibe of the studio’s output, from the girl/boy protagonists, to its interest in Irish history/mythology, to the stunningly gorgeous animation.

That said, it is probably the least satisfying of the three films in regards to its story, failing to build to a rewarding climax, or following through on its themes and ideas. This is undoubtedly because the studio ran low on funds towards the end of its production, so whatever the original ending might have otherwise been, the story here comes to an abrupt stop rather than reaching a meaningful conclusion.

But that’s not to undermine its beauty or mystery. Brendan is a young monk with an interest in the artistry of illuminated manuscripts, especially with the arrival of Brother Aidan and a beautiful book he has successfully carried from the Isle of Iona, narrowly escaping a Viking attack to reach the safety of the Abbey of Kells.

It is, of course, the famous Book of Kells, a real illuminated manuscript that contains the four gospels in Latin and a wealth of stunning calligraphy, iconography and scrollwork, considered one of the great treasures of Ireland and currently housed at Trinity College Library in Dublin.

It’s also worth saying that the feline who accompanies Aidan on his journey, a small white cat called Pangur Bán, also has a place in Irish history – she’s clearly a nod to the Old Irish poem penned by an anonymous ninth century monk in the margins of his own manuscript. The verse is brimming with affection for his pet cat, and commemorated perfectly in the dainty paws and haughty demeanour of its animated tribute.

Together book and cat provide the impetus for young Brendan’s story: he’s fascinated by the work done on the manuscript and asks Brother Aidan to teach him how to create such beauty himself. Appreciating both his interest and a pair of young eyes and hands, Aidan is just as eager to mentor Brendan in the art of illumination.

(Though oddly, we never actually learn what is in the book or why the monks might want to protect it – despite the film’s interest in early Christian iconography and culture, perhaps they thought talking about the actual Gospels was a step too far?)

But Brendan’s grim uncle, the Abbott of Kells, sees no use for art or beauty in such times. He’s concerned to the point of distraction with the threat of Viking invasion, and pours all his time and resources into constructing a great protective wall around the monastery. As such, Brendan must go in secret to the great forest that surrounds his home, in search of gall nuts to make the necessary ink.

There he meets a little fairy girl called Aisling (pronounced Ashling) whose curiosity is piqued by Brendan’s talk of the book, and agrees to help him find what he needs...

As I mentioned earlier, the film’s weakness lies in its sudden ending. Throughout the story looms the ever-growing threat of the Vikings, who are depicted as almost Satanic in their design, with large horns and demonic slits for eyes. There is no chance of overcoming them in combat: the choice that lays before the people of Kells is to either hide behind the Abbott’s wall or flee – and ultimately neither one does any good.

For even though Brendan chafes against his confinement, Kells is depicted as a loving community of homes, farms, animals, people, and the monastery – which includes a scriptorium for creating beautiful art. Despite the Abbott’s stern leadership, it is a warm and beautiful place, and you can understand why the Abbott would reject Brother Aidan’s suggestion to run. This is a place worth protecting.

And yet when the Vikings come, the Abbott’s walls prove useless, and Kells is overrun by the marauders. All that time and energy he poured into his obsessive mission to protect the place was for naught.

So... Brother Aidan was right? Well, not really. Despite his talk of the importance of creating art in the midst of fear and chaos, with the book being described as something that will “bring light to darkness” and an early comment that prophesizes anyone unworthy who looks upon the book’s pages will burn to death, his recourse isn’t helpful either.

Were it not for Aisling and her wolves, Brendan and Aidan would have perished in the forest during their attempt to flee, being unable to outrun their attackers, and the book would have been destroyed at the hands of an anonymous Viking who suffers no divine retribution for the violence he inflicts upon its pages.

It feels odd that there is no triumphant rout of the enemy, rather the Vikings simply complete their pillaging and leave of their own volition. They cannot be overpowered, reasoned with, tricked or awed into retreat. The survivors of Kells come together to rebuild, Brendan and Aidan make their escape, and for many years uncle and nephew each believe the other is dead.

It’s hard to know what to make of it, though I suppose the victory – such as it is – lies in retaining one’s humanity in the face of mindless evil, and in creating and protecting things of beauty. But that the Abbott’s worry gets him nowhere, that Aidan’s fleeing tactic nearly fails, and that the Vikings remain undefeated, makes for a weak climax and a muddled message. The whole movie is built upon an unsolvable problem.

Or maybe I’m just overthinking it. Perhaps there wasn’t meant to be a specific point to any of it: maybe this was just a depiction of the world in all its cruelty and loveliness, beauty and horror, searing injustice and small acts of kindness. Ultimately it is Brendan’s secret friendship with Aisling that saves him, which in turns ensures that the Book of Kells is protected and appreciated to this day.

***

If The Secret of Kells was Cartoon Saloon’s test-run then Song of the Sea is its masterful second album. I don’t want to overhype it, but it is in fact the perfect movie. It’s simultaneously a meditation on grief, a depiction of the complex dynamic of a broken family, and an exploration of the human need to feel one’s feelings – even the painful ones. The supernatural aspects provide a perfect metaphor for the characters’ inner journeys, and the combination of animation, voice work and musical score is beautiful beyond words.

Like I said, that this movie lost the Oscar to Big Hero 6, a movie that I actually like, is a travesty.

Set in 1987 (according to promotional material), Ben is a ten-year old boy who lost his mother Bronagh in mysterious circumstances at a very young age. Her absence is keenly felt within the remaining family members: a distant father, a mute little sister, and Ben’s dearest friend, the big sheepdog Cu. He has inherited songs, stories and art from his missing mother, but naturally harbours very complicated feelings of resentment towards little Saoirse, who was born the very night Bronagh went missing.

Saoirse is the apple of her father’s eye, though Ben has a rather more strained relationship with him, and since the three of them live in a remote lighthouse, the family unit remains largely isolated from the world around them – much to the concern of the children’s paternal grandmother, who is constantly urging her son to let her take Ben and Saoirse to the city with her.

Yet unbeknownst to Ben, his mother had a secret – though given all the film’s promotional material, you probably already know what that is. Ancient Irish folklore tells of the selkies: creatures who can shed their sealskins and come ashore as women, leading to many a tale in which she either falls in love with a mortal man and marries him of her own volition, or has her sealskin stolen away, thereby forcing her to live with the man who successfully conceals it from her.

Bronagh is a selkie, called back to the ocean by her people, and of her two children, it’s Saoirse that has inherited her shapeshifting abilities. On finding a sealskin in her mother’s old truck, Saoirse disappears into the ocean and transforms into a white seal, only to be washed ashore the following morning – much to the horror of her grandmother, who finds her alone on the beach.

It’s enough for their father to make the decision to send them to their grandmother’s house, much to the embittered fury of Ben, who isn’t even allowed to take Cu with him. He’s already planning his escape in the car-ride to the city, and doesn’t even wait until nightfall before running away.

But Saoirse isn’t going to be left behind, and her stint in seal-form has had a ripple-effect upon the hidden Faerie world that surrounds them. Strange creatures emerge from hiding to inform Ben that Saoirse has an important purpose to fulfil – though she has also caught the attention of Macha the terrifying Owl Witch, who is famed for stealing people’s emotions and turning them to stone.

You won’t be surprised to learn that Ben and Saoirse’s long journey home heals the rift between them, and although there’s nothing overtly scary (save for some of Macha’s transformations) the emotional intensity of the story is pronounced. Ben’s realization that he has failed his mother’s last words to him through his shabby treatment of his little sister is a lot for a little boy to grapple with, not to mention the pain of losing a mother and being estranged from his father, who commits the ultimate parental betrayal in sending him away from home.

But there’s so much more to it all than that, for the entire film is an exploration of grief and its overwhelming effect on lives both young and old. This is largely done through the use of Macha, a witch who promises to take away a person’s emotions in order to grant them peace.

As in theatrical performances of Peter Pan, in which the actor playing Captain Hook also takes the part of Mr Darling, Fionnula Flanagan pulls double-duty as both the children’s grandmother and Macha, shedding insight into each character and the effect they have on others.

Just as their grandmother wants to pull Ben and Saoirse away from their home – with the very best of intentions – so too does Macha take away a person’s inner turmoil, capturing their emotions in a collection of glass jars. It soothes a person’s pain, but has the side-effect of rendering them listless and empty – or worse, gradually turns them into stone.

It’s a procedure Macha has already performed on her son Mac Lir, whose giant body stands in the ocean beyond the lighthouse – the perfect embodiment of the weight and immensity of grief itself. And naturally, it’s only by Ben rejecting Macha’s offer and demonstrating his long-withheld love for his sister that the family are finally able to heal from the loss of their mother.

It’s a masterpiece. Everything is perfectly placed: every character beat, every plot development, every revelation is exactly where it should be and plays out precisely as it should. The exposition is elegantly and expertly woven into the story. The character arcs are gorgeous, from the way Ben’s fear of water is established and gradually overcome, to the Chekhov’s Gun of Saoirse’s refusal to speak and the rightness of what her first word actually turns out to be.

The metaphor of how emotions can overwhelm you, or shut down your ability to function properly, is ingeniously captured by Macha’s gift of stealing them away and how the subsequent “turning to stone” process is too great a price to pay. Ben’s frustration and resentment towards his sister eventually giving way to kindness and appreciation is marked throughout, from his guilty reaction to telling Saoirse a scary tale about Macha at the beginning of the film (which also cleverly sets up that character for later), to him sincerely apologizing to her for not being a good big brother at the climax.

It’s this effortless weaving of character, story, theme and metaphor that makes Song of the Sea so beautiful, and the best of the three films.

***

I don’t think I’ve ever looked more forward to anything than I have last year’s Wolfwalkers, and despite knowing about the dangers of overhyping oneself, it more than lived up to expectations. If pressed, I’d say Song of the Sea just edges out Wolfwalkers as the better film, for the latter’s central metaphor isn’t quite as elegant or profound as its predecessor, but as the third offering in Cartoon Saloon’s triptych it makes for a perfect capper.

For the first time the story is given a specific date: 1650, and is set in Kilkenny, where the studio itself is based. Like the previous two films, it has two children as its protagonists, with one from the ordinary world and one from the supernatural. But unlike its predecessors, Wolfwalkers foregoes the usual boy/girl pairing in favour of two girls: Robyn Goodfellowe and Mebh Óg MacTíre. Apparently this was not always the case, as originally Robyn was conceived as a boy, keeping to the studio’s usual formula.

We can be profoundly grateful that things changed in development, as the presence of two girls brings a completely different energy to the central dynamic, which otherwise would have involved yet another boy being inducted into the magical world by an unearthly younger girl – though in this case Medb has little in common with the softness and mysticism of Aisling and Saoirse. Medb may be just as tiny as they, but she bursts with energy and vibrancy, taking up space and making noise, knowing and loving exactly who she is.

It’s the older and more introverted Robyn who is open-hearted and open-minded enough to accept Medb’s friendship, taking the role of the audience surrogate as she’s initiated into the world of the Wolfwalkers. While on a sojourn in the forest, Robyn is accidentally bitten by Medb in wolf-form, resulting in her transformation into a wolf when she falls asleep, opening up a new world of freedom and excitement.

This means a lot considering Robyn’s life (having already moved from England to Ireland with her father so that he can pursue a career in wolf-catching for the crown) is filled with restrictions and gender expectations that she chafes against. Now at least, she can enjoy the open reaches of the forests.

But the gender-flip also brings a subtle Sapphic subtext to the proceedings: Robyn’s initial fear of her transformation, her father’s horrified reaction to it, and the warmth and acceptance that Medb offers her perhaps would not have been quite so pronounced had the film stuck with a boy/girl pairing. (For the record, the film-makers have been open to this reading).

Wolfwalkers is also the only film of the three to have a clear antagonist: a churchman who is never explicitly identified as Oliver Cromwell (and perhaps isn’t meant to be considering he dies a very different death than his historical counterpart) but who is clearly based on him in appearance and attitude. Whereas Macha was just misunderstood and the Vikings were non-entities, the Lord Protector has a personality and an agenda, which is very much what you’d expect from a 17th century religious fanatic (I see him compared to The Hunchback of Notre Dame’s Frollo a lot).

This is your standard fundamentalist – there’s nothing particularly interesting or three-dimensional about him, but then, there doesn’t really have to be. He plays his part in this story, embodying the rigidity and repression of the patriarchy in stark contrast to the warmth and love of the two girls and the kinship they offer each other.

Unlike the complexity of the grief metaphor in Song of the Sea, this one is pretty simplistic, what with its town = bad, forests = good imagery, found in the straight lines and hard corners used to depict the township, while lush colours and deep curves create the forest landscapes. The commentary is all very straightforward, with the expected visual tools use to convey its message: evil churchmen, caged animals, Puritan clothing, flaming torches, talk of witchcraft and devilry – set up against a would-be-trite-in-lesser-hands “be yourself” moral.

Though even this is given a degree of nuance, as the definition of “protection” is delved into throughout the story. Just as the villain’s “Lord Protector” title is laughably ironic, there’s an interrogation of the way far more sympathetic characters tell others: “it’s for your own good.” Bill Goodfellowe says this to Robyn this when he forbids her from leaving the town, or sends her off to the scullery for a day of hard labour, and later Robyn uses this exact same dictum with Medb, enlisting a mob of bullies to cage her friend so that she doesn’t come to harm in trying to save her mother.

It’s heart-breaking, for like Song of the Sea’s Macha, they’re both trying to be kind in a way that’s detrimental to the loved one they’re attempting to protect. It adds a touch of complexity to the otherwise expected story-beats utilized throughout the film, as does its bittersweet ending.

Miscellaneous Observations:

There is an argument to be made for watching these films in chronological rather than release order: The Secret of Kells, followed by Wolfwalkers, and then Song of the Sea. Each of them features the mystical world of Irish myth and legend, but in each one there is a gradual fading of that magical world’s influence and power over ordinary life.

In The Secret of Kells the numinous and the normal exist side-by-side: equal but separate, though one artefact in particular – the Eye of Crom (or is that the Eye of Colm Cille, an Irish saint?) – has a part to play in both the pagan and Christian belief-systems.

The monks believe it’s a crystal that serves as a magnifying lens to assist in the creation of the book’s finer details, obtained by Saint Colm but destroyed during Aidan’s departure from Iona. But Aisling claims it belongs to the terrible Crom Cruach, and gives Brendan the directions he needs to venture into the lair of the serpent-god in order to wrest it from his head.

Which is the true Eye? What story is the real one? Cleverly the script keeps this connection purposefully ambiguous. The crystal mysteriously exists within both religions, and this potential tension between the two belief-systems – but also their deeper sense of unity – is a theme that’s maintained throughout the course of the film.

The symbol of the Eye is shared by both (the settlement of Kells even looks like an eye when viewed from above), Brendan himself retrieves the Eye from Crom and uses it to create the illuminations in the famous book, and just as the forest’s fauna provides the ink for the book’s pages, so too does Aisling and her wolves come to Brendan’s rescue once the Vikings arrive to pillage Kells, protecting him along with his precious artistry as he makes his escape.

Paganism and Christianity are in balance, not conflict. Each contains light and dark, life and death, cruelty and compassion.

And yet the scales quietly tip in the latter’s favour by the film’s final minutes. The Eye becomes part of the church. Aisling never appears in human form again. The Vikings fade away or are assimilated, and the ascendency of Christianity takes a definite foothold in the land.

By the time of Wolfwalkers, this is all too readily apparent. Christianity and the spread of mankind is dominant, with clear and methodical attempts by civilization to eradicate the magical, supernatural world. The Lord Protector orders the forests destroyed and the wolves hunted down, and there is no other church-related character like Brother Aidan who can embody the warmth or intellectualism of the monks found in The Secret of Kells.

Christianity in Wolfwalkers is a destructive, repressive force that not even the friendship between Robyn and Medb can overthrow – instead the wolfpack must leave Kilkenny and go in search of greener pastures elsewhere. Cromwell may be dead, but his work inexorably goes on, and with the hindsight provided by the 21st century, we know that the wild wolves in Ireland have long since gone extinct.

Yet Song of the Sea rights the scales a little when it comes to its representation of Christianity and the roots it shares with paganism, though the two religions never find the same equilibrium that was found between Brendan and Aisling in The Secret of Kells.

Taking place in the 1980s, this is a world in which Christianity’s dominance has long since been established, with the denizens of Faerie being pushed to the margins and forced into hiding. Indeed, the film’s climax involves them departing from the human world forever – though in this setting, even Christianity has faded somewhat. It certainly doesn’t have the same influence on the plot or setting as its predecessors – and yet... there is one beautiful scene in which Ben and Saoirse take shelter from the rain in a mound situated beneath the roots of a tree. 

As this review describes it:

Like many trees beside holy wells, it is a rag tree, adorned with strips of cloth — bits of clothing tied to the tree in the hope of accessing the power of the holy well on behalf of the garments’ owners (a sort of reversal of the New Testament stories about healings worked through Jesus’ garments or through handkerchiefs and aprons carried away from Saint Paul).

Inside the mound Ben and Saoirse find a number of large Marian statues and countless smaller images of Jesus, Mary and various saints, along with rosaries and other religious paraphernalia. From the roof hang bunches of dried flowers, and around the well we see a crutch, a pair of eyeglasses and some liquor bottles: tokens, presumably, of prayers for the owners’ infirmities.

But Irish holy wells often have an ancient history of pre-Christian piety as well, and when Saoirse plays her mother’s nautilus shell flute, alongside the votive candles winking fairy lights appear, drawing Saoirse’s eyes into the depths of the well itself.

In this moment, Christianity and paganism are once more reconciled, even if it’s just for a little while. It’s peaceful and beautiful, and there’s no doubt that this place of worship is safe for the children to shelter in, regardless of what side of the religious divide they come from – indeed, as children of a human man and a selkie, they belong to both.

***

An oft-repeated phrase in The Secret of Kells is that the book “turns darkness into light”. This phrase is actually taken from the last stanza of the poem Pangur Bán that I mentioned earlier, the loving ode to a long-ago monk’s little cat (I use here Robin Flower’s translation):

 

So in peace our task we ply,

Pangur Ban, my cat, and I;

In our arts we find our bliss,

I have mine and he has his.

 

Practice every day has made

Pangur perfect in his trade;

I get wisdom day and night

Turning darkness into light.

 

This anonymous monk’s final line, written so many centuries ago, is in many ways the project statement of the entire studio: to use hand-drawn animation – an artform that’s almost completely given way to CGI – to tell stories about kindness and compassion, understanding and reconciliation.

These stories aren’t interested in villains that must be punished or ridiculed, as from Cromwell to Macha to the Vikings, each one is either the author of their own demise, or not that bad to begin with. Even the truly demonic Crom Cruach is fended off with only a piece of chalk, left in the darkness to devour itself, as all evil does eventually.

Brendan doesn’t shut away the world or run away from it (as his two guardians do), but faces its monsters and obtains the tools he needs to create beauty in the midst of chaos and cruelty. Ben comes to terms with his grief and becomes the big brother that his little sister truly needs, while Saoirse finds her voice and makes a choice about her heritage and future. 

Robyn and Medb live in a world that hates and fears them, but as they remind each other so often: “there’s two of us now” – and as an unexpected bonus, they have parents who love them unconditionally. It’s sadly rarer than it should be.

All of them are characterized in some way by their creative potential, their ability to turn darkness into light, microcosms of the larger ideas at work in each of the films: that opposing viewpoints and belief-systems and worlds both external and internal don’t necessarily have to be at odds, but are each capable of adding to the beauty and wonderment of life.

***

I’ll wrap things up with a personal anecdote. As Song of the Sea is one of my favourite films of all time, a year ago I lent my copy to a co-worker who has the same taste in things that I do, knowing that she would enjoy it. She got back to me and admitted that she had started to watch it with a friend, promptly fallen asleep, and eventually woken to find it was over and her friend was gushing about how it was the best movie she had ever seen.

BUT THEN she discovered there was going to be a free showing of it at the Christchurch Art Gallery, and we made plans to watch it there and grab drinks afterwards. We were both really looking forward to seeing it on the big screen, and it seemed so serendipitous that that movie of all things was the one showing.

And then... Covid-19 hit. The film was cancelled, and we grimly laughed about how the universe just didn’t seem to want her to see this movie for some reason.

But we hung in there, I ended up emailing the events coordinator to ask her if it was going to be put on again, it turned up on the next events brochure, and a year later we FINALLY got to see it on the big screen. (And she was almost late getting there, so it was stressful right to the end!)

But she loved it, like I do – and so will you. Please, watch these movies. I promise you won’t regret it.