ISLE OF DOGS: Master Craftsman

Director: Wes Anderson
Writers: Wes Anderson, Roman Coppola, Jason Schwartzman, Kunichi Nomura
Cast: Bryan Cranston, Koyu Rankin, Edward Norton, Bob Balaban, Bill Murray, Jeff Goldblum, Kunichi Nomura, Akira Takayama, Greta Gerwig, Frances McDormand, Akira Ito, Scarlett Johansson, Harvey Keitel, F. Murray Abraham, Yoko Ono, Tilda Swinton, Ken Watanabe, Liev Schreiber, Courtney B. Vance
Runtime: 101 mins.
2018

There is great joy to be found in watching Isle of Dogs. The film crackles with enthusiasm about its subject matter. Those who have even a passing appreciation for dogs, Japanese culture, or stop motion animation will encounter a narrative that satisfyingly incorporates those elements into an emotional story well-told. But there is also the more abstract joy of watching a master working passionately at their craft.

This is the second stop motion film by Wes Anderson, an obvious pairing with a common ground in fussy precision. It's exciting to see how Anderson has grown as a filmmaker since Fantastic Mr. Fox. This observation is not meant to cast aspersions on that film, which is brilliant in its own right. Fantastic Mr. Fox's comparative two-dimensionality fit well with the storybook sensibilities of the narrative.


Isle of Dogs makes a project of expanding and expounding upon Fox's cinematic toolset. There is a depth to Isle rarely found in stop motion, or for that matter animation in general. I mean depth in both senses of the word; Anderson plays with shot compositions that emphasize the depth of the frame to foreground key moments, or to highlight a piece of compelling minutiae. The camera is an active participant in many scenes, slowly zooming in and out during monologues, filling out character dynamics. I was reminded repeatedly of the work of Akira Kurosawa, one of cinema's greats, a filmmaker with a particular skill in framing. No one better captured motion and expression in complicated images of many bodies. I have no doubt that Anderson drew heavily on him for inspiration.

To speak so dispassionately about the cinematic tools at use may make Isle sound like something of an intellectual exercise, though it is anything but. In typical Anderson fashion, the characters speak with unassuming sincerity. Isle is the story of a boy and his dog, and all the things that ancient relationship can mean. There are powerful passions on display, centering around the mostly silent human boy Atari (Koyu Rankin). As the film progresses and the world unfolds, his journey takes on a mythic tenor, never sacrificing the purity of feeling at the center of his quest. Through multiple brilliantly-navigated tonal shifts, we follow Atari as his personal passion radiates outward into the greater political sphere. It's a daring and incredibly rewarding structure; few could combine bildungsroman, apocalyptica, travelogue, and courtroom political drama so deftly.

The nexus of deep feeling and masterful technique is no more prominent than Isle's most ostentatious stylistic flourish: the inclusion of interstitial scenes showing professionals going about their work with precision. Whether it's sumo wrestlers, surgeons, or the swift work of a sushi chef, these scenes are presented with patience, love, but most of all, exactitude. It's easy to read into these moments a meta-commentary about Anderson's own artistic proclivities. These experts are unflashily demonstrating the beauty and discipline that goes into their work, just as Anderson and his animators are demonstrating that very same beauty and discipline in the construction of the scenes themselves. None of these moments are integral to the film's plot, but they are all integral to the film's soul. Anderson opens his film with one such scene: a group of three child percussionists playing over the opening credits in a shadowy basketball court. This is the best credits sequence I've seen in years, and a fantastic excuse to showcase Alexandre Desplat's sublime score. Yet at no point in this scene, or in the entire film for that matter, does the style feel showoffy. It is far too replete with passion and fun to be a mere technical flourish.

It is easy to dismiss Wes Anderson's eccentricities, but with each film he puts out I see an artist who loves what he does and is perpetually struggling to improve. The joy of Isle of Dogs is in its mastery, but also in its playfulness and empathy. Anderson demonstrates that as fun as it is to be an iconoclast, sometimes we just need someone to tell us: good dog.

4 / 5  BLOBS