Fox Searchlight Pictures/Animated/101 minutes
In 1989, animation mastermind Don Bluth taught us that All Dogs Go to Heaven. In 2018, canine fortunes, at least as dramatized in Wes Anderson’s Isle of Dogs, have changed considerably. Now they fight for maggot-infested scraps of food while in cruel and seemingly permanent exile on God forsaken Trash Island. How these mutts, strays and purebreds got into this predicament (and how they’ll get out of it) isn’t as important as how they’ll look while doing it. And in the hands of Anderson they look absolutely marvelous. For the second time, the director has gone completely stop-motion, the animated form he conquered with ease and flair in 2009’s fantastic Fantastic Mr. Fox, the result of a fastidious director finding the perfect outlet for his fastidiousness.
With Isle of Dogs, Anderson has upped his game to such a degree that he’s now gleefully guilty of nothing less than world building. Plus, he’s opened up his universe to embrace Japanese culture and film history. There’s even an easy to spot, take it or leave it, political subtext that’s new to Anderson’s work. But first and foremost, Isle of Dogs is an endlessly rewarding visual feast that taps into something joyously elemental about putting yourself in the hands of a master director and allowing yourself to be entranced by a film.
Anderson’s movies, as noted in both scholarly and unscholarly fashion, have a certain je ne sais quirk that is sincere and distinctive to some, hermetic and artificial to others. While Anderson’s go-to’s won’t be rehashed here, they are put to great use in transporting us 20 years into the future to the Japanese metropolis of Megasaki City. When a virulent case of Dog Flu threatens not only every dog in town, but also threatens to jump species and infect humans, Megasaki City’s corrupt, dog-hating Mayor Kobayashi (voiced by co-writer, Kunichi Nomura) decrees that all canines be quarantined to faraway Trash Island to live and forage for food amongst the rats and sky-high cubes of filthy, compressed garbage.
It takes little work on the part of the viewer to draw contemporary parallels from a story about a demagogic leader using fear and (what we now call) fake news to scare the populace into hating, and demanding the deportation of, The Other. But I actually found myself rejecting this notion because Anderson’s films, at their best, are such apolitical and timeless baubles that the idea of him turning to issue-based cinema, even at the subtextual level, was threatening to harsh my buzz. And really, the film excels quite nicely without assigning weight to its unforced topicality. Indeed, it resonates most strongly as a simple, almost Pixar-esque, love story between a boy and his dog.
The boy is Atari (voiced by Koyu Rankin), Mayor Kobayashi’s 12-year old ward. The dog is Spots (voiced by Liev Schreiber), Mayor Kobayashi’s household pooch assigned to protect Atari. Spots (a Short-Haired Oceanic Speckle-Eared Sport Hound, Anderson wants us to know) is the first dog exiled to Trash Island. Atari’s search for his cherished hound takes an unexpected turn when his tiny prop-plane crash lands on the island. Although Spots is nowhere in sight, he does find a quintet of matted-haired, starving mongrels who agree to help Atari search for his beloved dog.
Rex (Edward Norton), Boss (Bill Murray), King (Bob Balaban) and Duke (Jeff Goldblum) don’t expand beyond their narrowly-assigned, cleanly differentiated character traits, but none come across as lazily-conceived or too broad. It’s the fifth dog, Chief (Bryan Cranston), who has the farthest to go of any character in the film. An un-housebroken and bitter cynic who doesn’t “know why I bite,” Chief’s challenge is to realize that he’d be a lot happier if he exchanged his fierce independence for the love and security of a family.
Visually, Isle of Dogs is an enormously satisfying step-up from the dirt-brown fields and golden sunsets of Fantastic Mr. Fox. The briefest establishing shot of Megasaki City sparkles with tantalizing detail. Mayoral rallies at the Megasaki Dome convey such enormous scope that Charles Foster Kane would be impressed. Fights between dogs are flashes of body parts engulfed and flailing inside puffs of whirling cotton. A short sequence involving the creation of a sushi meal (complete with octopus, crab and, alas, poison) is so mesmeric I considered asking the projectionist to rewind the film so I could watch it again. The human faces, manufactured from a translucent resin, give off a warmth that many flesh and blood actors can’t match. Even Trash Island is beautiful in its own way: every compressed cube of refuse looks specially created and the hideout made from glass bottles is a glowing marvel.
With its obviously-heavy Japanese influence, there will be those who accuse the film of cultural appropriation, which has become an easy and increasingly empty charge for the professionally aggrieved who scour the internet, fingers crossed, ready to pounce every time a celebrity wears a hairstyle or outfit associated with another culture. These people should stay away from this movie. The very accusation is unfairly dismissive when you consider that Anderson and hundreds of crew members went to the enormous trouble and expense of creating 130,000 painstakingly rendered stop motion frames to craft a unique and intoxicating visual representation of a land and a culture they obviously love. For Christ’s sake, the film’s soundtrack album contains a cue from Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai and another from his Drunken Angel. Where’s the harm or disrespect in that, unless self-generated by someone looking to be harmed or disrespected so they can indignantly shake their fist?
If you’re inclined to complain that Anderson’s work (past, present and probably future) cribs the symmetrical camerawork of Japanese master Yasujiro Ozu or that Isle of Dogs was influenced by Kurosawa and Hayao Miyazaki or that Mayor Kobayashi’s look was inspired by Toshiro Mifune, you’re right, they were. And you’re wrong, it’s not cultural appropriation. It’s just the latest in a long line of movies you wouldn’t be watching, fashion you wouldn’t be wearing, food you wouldn’t be eating and music you wouldn’t be listening to if not for someone of another culture finding creative inspiration and seeing artistic value in them. So, come October, when a white 11-year old goes trick or treating wearing a Black Panther costume, ask yourself why he loves the character enough to wear it on Halloween. The answer: because Black Panther is awesome and has taken his rightful place as an inspiration to everyone. And Isle of Dogs is awesome, too.
If there is any legitimate beef to be had with Isle of Dogs, it involves Tracy (Greta Gerwig), a freckle-faced American exchange student and middle school newspaper reporter who solves the mystery no Japanese person, including Yoko Ono in a cameo, was clever enough to unravel: what happened to the Japanese scientist (Ken Watanabe) who found a cure for Dog Flu? I can’t say this bothered me enough to diminish my enjoyment, but I’m not sure I want to know why this character couldn’t have been Japanese.
Otherwise, the world Anderson has created, even the dark stuff, is so thoroughly conceived for maximum visual delight that it’s hard to argue with any of his choices. Only Anderson would choose to have his Japanese human characters speak non-subtitled Japanese, their dialogue translated by teletype, an English-language interpreter (Frances McDormand) or sometimes not at all. And Wes-heads will be on familiar ground with each chapter title, flashback, digression and needle drop tune. Speaking of music, Alexandre Desplat, working with Anderson for the fourth time, provides a crucial contribution with his taiko-drum infused score that sells the story as both fairy tale and “historical” artifact, while also keeping the film tense and moving forward.
Of course, Isle of Dogs would have gone to the dogs if it weren’t for the voice performances that are in perfect sync with the alternately droll and warm dialogue and each mutt’s character design. We rightfully marvel at the digital detail in Pixar’s various animal creations, but it’s even more satisfying to see such detail in actual fur, moving at 12 frames a second (instead of 24 frames a second), giving each dog a slightly jerky look that adds a handmade, tactile feel. Even their tears, thicker than water and hard-earned, look real enough to induce tears of your own. This is as emotionally generous a movie as Anderson has ever made, one whose heart is not obscured under layers of irony or cool detachment. It argues, successfully and with enchanting levels of visual panache, that there’s nothing better than a hug and doggie treat, whether you’re giving them or receiving them.