CORALINE. Psychoanalysis of its main character

I am more than convinced that in a dozen or so years Laika will enjoy a status similar to the one Pixar holds today. This belief is supported by the studio’s already remarkably intriguing body of work (Coraline, ParaNorman, The Boxtrolls, Kubo and the Two Strings). These are complex, thoughtfully written stories distinguished by a dark, somber atmosphere that may evoke the early films of Tim Burton or the fairy-tale quality of Pan’s Labyrinth. Laika, like Pixar or Studio Ghibli, has its own distinctive, unmistakable authorial style—expressed in its case through the construction of worlds that exist somewhere between waking life and dream. We visit places readily invaded by magic, which blurs the boundaries between reality and the extraordinarily fertile imagination of the films’ characters.

A major influence on the distinctive look of Laika’s productions is, of course, the now rarely used technique of stop-motion animation. It guarantees an entirely different aesthetic experience—so pleasantly unlike the fluid (in terms of character movement), dynamic, and meticulously polished computer graphics that dominate most animated productions.

Laika’s films instead offer a roughness and a noble imperfection of form that I personally value. In the sets and character figures one can feel their physical weight. The image radiates a richness of textures, shades, and colors unattainable for CGI. Thanks to their visual artistry, these worlds are immersive and absorbing to an exceptional degree. Paradoxically, it is very easy to find one’s bearings in the space created by Laika’s artists—a space that combines elements of Romantic and Surrealist painting, further filled with caricatured, exaggerated characters.

Despite their abstraction and undeniable conventionality, Laika’s animations are surprisingly close to our everyday experience of reality—and, of course, to our unrestrained imagination. And this is for a prosaic reason: these are real, tangible objects, which the mind processes differently and absorbs more easily. That is why it is so easy to sink into Laika’s films, to lose oneself in the stories they spin, to shut the door behind you and escape into those unknown lands.

This must be exactly how teenage Coraline felt—disappointed with an unpleasant neighborhood, weary of a depressive autumn and a gloomy provincial town in Oregon. Most of all, she must be disappointed with her work-obsessed parents, who give her neither attention nor time. The titular heroine discovers a secret passage to a parallel world where she meets doubles of her mother and father. It is ostensibly the same house, but elegantly furnished; for dinner there is not inedible mush but a juicy, well-fried chicken. Coraline does not go to sleep on a hard cot but in a cozy, warm bed with a canopy.

Her father is an eccentric musician, and her mother an elegant, caring lady of the house. Living with her real parents, Coraline is pushed to the margins; beyond the mysterious door, her father tends a garden whose flowers arrange themselves into her portrait.

It is a treacherously beautiful, terrifying nightmare. A deep fear emanates from their gaze-less faces, where buttons are sewn in place of eyes. I have probably never experienced a shock in any other animated film comparable to the moment I first saw the girl’s imagined parents. Do not show Coraline to the youngest viewers—they will not sleep afterward. Laika’s film strongly flirts with the conventions of horror and thriller, but not as pastiche or parody. This is serious, adult cinema.

On the one hand, it is a dream home for Coraline. On the other, she slowly begins to see what lies behind the perfect façade. From beneath it seeps the stench of rot and decay; the heroine recognizes Evil in its purest form. Coraline has taken the bait—and she will have to pay dearly for her mistake.

Directed by Henry Selick, Coraline is an adaptation of Neil Gaiman’s novel and another reworking of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. Laika’s animation, however, leaves no illusions: in this film one cannot dream blissfully and innocently. Reality and dream are two interlinked dimensions that exert an equally significant influence on Coraline’s inner life. By dreaming of a better world, the titular heroine takes on an enormous debt—and to repay it she will have to sacrifice absolutely everything.

Many will be surprised by just how capable Coraline truly is. Everyone, however, should root for her just the same. Coraline is a ninety-minute psychoanalysis of its main character—an intriguing translation of her fears, needs, frustrations, and fascinations into the language of symbols and metaphors. Could Coraline be a predecessor of Riley from Inside Out? She is a very similar patient to Pixar’s heroine, grappling with the same ailment. I have no doubt that beneath her islands of family, friendship, and play, the foundations have collapsed as well.

Few other films give me such a soothing sense of relief. Each time I hold my breath, follow Coraline, admire her courage, am frightened by her recklessness, and share her curiosity. In the finale, the sun emerges from behind the clouds, its rays driving away the darkness. Coraline and I have defeated our demons. We did it together. Truly, only the greatest films can make me feel that I am no longer merely their viewer, but a part of the world they present.