THE SECRET OF KELLS. Like Leafing Through a Manuscript

Cartoon Saloon is a studio with a very distinctive artistic style. Their productions often strike the viewer with the deliberate stylization of their characters and settings. The use of flat colors highlights an apparent simplicity. Two-dimensional animation may seem outdated—especially today, when achieving realistic visual depth has become the “apple of the eye” of the richest American studios. Pixar, DreamWorks, and Disney compete to create complex, infinitely vast worlds. Who wouldn’t want to visit Berk from How to Train Your Dragon, get lost in the snowy drifts of Frozen, or wander through the folds of the mind alongside Bing Bong in Inside Out? Before being carried away by the narrative machine, we must first soak in the world presented to us—to feel like we belong in it. Cartoon Saloon’s animations, however, offer a completely different experience. Watching The Secret of Kells or Song of the Sea feels more like leafing through an illuminated manuscript.

The viewer is forced to take a different stance—not that of a direct participant, but of a distant observer. These are faraway places, whose roots flow from myths, legends, and fairy tales. This is a symbolic world, unconcerned with realism, subjective, and with no ambition to mirror reality faithfully.

The wonderful Song of the Sea, unjustly robbed of an Oscar, deserves an article of its own. In this text, however, I will focus on Cartoon Saloon’s earlier film—The Secret of Kells. Director and studio co-founder Tomm Moore drew inspiration from the Book of Kells, a Gospel manuscript written between the 8th and 9th centuries. Today it is one of the most valuable manuscripts in the world—richly decorated, executed with extraordinary precision, and containing the four Gospels. Its origins are shrouded in mystery. It is not entirely clear who its author or authors were, or whether it was the work of a single person or many.

The manuscript’s creation is most often attributed to Irish monks living in monasteries on the islands of Iona and Kells. Moore, however, is less interested in historical speculation. He treats the book mainly as a mythical object—something from another realm. The Book is, in a sense, proof of God’s existence, metaphysics poured onto parchment—a magical portal to another world.

Moore guides us with precision through the boundaries of a medieval abbey, surrounded by a massive wall under perpetual construction. It is meant to protect the monks from Viking raids that ravage nearby towns and villages. All the monks are involved in building the fortifications, led by the conservative and solemn Abbot Cellach, who is also the uncle of the film’s young protagonist, Brendan.

The boy is somewhat rebellious, curious, and resistant to the strict rules of the abbey. Brendan often sneaks outside the walls, defies his uncle, and eventually becomes fascinated by a legendary unfinished manuscript brought by Brother Aidan, a monk from another abbey, who encourages him to complete it.

At first, the depicted world may strike viewers with its suggestiveness and “black-and-white” visual design. On one level, we see the good and seemingly safe abbey, surrounded by a menacing forest and the looming threat of Viking invasion. On another, through the relationships between characters, Moore paints a familiar conflict between Cellach—the proud, change-averse conservative—and Aidan, the progressive and open-minded modernist. Brendan is torn between the two: drawn to the risky collaboration with the newcomer but also yearning for his uncle’s respect.

As Cellach raises the wall higher and higher, he grows increasingly isolated. We come to see his true nature—behind the proud gaze and imposing physique hides a man who is fearful and helpless, struggling with a crisis of faith. Brendan, on the other hand, propels the story forward with his energy, confidence, and resolve. He is a character constantly in motion—dynamic and active on a purely physical level—while his uncle is a tragic figure, inwardly complex yet outwardly passive.

The world of The Secret of Kells is populated by figures, symbols, and archetypes. At times, Moore almost erases the boundary between reality and the realm of abstract myth. This is especially evident in the sequence where Brendan sets out to retrieve a special crystal from the head of a giant serpent. It is difficult to say on what plane this scene takes place. Is it the boy’s imagination? The realm of legend? Or perhaps a symbolic space—a realm of ideas that form the foundation of our reality? Each possibility opens the door to rich interpretation.

The Secret of Kells employs a subdued, gentle color palette that lends the film an ascetic, meditative tone. Yet toward the end, Moore allows blood to be spilled and darkness to take hold. The director brutally destroys the world he has built. The wall, as expected, proves too weak—its height, whether ten or fifty meters, makes no difference. The sequence of the Viking attack on Kells Abbey is visually stunning. The siege unfolds in winter; snow blankets the monastery buildings.

Suddenly, crows appear in the sky, followed by northern invaders storming through the gate. The abbey sinks into a fiery red inferno. Beneath the feet of the oversized, faceless Vikings lie their victims. Kells is reduced to rubble and ashes.

It is a brutal, evocative, and deeply moving sequence—the pinnacle of contemporary animation. Much like the film itself. The Secret of Kells is undoubtedly demanding: it reaches into a half-forgotten corner of history and speaks in a sophisticated, deceptively simple visual language. And, true to Cartoon Saloon’s style, it is visually breathtaking. If you fell in love with Song of the Sea, you will feel right at home in Kells.