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Independent Animation

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Independent Animation

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INDEPENDENT

ANIMATION
DEVELOPING, PRODUCING AND
DISTRIBUTING YOUR ANIMATED FILMS
INDEPENDENT
ANIMATION
DEVELOPING, PRODUCING AND
DISTRIBUTING YOUR ANIMATED FILMS

Boca Raton London New York

CRC Press is an imprint of the

Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
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Version Date: 20160229

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Library of Congress Cataloging‑in‑Publication Data

Names: Mitchell, Ben, 1983- author.

Title: Independent animation : developing, producing and distributing your
animated films / Ben Mitchell.
Description: Boca Raton : Taylor & Francis, 2016. | Includes bibliographical
references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2016005349 | ISBN 9781138855724 (alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Animation (Cinematography)
Classification: LCC TR897.5 .M58 2016 | DDC 791.43/34--dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2016005349

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Contents

Acknowledgments ix
1 Introduction 1

2 Story Development 11
The Character-Driven Approach ...................................................................................... 13
Character Development ..................................................................................................... 14
Telling the Harder Truths .................................................................................................. 18
A Combined Approach ...................................................................................................... 25
3 The Visual Storyteller 31
Branching Out ..................................................................................................................... 32
Nightmare Worlds .............................................................................................................. 36
Idea Generation ................................................................................................................... 42
Returning to the Scene ....................................................................................................... 44
Pleasing Abstractions ......................................................................................................... 51
4 Consider the Source 57
Standing Tall ........................................................................................................................ 62
Like-Mindedness................................................................................................................. 67
5 The Beat of a Different Drum 73
Going Solo ............................................................................................................................ 78
Branching Out ..................................................................................................................... 80
From Scratch ........................................................................................................................ 85
Playing with the Majors ..................................................................................................... 91
6 Going Webisodic 93
A Life in Webtoons ............................................................................................................. 95
Different Worlds .................................................................................................................. 97
The Virility of Virality...................................................................................................... 100

v
7 The Animated Documentarian 111
Oral Histories .................................................................................................................... 113
Anecdotal Value .................................................................................................................117
Introspection...................................................................................................................... 122
Self-Reflection .................................................................................................................... 123
Sticking Points ................................................................................................................... 127
The Animation Advantage............................................................................................... 128
8 Going Long 133
Harsh Realities................................................................................................................... 138
The Commitment Factor.................................................................................................. 140
Story Development’s Greatest Ally: Feedback .............................................................. 145
Staying Visible, Keeping Afloat....................................................................................... 149
9 Funding 155
The Snowball Effect ........................................................................................................... 156
Digging Deep ..................................................................................................................... 162
A Collective Effort............................................................................................................. 164
Customer Etiquette ........................................................................................................... 170
Combined Resources ........................................................................................................ 172
10 Keeping It Real 181
Manual Labor .................................................................................................................... 183
Staying Balanced ............................................................................................................... 189
Outside Assistance ............................................................................................................ 191
Work Ethic ......................................................................................................................... 197
Wisdom in Hindsight ....................................................................................................... 201
11 Getting Comfortable 205
The Comfort of Discomfort ............................................................................................. 212
Odontophobia .....................................................................................................................214
12 Casting and Performance 219
Going It Alone ................................................................................................................... 219
Going Pro ........................................................................................................................... 225
13 Thinking Outside the Light Box 235
The “That’ll Do” Attitude ................................................................................................. 236
The “Nailed It!” Attitude .................................................................................................. 237
Standout Animation: Programmers’ Perspectives ....................................................... 245
Online: The Festival Alternative ..................................................................................... 249
Seven Crucial Don’ts for Animation Filmmakers as Observed
by Tünde Vollenbroek ...................................................................................................... 252
14 Keeping Up 255
Remodeling ........................................................................................................................ 258
Group Effort ....................................................................................................................... 262
New Perspectives ............................................................................................................... 269

vi Contents
15 Combining Your Efforts 279
Duality ................................................................................................................................ 284
Splintering Off ................................................................................................................... 289
16 Your Film in Depth: Considering Stereoscopy 299
An Interview with Filmmaking Collective The Outpost ............................................ 303
Along for the Ride ..............................................................................................................310
17 Audience Interaction 317
Adventurous Spirit .............................................................................................................318
Technical Realities: Trial and Error ............................................................................... 327
Reflection ............................................................................................................................ 328
To Defy the Laws of Tradition......................................................................................... 329
18 Reinventing the Wheel 341
Rising High ........................................................................................................................ 343
Retro Vertigo...................................................................................................................... 352
Late Nights ......................................................................................................................... 358
19 Perseverance 365
Staying Power..................................................................................................................... 371
Hurdles to Overcome........................................................................................................ 376
20 Your Two Most Important Characters 381
Outsourcing ....................................................................................................................... 381
A Composer’s Perspective ................................................................................................ 383
Being Selective ................................................................................................................... 388
Self-Sufficiency................................................................................................................... 392
Approaches to Sound Construction ............................................................................... 399
Out in the Field .................................................................................................................. 401
The Hiss Factor .................................................................................................................. 401
The Pop Factor ................................................................................................................... 402
The “Oh God, My Ears” Factor ....................................................................................... 403
21 Putting Yourself Out There 405
Why Submit Your Film to Festivals? ..............................................................................406
Rejection: How to Deal..................................................................................................... 412
Film as Discourse .............................................................................................................. 414
22 Distribution: A Brave New World 417
Unexpected Developments .............................................................................................. 419

Wackatdooo (Dir. Benjamin Arcand). (Courtesy of Benjamin Arcand, ©2014.)

We’re living in a particularly exciting time for all forms of independent creativity, perhaps
especially animation. Throughout the world, we have seen a rapid acclimation to some very
sudden shifts and advances in technology. Entertainment media has evolved to a point
where consumers from all walks of life can engage with it in almost any circumstance,

1
thanks largely to the portability of tablets, smartphones, and other such gadgetry. How we
experience entertainment has also drastically changed; with content so readily available
on demand, these demands are being raised, and with them, our expectations of quality.
Matching this is an increasing prevalence of sophisticated, user-friendly, affordable soft-
ware alongside a vast ocean of equally affordable, online educational resources to teach
auteurs how to use them.
During this same period of recent technological advancement, the changing economy
has hugely reconfigured the funding options that were once so key to getting any kind of
animated film project off the ground. Depending on where you are in the world, some
grants and schemes in support of the arts remain, while those not so geographically for-
tunate have been forced to up their game. This coupling of new circumstances has turned
out to be a tremendous positive, with true ingenuity manifesting itself out of the limited
resources available to filmmakers.
As such, the cultural significance—and, indeed, effect—of independent animation is
thriving, and the future is bright for small studios, collectives, and individuals, who are
able to put strong ideas out in the world in ways they would not have been able to in the
not-too-distant past.
My aim with this book, as an animation enthusiast, freelancer, and independent direc-
tor myself, is to lay out some of the essential tenets, philosophies, and creative processes
behind the independent animation community’s most prominent, prolific, and respected
artists, so that other creatives and artists such as yourself can be motivated to put these
into practical effect when it comes to their own projects (Figure 1.1).

Figure 1.1
The Adventures of Bertram Fiddle. (Courtesy of Rumpus Animation, ©2014.)

2 1. Introduction
An important thing to clarify is that this is not another book that goes through the fun-
damentals of animation and storytelling itself, as there are plenty of those out there, a fair
few of which will most likely be on your shelves already. This book is for when you have
worked through the basics of animation—your bouncing balls, flour sacks, walk cycles,
lip-sync exercises, and layouts—and are asking yourself how precisely you wish to apply
this knowledge to a film. This includes those of you who have determined that the type
of animated film you wish to make will throw these fundamentals out of the window, to
develop an entirely personal process from scratch. Here you will read about how popular
animated films have come from such unique approaches—whether animated on laptop
trackpads, using ink sprayed from syringes, or on sticky notes attached to the backs of
farmyard animals (seriously).
The most consistent observation I’ve witnessed at all points of my career as both an
animator and an animation researcher is that whether you are a student, professional,
or hobbyist, the call of directing, writing, and/or producing one’s own projects is often
a strong one. Of course, many of those who work in the animation industry are less cre-
atively driven, more practically minded individuals with essential talents and specialist
skills. Chances are that if you’re reading this book, you don’t consider yourself amongst
that group, or perhaps you do but wish to branch out and try your hand at some new ter-
ritory. Not that there’s anything that puts creatives above specialists and other equally
hard workers; specialist skill is invaluable and oftentimes the real key to a project’s suc-
cess, and as such, it’s worth considering to what degree you wish to go it alone, so to speak
(Figure 1.2).

Figure 1.2
The Planets (Dir. Andy Martin). (Courtesy of Andy Martin, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 3
To whatever extent this may be, it’s a safe assumption that the ultimate goal is the same:
to create a standout film that makes your mark on the animation world, one of the few
goals aspired to at all stages of one’s career. These stages include but are not limited to

• Animation students who wish to have something to show for their hard work and
studies, which will make a name for them and help grab the attention of hiring studios
• Animation hobbyists looking to channel their interests into something they can
make a legitimate career out of
• Freelancers with work experience and a fundamental knowledge of the industry,
eager to create a piece of work with their own stamp and creative identity
• Studio owners who might benefit tremendously from the visibility and industry
credibility a standout film would generate for their business
• Industry specialists eager to expand their body of work through collaboration or
simply trying something new
• Even those who have made a film—or several—before, searching for the motiva-
tion to create more or possibly pursue an exciting new artistic direction

Wherever you are in the industry, the ultimate goals will most likely be to entertain, be
noticed, and have your work be seen and appreciated (Figure 1.3). My personal enthusiasm
for the subject comes from having forged an animation career in part from the creation
of my own independent film work, alongside the comanagement of the UK-based Skwigly
online animation magazine. Beginning my involvement with the website as a contribut-
ing features writer in 2011, before long, I began to truly appreciate just how multifac-
eted, entertaining, and inspirational animation’s independent sector could be. Since then,
Skwigly has grown to include regular written features, industry exclusives, a long-running
podcast series featuring an assortment of guests from all imaginable manner of anima-
tion backgrounds, microdocumentaries, not-so-micro-documentaries, specially curated

Figure 1.3
Phantom Limb (Dir. Alex Grigg). (Courtesy of Alex Grigg, ©2013.)

4 1. Introduction
Figure 1.4
Splintertime (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D./Autour de Minuit/S.O.I.L., ©2015.)

animation screenings, and a great deal more. Through our regular contact with some of
the industry’s most inspiring figures and the opportunities we have had to spread aware-
ness of rising animation talent, it has become resoundingly clear that independent anima-
tion is entering its most innovative era to date (Figure 1.4).
Throughout this book will be a number of case studies from the world of independent
animation. Some are recent, others long-established industry game-changers, but all of
these ultimately encapsulate the “spirit” of independent animation. Which begs the rather
vital question:

What Exactly Is “Independent Animation”?

Our own individual take may be relatively cut and dry, but putting it to the artists
themselves paints a wider picture altogether:

I never really used the word independent until a few years ago when I thought I should use it
more, because it means many things and it’s a good summary of all the things I aspire to do. I
still don’t have a business card because I don’t know what to put on it. Storyteller, producer,
writer, what am I? I do like the word auteur because of the Frenchness and because it sug-
gests that you had a hand in everything; it’s a complete artistic expression. It says to not just
the audience but to people who want to get involved in your project that “this is mine, this is
an expression of me, I’m in control and I want creative freedom.” So for me, independence
means many things—it can mean poverty, it can mean creative control, it can mean that
you’re choosing a path that’s probably a bit insane from an audience’s perspective but you’re
being brave, taking a risk and delivering content people many have never seen before and will
hopefully get something out of.
Adam Elliot
Oscar-Winning Director, Harvie Krumpet

Independent Animation 5
It’s a very tough question, because technically, George Lucas could be considered “indepen-
dent” in that he finances his own films and can make whatever he wants, though we don’t
really think of him as such. To me, that’s the definition, if the money is your own rather than
government money, Hollywood money or from some big producer, because if it’s your own
money, then you can dictate the content. Whoever pays usually has a say in the content; it’s
very rare that someone will give you money and not care what you do with it. That’s just
the way it goes. So I believe that if you finance your own film and create it, then it’s truly
independent.
Bill Plympton
Oscar-Nominated Independent Director

I think it’s just a matter of scale. I don’t really know where the line is between an independent
studio and a big studio, how many people you need and what the funding is. Just the fact that
something’s classified as independent animation might not make it all that interesting, but if
it reflects the personal vision of a specific person who is taking a lot of risks to be vulnerable
the way only a single human being can be, rather than a committee, that’s going to be some-
thing that I’m interested in. It doesn’t have to necessarily be all made by one person, but when
it comes to auteur filmmaking, for me, the fewer people working on it, the more interested
I’m probably going to be.
Nina Paley
Independent Director, Sita Sings the Blues

I think it’s fantastically important to have animators making work that does not depend
on pleasing an awful lot of people. I think we couldn’t grow this art form if we were always
under the compulsion to make megabucks and to avoid unsettling or upsetting our audi-
ences. There are commercial companies doing really wonderful work, and I think in the UK
especially, there is a wonderful crossover between commercial work and independent anima-
tion. Independent animators are, I think, more cognizant of their audience’s time; it’s a type
of filmmaking that has real discipline and muscularity.
Ruth Lingford
Independent Director and Animation Professor

I pay a lot of attention to how and why films are made. A lot of big studio films are made
because somebody wants to make money or somebody has to make money. A filmmaker
says “I have an idea” but then needs a producer who won’t come on board unless the film
will make money. In the credits, when you see how many wrote the script, you realize
these are films made by a committee. They’ll strip it of the things that certain groups
won’t like, to make a film that appeals to a very broad audience, not one artist’s vision.
That is not what interests me, and it’s not what drives me. I am an individualist, I guess.
I want to survive; I want to live; I want to make films that are primarily one person’s point
of view (Figure 1.5).
Signe Baumane
Independent Director, Rocks in my Pockets

6 1. Introduction
Figure 1.5
Rocks in my Pockets (Dir. Signe Baumane). (Courtesy of Signe Baumane, ©2014.)

I think it could be summarized as filmmaking without the commercial or financial con-

straints of longer-form work; it’s art for art’s sake, to use the old cliché. Short-form animation
is an art form, and it should be respected as such; it’s not just, as so many people consider it
to be, a stepping-stone onto bigger and better things, especially not for animation. I think the
word that kind of grates on me is independent. Even some of the bigger studios like Aardman
still make short films; they still see them [to be] just as worthy as any other solo project by an
animator in his bedroom. Films are being made for the love of it, and I think that’s the great
thing about short-form work. There’s so much dedication and pure love for the art form. So
that’s what it is for me, it’s unconstrained by finance, and it’s done for the love of it.
Kieran Argo
Animation Programmer, Encounters Festival

I feel like the distinction between independent and commercial animation has become more
blurred recently. There’s so much good commercial work out there that it’s less of a dirty
word than it used to be. The level and prevalence of technical skill has definitely increased in
line with the explosion of access to content and instructional material online. It’s terrifying
how good people are at such a young age now. I feel like the main difference is that people are
making stuff for more varied audiences. It’s not so much about getting into the rarefied world
of festivals or awards, and more about producing things that will engage people with similar
sensibilities across disciplines.
Sam Taylor
Independent Director, The Line

Independent Animation 7
I think that I’m so independent that I’m really an amateur in the strictest sense of the word—
making films for the love of making films. My musical metaphor for my students is as fol-
lows: if Disney is an orchestra and the Warner Brothers’ cartoons of the 1950s were made by
a jazz ensemble, then independent animators are the folks on a street corner with a guitar
and a hat. It implies that you can’t achieve the scale or ambition of the grander organizations,
but you have complete control over the content and presentation of the work. I’m interested
in the expressive relationship between style and content in how an animated film can com-
municate to an audience simultaneously as a graphic form and as a narrative form, which is
one of the most compelling aspects of animation to me. If you’re not controlling all aspects
of the production, it’s more difficult to pursue these goals.
Tom Schroeder
Independent Director and Documentarian

One possible meaning of independent animation is when it’s simply not commissioned; it
came out of the filmmaker’s wish. I think about subsidies, where funding comes from, and
is a film really still independent if a film gets funding? One core meaning of independence is
that you don’t do it with any money; you just do it in your free time. In a way, the animated
short film is always kind of independent because there’s not really an established financial
model for it, so at the start, there’s rarely any other reason to make it other than for yourself.
Tünde Vollenbroek
Head of Programming, KLIK! Animation Festival

It’s a feeling of doing it for yourself, not waiting for anybody, and being liberated in every way,
in terms of production but also in terms of the kinds of stories you want to tell. I think on every
level, it’s about doing it yourself, being yourself, and not bending to anyone else’s preconceived
idea of what you should be doing. To me, that’s what it is; it’s freedom, really (Figure 1.6).
Robert Morgan
Independent Director

Figure 1.6
Bobby Yeah (Dir. Robert Morgan). (Courtesy of Swartz Can Talk/blueLight, ©2011.)

8 1. Introduction
I guess it’s something that’s been started without a financial safety net, so obviously, there are
grey areas, but when someone says “independent animation,” I see a small handful of people
or a solo artist getting together off their own back with their own savings and trying to put
something together without a large media network behind them. I would say that’d be my
attempt at an empirical definition!
Robertino Zambrano
Creative Director, KAPWA Studioworks

To me, it signifies that I’m largely the one in charge of how the film turns out, that there isn’t a
client or studio head I’m answering to that has the last word. Because of this, one would gen-
erally have more personal responsibility for the film, but I enjoy that responsibility. I don’t
answer to anyone when I do my personal work. I get to control everything—it’s a controlling
animator’s dream! The downside is that I don’t get paid (Figure 1.7).
Kirsten Lepore
Independent Director

It’s about having the freedom to make the rules, to be ambiguous. Freedom from “style,”
models, and submitting to other peoples’ limitations. There aren’t any limitations to anima-
tion, but people’s minds deceive them into thinking there are. The potential of animation
has barely been tapped. In my experience, people (in the entertainment industry) tend to see
animation as just a less expensive version of live action, like in order for a form to morph and
change, it has to be written into the script as a drug-trip scene or something. That is absurd—
it’s making the most basic qualities of animation (change and transformation) require some
kind of extraneous explanation in order to be put into practice. Of course, the commercial
approach is so deeply enmeshed in the baffling complexity of the web of commerce that it
doesn’t really have a choice, so it’s best for artists not to worry about it and use that machine
to their advantage if they can, and never lose the true creativity that should only ever be
checked by the artist and not by any outside force.
Garrett Michael Davis
Animator and Designer

Figure 1.7
Move Mountain (Dir. Kirsten Lepore). (Courtesy of Kirsten Lepore, ©2013.)

Independent Animation 9
I suppose it is animation that’s out of the clutches of the big corporations. The thing is, the
nature of animation has changed—as time’s gone by, animation has become very democra-
tized, where now, everybody can do it, whereas before, it would be a select few who had all
the resources and equipment. After 2000, it sort of opened up with Flash and all those other
programs. I like that somebody on a council estate in Leeds can make an animation and put
it online, and their viewpoint is just as valid as anybody else’s. I think that making it more
democratic as a medium is a good thing, and it can also make it more powerful; it has more
strands; it means more to more people.
Chris Shepherd
Director

It’s animation that you don’t have to ask anyone’s permission to do; you don’t need approval;
you just crack on. One of the reasons I do it is, having had a perfectly nice career doing
attractive-enough stuff and making money, with none of my projects could I stand back and
say that all of the creative decisions were mine. The ego in me wanted that. Not just from the
point of view of taking all the glory, but I was fed up of apologizing. Every project had that
moment of “the client made me do it,” so I wanted something where I could say, “This baby is
mine.” At which point, it moves into the world of art; it’s a self-expression.
Robert Grieves
Animation Freelancer and Independent Director

It is within the parameters of this reasonably broad series of definitions that the book
will operate, and ultimately, it’s up to you to consider which definition best applies to your
processes and how it may very well add to your perspective—or change it altogether. As
you read on, you will glean invaluable insight from all of the artists and experts here, plus
many more, with practical guidance along the way to help you determine exactly how you
can develop, produce, and distribute your independent project and have audiences sit up
and take notice.

Risehigh (Dir. Adam Wells). (Courtesy of Adam Wells, ©2013.)

10 1. Introduction
2
Story Development

To some, story development can be broken down as a methodical process, predicated on

heavy research of successful character dynamics, story structure, action beats et al. In all
forms of independent filmmaking, be it animation or otherwise, there generally tends to
be more inherent creative freedoms when it comes to how rigidly a story is developed and
structured. On the surface, when considering the wide variety of time periods, settings,
and characters represented in conventional animated films, animation has generally man-
aged to sidestep convention.
Or has it? Here’s something to consider from a structural perspective: Did you ever
see that big-budget animated studio feature where the protagonist was (while ulti-
mately likeable with struggles and ambitions akin to our own) something of an under-
dog, or at the very least an outsider amongst their kind? Then, shortly after getting a
sense of their character, an inciting incident prompted an unlikely adventure in which
they were paired or grouped with a (team of) charmingly idiosyncratic sidekick(s)? Did
their journey then hit an initial hurdle that only served to strengthen their bond? As
the final act loomed, did some misunderstanding or moment of weakness threaten the
unity of their group/friendship/romance, briefly separating them, but did they soon
after reunite for the final conflict, for which they both/all pull together and emerge
victorious?
C’mon, I’m sure you’ve seen that one. I’m sure because I’ve just described the sequence
of events of pretty much every major animated movie ever made.

11
I’m overstating a tad, and certainly, there’s more to what makes a movie great than fol-
lowing a tried-and-tested formula, but the point remains. Truth be told, I’m always a little
thrown when I see a mainstream feature that has the courage to at least tweak the afore-
mentioned breakdown. Aardman’s 2012 movie The Pirates! In an Adventure with Scientists
took most of these components, albeit with an altogether different structure, taking the
unusual step of introducing the main character’s nadir right at the start, something we
usually only tend to see in live-action films. Pixar’s Toy Story had an inventive enough
angle back in 1996 by having its protagonist Woody be instantly undone by his own inse-
curity, which, more than his eventual ally Buzz Lightyear or the sadistic toy-torturer Sid,
is the true antagonist he needs to vanquish. That’s a fairly bold story concept for a fam-
ily film, one of many reasons why the film has held up beyond what may otherwise have
been merely novelty value of being the first all-computer-generated (CG) feature. By and
large, however, the major features tend to play it safe on the story front; ironically, it’s
their sequels that tend to be bolder in their approach, the filmmakers’ confidence per-
haps boosted by the knowledge that audiences will be more accommodating, having been
familiarized with the ensemble cast in their first outing.
Immersing yourself in the culture of animated film across the board—from the sun-
niest, most character-driven box-office smash to the bleakest, most obscure Eastern
European dirge—will obviously be valuable in determining where you lie on the spec-
trum, and I’m sure many of you reading this will have done as much already. Breaking
down the gamut of story into its two most simplified categories, what we end up with are
films driven by written scripts and films driven by visual concepts. It follows that if your
film has a strong narrative at its core, where the conversational interplay between your
characters is the driving force behind their characterization, then written story devel-
opment is most likely the way to go. By extension, of course, if you’re going for physical
humor, with less reliance on dialog, the visual approach will be the best method.
It may seem that I’m stating the obvious: filmmakers rarely think in such black-and-
white terms. More often than not, the process of crafting a story tends to combine both
approaches in some measure, depending on artistic background, style, sense of narrative,
sense of drama, sense of humor, and directorial intent. Sometimes the writing process can
even be completely invented by the writers themselves. Filmmaker Adam Wells (whose
work we’ll look at in greater detail later in the book) has his own particularly organic way
of developing original ideas:
“I listen to a lot of podcast storytelling, sometimes second-guessing how the stories are
going to end. When they don’t actually end how I imagined, I have an original story. It
may sound really weird, but whenever stuff like that happens, I try to write it down.”
This method is one I’m sure most of us can appreciate; how often do we wish we could
change elements of a story to better suit our tastes? Of course, in Adam’s case, more is
being done than simply tacking on a presumed ending, as one can’t effectively plagiarize
and claim originality by altering one detail.* Working backward to craft a story com-
pletely independent of the one that inspired the original, alternate ending results in an end
product that is, ipso facto, an original overall idea.

* Well actually, people do that all the time, as many a music industry lawsuit can attest, but obviously they
shouldn’t.

12 2. Story Development
Generally speaking, this isn’t an approach that most would adopt, but it warrants men-
tion as an example of just how individual our creative process can be. Circumstances and
scenarios that can prompt our own original ideas are multitudinous, so let’s take a look
at some recent examples of modern animated films taking an atypical approach to story
development and examine the main virtues of each to help determine what best suits a
project or the artist at the helm of it.

The Character-Driven Approach

As we’ll explore in the subsequent chapters, the freedoms animation allows can accom-
modate virtually any approach to story crafting, be it adapted from preexisting source
material, predicated on thumbnail doodles barely legible to anyone other than its artist,
or even stream-of-consciousness fantasies animated chronologically. As overused—and,
oftentimes, misused—as the saying “the possibilities are endless” can be, on the subject of
story generation for an animated project, it genuinely applies.
Just because any and every approach can be taken, however, doesn’t mean it will be
the right choice for those who take more solace in a nice, detailed plan of action with an
old-fashioned script at its center. Certainly, the independent scene is a playground for the
avant-garde and the experimental, yet a more straight-laced method is easily as effective
as long as the hook is strong. Oftentimes, a short film will be developed with a hope to
generate more of the same, either as a pilot for a potential television show or formative
outing for a series of shorts that share a central character or premise. The success of Bill
Plympton’s visually scripted Oscar-nominated Guard Dog (2004), for example, inspired
the director to return to the character time and again between other projects, for the sub-
sequent shorts Guide Dog (2006), Hot Dog (2008), and Horn Dog (2009), with more such
outings in the works. Don Hertzfeldt similarly created a trilogy of shorts in 2006, 2008,
and 2011 that all centered around an ailing man named Bill, each film effectively building
on what had come before. These three shorts were ultimately edited together to create the
acclaimed 2012 feature It’s Such A Beautiful Day.
In the United Kingdom, another independent trilogy of films were produced over a
span of 6 years, beginning with 2007’s Rocket Science (Figure 2.1). The film, written by
Andrew Endersby and Sam Morrison (also director), was scripted with the full inten-
tion of being used as a pilot that might branch off into a series. As is often the case,
timing and circumstances—combined with what the TV network perceived as niche
appeal—ruled out this option, although its functionality as a stand-alone short made it
a successful venture in its own right. In lieu of episodic production, the film eventually
spawned two “sequel” shorts—Grime City P.D. (2010) and The Patsy (2013), also directed
and cowritten by Sam. With a focus on dialog-driven, movie-trope-heavy, scripted com-
edy and effective, minimal visuals, the combined length of the three comes to nearly an
hour.
“As we like to think of ourselves as creative people, we thought we should maybe do
something creative,” Sam says of the project’s origins. “It started out as prose, actually,
writing stories. It’s quite possible that we just didn’t discuss what it was going to be, but
someone wrote a first line, and it just went off from there. What we did then was the same
thing we do when we write: get in a room together, take it in turns to write a bit and read
it back to one another, and basically just try and make each other laugh.”

Independent Animation 13
Figure 2.1
Early character sketches/concept for the Rocket Science universe. (Courtesy of Sam Morrison.)

When working with a cowriter, there are multiple variations on what precisely the
working dynamic will be, though it’s important that you both play to your strengths.
“It’s quite a reductionist, sweeping statement, but I think I’m probably better at struc-
ture, and Andrew’s definitely better at coming up with funny one-liners and crazy left
turns in the story.”

Character Development
The Rocket Science stories themselves draw upon some of the most familiar conventions of
film noir (updated to the crime television genre in later films), as does the leading player of
the trilogy, Jack Hersey: a concentrated syphoning of every cop character cliché—such as
casual misogyny and arrogance paired with misguided determination (Figure 2.2). Jack is
flanked by two supporting characters with similarly obvious characterization—level-headed

14 2. Story Development
Figure 2.2
Early Rocket Science illustration. (Courtesy of Sam Morrison.)

Patricia and earnest, unintelligent deputy Billy. It is, in Sam’s words, “satire with a very
small s,” though the films stand out as not coasting off personas that could very easily
write themselves, a trap that many genre parody films can easily fall into. As far as the
writing itself, Sam freely admits that these films are far more script exercises than anima-
tion showcases.
“While I’m writing, I do occasionally conjure up an idea. I might think, This’ll be a dif-
ferent film noir–type shot of looking down through the staircase, think of the shadows, stuff
like that, but most of the time, I’m guilty of just thinking up stupid things for Jack to say
and not thinking massively visually about it.”
The strength of this trio of characters comes from a dynamic that allows them to carry
scenes individually, together, or in respective pairings (Figure 2.3). While a story headed
up by a single lead is reliant on his/her ability to carry a story on his/her own, one headed
up by a pair is reliant on their chemistry. It follows then that three characters must extend
that chemistry, so one person’s yin serves as another’s yang; Jack Hersey’s bullheadedness
will be effectively counterbalanced by Patricia, who coddles Billy’s naiveté and earnest-
ness, which in turn will exacerbate Jack while moving the story forward.
“I think that Jack was really well defined from the outset and has remained pretty much
the same. The stories evolved to a point where we were trying to pitch them as a series;
they became more focused as a result of that, and maybe he became more satirical in his
attitudes rather than his actions.
“Billy started out more stupid and I guess evolved to be more of an innocent while
still a bit of a doofus; that was played up because it was the nice contrast to Jack. Patricia,
being caught between them, I think probably evolved the most, in the sense that at the
start, everyone in it was just sort of idiotic. With the first draft of Rocket Science, she
turned up as a scientist, was revolted by Jack, but ended up falling in love with him just
because that was the way those films were, kind of what you expected. Partly because that
made her a less interesting character—and partly because we wanted to do more films—
we realized that she couldn’t fall in love with Jack, because that was a resolution, of sorts.
Comparatively, Jack doesn’t evolve; that’s his key characteristic.”

Independent Animation 15
Figure 2.3
Rocket Science (Dir. Sam Morrison) lobby card design. (Courtesy of Evil Genius Ltd, ©2006.)

In substitution of a writer’s bible, the universe of the films is largely predicated on

amassed pitch materials from when they were trying to sell the series (Figure 2.4). Even
outside of a formal style or content guide, when dealing with script-based film work that
has the potential to expand to a series or, at the very least, further films, having your world
mapped out in some form or other will prove beneficial. Breaking down character person-
alities, motivations, and even things the audience won’t see such as secret yearnings and
past history will give you a sense of acquaintance with your characters and, in turn, give
your characters a sense of dimensionality.
At all points of production, feedback is also important. Though the world of Jack
Hersey did not find footing as a television series, the pitching process yielded valuable
insight into how to improve the next outing, two prime examples being the automatic
limitations of making a film in black and white, as Rocket Science was, and jettisoning
their original plan to enforce a timeline by having each outing for the characters be set
10 years apart.

16 2. Story Development
Figure 2.4
Grime City P.D. (Dir. Sam Morrison) poster artwork. (Courtesy of Evil Genius Ltd, ©2010.)

“Our original idea for this was so we could visit a whole load of different genres and
have Jack in a different decade, being exactly the same. But we realized that wasn’t going
to work, partly because television commissioners don’t like serials—they like to be able to
show programs in any order at all, with no chronology—and partly because Jack would be
dead after about four episodes because he’d be too old” (Figure 2.5).

Figure 2.5
Still from The Patsy (Dir. Sam Morrison). (Courtesy of Evil Genius Ltd, ©2013.)

Independent Animation 17
“The main sort of feedback is people who like it, or affect to like it, is saying they think
it’s funny, because that’s all it’s trying to be. The main thing that evolved was that Rocket
Science never made it clear what era it was in, but it was very easy for everyone to assume
it’s the 1950s. In our own heads, we were probably thinking that, but commissioners made
it clear they weren’t interested in stuff set in the past, so we brought Jack and his characters
into the present day. That was a really brilliant bit of feedback, actually, because it made it
even more satirical, more observed, and brought the whole relevance of questioning those
old attitudes to the surface.”

Telling the Harder Truths

It is a hard truth in itself that animation is often regarded by the masses as little more than
frivolous entertainment. We can certainly be amused, moved, and even angered by ani-
mation; we can be awed by its spectacle and its ability to communicate concepts that live
action and other means of storytelling simply cannot. Ultimately though, like any form
of artistic expression, it is ephemeral, its appeal bound by shifting cultural attitudes and
political climates. As such, there is an inevitably smaller percentage of animators whose
work has a lasting value, either through technical advancement or social messages.
Born in Australia and a long-time resident of Melbourne, Adam Elliot is an important
animator, a term I don’t use loosely (Figure 2.6). His work, on an aesthetic level, is purpose-
fully entrenched in a traditional and pleasingly nostalgic era of Plasticine animation, while
as a storyteller, he is able to put across earnest social messages without being either preachy
or maudlin. What has so far tied all his work together is an underlying theme of living
with affliction. This work began with his Victoria College of the Arts student short Uncle
in 1996, followed up in quick succession by the government-funded Cousin (1998) and
Brother (1999), rounding out a quasi-autobiographical trilogy of shorts focusing on family
members who have led troubled lives. Venturing further into outright fiction, Adam’s 2003
short film Harvie Krumpet, detailing the life of a Polish migrant with Tourette’s syndrome,
went on to win the 2004 Academy Award for Best Animated Short. The accolade, referred
to by Adam as “the golden crowbar,” ultimately facilitated the production of his first full-
length feature, Mary and Max, in 2009, a critically acclaimed exploration of two pen-pals
who lead tremendously disparate lives yet maintain a bond throughout.

Figure 2.6
Character sculpts for Adam Elliot’s Uncle, Cousin, and Brother trilogy. (Courtesy of Adam
Elliot, ©2015.)

18 2. Story Development
Figure 2.7
Adam Elliot with Ernie Biscuit character sculpts. (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

Regarding the latter film, his former producer Melanie Coombs observed, “I see the
pattern in all of Adam’s work is about accepting difference. That we all look for acceptance
and love is probably a universal truth; that we are all different is another.”*
Adam’s films also have a shared sense of national identity, in a manner similar to the
distinctly British politeness of Wallace & Gromit and the celebration of Americana and
family values that was The Simpsons in its heyday. It’s a quality that, alongside the bold
choices of topics covered in his work, has made Adam such an important figure in con-
temporary Australian film and culture. Alongside his affinity for Plasticine animation, a
constant in Adam’s work has been the casual incorporation of subject matter that main-
stream television and cinema (even, to a large extent, the world of independent film) feel
compelled to handle with kid gloves. Though no doubt well intentioned, this hypersen-
sitivity toward the depiction of important social impairments, physical disabilities, and
mental illnesses has, in many respects, only served to fuel the sense of alienation that
accompanies them. Adam Elliot’s storytelling, by contrast, indulges a far healthier and
more socially aware impulse to bring these issues out into the open. Said issues span birth
defects, Tourette’s syndrome, Asperger’s syndrome, cerebral palsy, alcoholism, depres-
sion, and all manner of limitations of social and cognitive development. The undeniably
tragic inherence of these afflictions is married with the far more taboo notion of their
comedic mileage. Rather than cheapening or trivializing the plight of each character, this
gallows humor instead rounds out and humanizes all of them, making their stories all the
more poignant (Figure 2.7).
“I always try to write funny films,” Adam maintains. “Unfortunately, I can’t help
myself—they end up being quite tragic! No one has a perfectly happy life or a completely
miserable one; I think it’s all shades of light and dark. Comedy–tragedies have been
around for centuries, and to tell stories which are authentic, empathetic, and relatable to

* Source: Mary and Max press kit.

Independent Animation 19
an audience, you can’t just do gags; you have to dig deeper. I try to create very authentic
characters, and while my aim is to make the audience laugh, I really feel like I’ve achieved
something if I’ve caused them to cry. I know that’s a strange ambition, to upset your audi-
ence, but I don’t like them leaving the cinema indifferent or apathetic. I really want them
to have experienced something—even if they’ve just laughed, at least I’ve pushed some
buttons.”
When it comes to the actual process of getting these ideas together, Adam concedes that
it can be a struggle. While much energy is expended on draft after draft of each screenplay,
more often than not, stories only fully come together in the dying hours.
“That’s annoying, to just spend so much time trying to construct a scene or a sequence,
and then you throw it all out at the last minute and go with something intuitive and spon-
taneous! It’s a necessary part of the process, of course, but I feel like a fraud so often when
people say that my films have such strong writing! I think all writers try and aim for per-
fection, and we certainly don’t feel like we ever really get there.”
As frustrating as it may be in the moment, it stands to reason that without the effort
spent on story construction that will ultimately be jettisoned, the last-minute change-all
might not indeed manifest itself at all. In that respect, the act of writing itself, even if it
doesn’t contribute directly to the final film, is never a waste of time. It is, truthfully, a far
healthier impulse to feel a fraud, rather than feel we are owed. Entitlement and arrogance
have rarely led to a creative product that rises above mediocrity, as there is no driving force
behind it. As Adam insists, confidence is a curse.
“I think the moment you become confident, you tend to rest on your laurels. You don’t
want your self-esteem to get too low, and you don’t want to wallow in self-pity, but feel-
ing like you’re only at the beginning of your career just forces you to keep writing harder
and with more determination. I mean, determination is a silly word; I don’t wake up in
the morning with this ‘determination’ to write. I write when I’m angry; I write when I’m
tired; I write in all sorts of modes. Feeling inadequate, I think, is an important ingredient;
certainly it’s a stimulus.”
What binds all of Adam’s work to date is a staple of an earlier era of filmmaking: narra-
tion. Going back to his original trilogy of “clayographies,” the minimally animated visuals
and sparse (effectively nil) use of dialog are undeniably bolstered by the humanity of the
narration, performed by Australian actor William McInnes. Uncle, Cousin, and Brother are
all recollections of an unnamed, ostensibly fictional protagonist regarding each titular fam-
ily member. Through both writing and delivery, the films are infused with palpable regret,
warmth, and humanity. Subsequent films modified the use of this device insomuch as the
narrator becomes an entirely faceless entity, overseeing the events of the films rather than
remembering them. Such is the nature of narration-driven films. Adam is compelled to
embrace the English language and, when appropriate, use it as a character almost in itself.
“I can’t stop using my thesaurus all the time. I probably overuse it, but I think we’re all
striving for that perfect sentence, or something that’s poetic and original.” There are also
elements of fastidiousness and caution we should always be aware of regarding the original-
ity of our work. “You go through these periods of self-doubt, thinking, Oh hang on, maybe
this has been done before? Have I subconsciously ripped somebody off? I’ll Google sentences
I write now just to check that I haven’t. For example, in Ernie Biscuit, the line ‘Some days
you’re the windscreen, some days you’re the insect,’ I heard it years ago, and I still cannot
find who came up with that. I certainly didn’t write it, and I don’t claim to have.”

20 2. Story Development
The writing process itself is one Adam analogizes with baking a cake (“which is a cliché
in itself”) and the selective approach one needs to take with whatever “ingredients” are
appropriate. “An ingredient might be a piece of music; it might be a conversation I heard
in an airport lounge; it might be something I found on the ground on one of my walks in
the morning. I have notebooks, like a lot of writers do, and they are a mishmash of sights
and smells; I try and use all my senses when I’m writing; I try and create imagery that you
could almost smell or taste, so when I go to write the scripts, I go through my notebooks,
and I pick out all the ingredients I want. In Mary and Max, for example, I knew that there
had to be a scene in the film where three old men jump off a jetty into freezing–cold water
and they get erect nipples—I just had to have that in the film somewhere! So I sort of do
it the opposite way to how a lot of writers work: I start with the detail, and hopefully, by
the third or fourth draft, a plot magically starts to appear, and by the very last draft, a very
obvious three-act structure” (Figure 2.8).
One school of thought would insist that structure in filmmaking is a skill that needs
to be learned methodically. Having gone the route of reading scriptwriting books him-
self, Adam maintains that for many, it is in fact a natural intuition. What qualifies as
three-act structure, an inciting incident, and a climax is something we are exposed to
our whole lives, virtually anywhere we look, throughout literature, television, cinema,

Figure 2.8
“Max” character sculpt for Adam Elliot’s Mary and Max. (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

Independent Animation 21
documentaries—even advertising and news reports are tailored to a fundamental narra-
tive, primarily to ensure that audiences don’t change the channel.
“I really believe that storytelling is a primeval act, that we’re all storytellers, and some
of us are better storytellers than others. In many ways, a good story, well told, is just like
a very good joke, well told—it’s all in the timing, and there’s a punch line. For me, with
all my ingredients, it’s always getting a balance between the humor and the pathos, the
comedy/tragedy; it’s getting a rhythm to the piece; it’s a holistic sort of patchwork. I always
say, ‘Without the dark, the light has no meaning.’”
Though Adam struggles to work out exactly how his scripts come together, when break-
ing it down systematically shows that they often begin with an assortment of small details
that are then gradually woven together. Though his later films such as Harvie Krumpet and
Ernie Biscuit are linear and straightforward, Adam does not obsess over the plot. The sto-
ries are uncomplicated, which allows for their respective twists to stand out all the more
and keep the audience engaged.
“It’s a cliché to say that I write for myself, but I do; I really make films that I want to
laugh and cry at. I think Mary and Max, for me, was a great opportunity to really have an
hour and a half to fully explore two characters’ lives in extreme detail and have moments
of poignancy and comedy. I certainly love making shorts, because for me, shorts are about
what to leave out, not what to put in. With a feature, you can go off on tangents; you can
have stuff purely for visual pleasure as long as you come back to a story eventually. The
plot is always secondary—as long as the audience are laughing and engaged, then that’s
my golden rule. The other rule I have is that if a joke falls flat, that’s okay; the audience will
forgive you. If the next joke straight after that joke falls flat, okay, you might be in a little
bit of trouble, but you could still be forgiven. If the third joke after that joke falls flat, then
you’re in really big trouble!”
As to whether or not he is more at ease with writing comedy or tragedy, Adam identifies
that there is an element of trial and error. A danger when setting out to move an audience
is that our purpose may become too obvious. A “sad” scene, when clearly manufactured to
be so, has not nearly as much impact as a poignant moment that doesn’t aim to draw atten-
tion to itself. Pathos is best delivered in small, understated doses, and as such, it is more
likely to have an effect when incorporated organically, without contrivance.
“Luckily, with animation, we’re forgiven so often; whereas a novel is such high art,
aspiring for such poignant, palpable scenes, I just do a lot of toilet humor, whack in a bit of
poignancy and a few deaths, and there you go! Some people would say comedy is harder,
but I think with tragedy, getting someone to cry and squeeze tears out of their eye ducts,
I mean, that’s insane! Some films, I achieve that; others, I don’t quite get there, but I know
with Mary and Max, I’ve had so many people come up and say, ‘Oh, it’s the first animated
film I’ve cried at! Apart from Toy Story 3.’ And they have all said the same thing—that it’s
not what they expected from a Claymation film.”
Midst its overriding humor the journey of Mary and Max’s story is one of extreme,
feel-good highs and gut-wrenching lows, a journey that took an emotional toll not just
on the audience but on Adam himself. Certainly, the labor of a major feature—produced
under tremendously limited resources next to virtually any other stop-motion feature of
comparable success at that time—was creatively incapacitating, but it was clear to Adam
that another film that carried on the traditions of tragedy was not in the cards immedi-
ately. The eventual solution came in the form of paring down his next proposed feature

22 2. Story Development
Ernie Biscuit into a short film of similar length and tone to Harvie Krumpet. Completed
in 2015, and crafted and produced almost entirely on his own, the film could arguably be
considered his first truly independent short (Figure 2.9).
“For my own sanity, I wanted to make something a little bit more lighthearted, my ver-
sion of a romantic comedy of sorts. I wrote it as a feature, which I think is a good exercise
in making a short, is to write it as a feature first and then pare it back significantly; you
distil it, and you get to its essence.
“I’ve discovered the difference between Ernie Biscuit and my other films is all my other
films are tragedies that have comedy in them, whereas Ernie Biscuit is a comedy that has a
little bit of tragedy in it. My films certainly don’t stand out because of their technique—I’m
dreadful at walk-cycles; I’m terrible at lip-syncing; my characters are pretty grotesque look-
ing. I have very few camera moves, but I think that one of the reasons my films do stand out is
because they do deal with difficult themes and subject matter that’s a bit more challenging.

Figure 2.9
Still from Ernie Biscuit (Dir. Adam Elliot). (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

Independent Animation 23
“Often, audiences feel by the end of the film that they’ve been wrung out, that I’ve
pushed every button on their body and frightened them with scenes of suicide and alco-
holism. They’re quite dense, and in some ways, the audience are exhausted by the end, but
they feel somehow satisfied. I get a lot of e-mails from people who have just discovered
Mary and Max in particular, and they say that the film has lingered with them. That, for
me, is the biggest compliment.”
Films that linger with an audience tend to do so because they have had an impact in
terms of characters they can empathize with and circumstances they can relate to. These
are elements that apply to all areas of storytelling and make a case for looking outside of
animation to fully develop your frame of reference as a storyteller.
“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest works today as beautifully as it did back in the 1970s,
because it deals with archetypes, characters that are classical in that they will always be
ageless and deal with subject matter that is universal and timeless. That’s also why I read
a lot of classic literature, for selfish reasons! I read classic literature because I want to find
out How did this become a classic, what is the definition of a classic novel? It is a never-
ending pursuit of trying to work out what is a story I want to tell, what is a story I want
to hear and see. Ultimately, you get to the point where you think, Alright, well I just want
to be moved, I want to have a laugh, I want to smile, I want to understand most of the plot,
but ultimately, I want to leave that cinema feeling something has happened to me. Whether
it lingers or not, I want to feel that I haven’t wasted that person’s time. The audience are
giving up 20 minutes of their busy lives!”
Often, when we see perceivably taboo subject matter used for humorous purposes, it is for
shock value, contrived to provoke. Certainly, there are filmmakers, comedians, and television
show creators who have capitalized off this device, as that which will offend some will also have
a built-in audience of those who enjoy seeing offense being taken. Adam Elliot’s films don’t
take this approach; as easy (perhaps lazy) as it would be to take any of their more sensitive top-
ics and rattle off a series of caustic one-liners, the effect of this would quickly diminish. Instead,
his writing is more effective for being respectful and honest, incorporating small details that
stand out in their truthfulness—recalling, for example, the cerebral palsy-afflicted cousin of
Cousin’s ever-present smell of licorice, the color and size of his pills, and the (inexplicable, yet
perfectly sensible to a child) envy of his being allowed to pee sitting down.
“I was jealous of my cousin, as a child. He got special treatment; he got to do everything
first. I remembered going through this weird period where I wished I had no legs, because
I’d get all this attention! It was ridiculous now in hindsight.”
Although ridiculous in hindsight, there is an authenticity to it that gives the writing
far more weight than if the story were laced with condescension and positive affirmation;
these are not always films about people who triumphed in the face of adversity. Animation
functions superbly as a form of escapism, but it is equally capable of facing real-life issues—
be they sociological, political, religious, and so forth—head on. To confront, rather than
escape, can be equally nourishing to an audience.
“I remember going to Annecy back in 1996 with Uncle and realizing that my film
was very different to everyone else’s. Back then, I had never been to a film festival and
wasn’t really an animation buff or fanatic—I didn’t know who Jan Svankmajer was! But I
quickly realized that I was a point of difference and that if I was going to have any longev-
ity as a filmmaker, then I should just continue making more of the same. Luckily, I had
plenty of friends, relatives, and people I knew who I perceived as interesting and a point of

24 2. Story Development
difference themselves. Then as the years went on, I kept thinking, Why aren’t more people
making films like mine? I want to see animated films about autism and Tourette’s syndrome.
It wasn’t so much that I wanted to see films about disability, but I wanted to see films about
real people, which is why I prefer documentaries over animation.”
Adam having always gravitated toward anything biographical or autobiographical, the
ripple effect of his success has led to an increase of short, animated films that strive to deal
with more challenging subject matter. That there is new work being created that is proving
more challenging, if not abstract, to the audience is something to be encouraged by.

A Combined Approach
Though technically operating outside of the more commonly agreed-upon definitions
of independent animation, UK-based animator Matthew Walker has directed several
films whose funding circumstances have infused in them a degree of independent spirit.
Following his 2005 University of Wales Newport student short Astronauts (a major suc-
cess on the festival circuit depicting two hapless spacemen growing increasingly aggra-
vated by their confined proximity aboard their ship), Matthew joined the Bristol-based
studio ArthurCox as an in-house director for commercial work (some of which was pro-
duced in association with local powerhouse Aardman Animations) as well as short films
when circumstances allowed (Figure 2.10). The first and most prominent of these has been

Figure 2.10
Still from Astronauts (Dir. Matthew Walker). (Courtesy of Matthew Walker/University of Wales,
Newport, ©2005.)

Independent Animation 25
John and Karen (2007), which shared the director’s identifiable pacing and unostentatious
wit seen in Astronauts, applied instead to a lighter, more domestic scenario in which a
polar bear awkwardly attempts to repair his relationship with a penguin, a prior faux pas
having driven a wedge between them.
As with Adam Elliot’s work, one notable area where Matt’s films succeed is making
effective use of minimal resources. With student films often bogged down by the need
to showcase the spectacle of CG software in lieu of an engaging story, I have often cited
Astronauts as a master class in what corners to cut to both alleviate the demands of pro-
duction and benefit the story. As written, the animation requirements are minimal, which
allows what little there is to have more time spent on it, resulting in subtle yet highly
considered character animation. Labor-intensive sequences that would otherwise require
a lip sync and facial animation are alleviated by having the astronauts wear blacked-out
helmets, a device that, rather than limiting their range of expression, adds a charming
impassivity to their performance when paired with the often-deadpan dialog. Ultimately,
all of Matt’s animated films tend to share this trait of humor through minutiae, which
requires an interplay between dialog and visuals that warrants a good deal of consider-
ation at the writing stage.
“I feel like I’m always struggling with it, because I kind of work both ways. I usually
start with a script and then further develop it in the animatic stage, or storyboarding, but
sometimes, I’ll start with a visual idea; it depends on the film. Operator never really had a
script, because it was just a very simple idea that I had sketched in a notebook. It was just
a few lines of dialog I wrote on a plane coming back from a festival, and then I just turned
that into a little comic, and then that was it. I never sat down and wrote it as a script, really;
it was just a kind of little series of thumbnails. So then I think when I recorded it, I added
a few lines or tweaked some of the dialog, whereas all my other films have started with a
script, but then a lot more has been added as I’ve gone through the animatic stage. I think
the animatic stage is where I do most of the creative stuff. So the script is just a starting
point, and then I’ll refine it in an animatic.”
Operator is perhaps the most minimal of Matthew’s work in terms of story, being
essentially a one-sided phone conversation between a man and God (Figure 2.11). The
film, made while he was an artist in residence at Newport International Film School
Wales, benefits from an assortment of visual embellishments in a manner similar to
John and Karen, in particular, the use of cutaways to paint an incomplete yet intrigu-
ing portrait of a man compelled to call upon a deity to inquire as to why humans can-
not lick their own elbow. In the single room that the film takes place in, we glimpse
an assortment of sticky-notes with illegible inquiries, possibly of a similar nature; an
empty watering can; a sleeping cat; and a book on dishwasher safety amongst other
seemingly disconnected bric-a-brac. Small details also serve to flesh out the realism of
these endearingly simple premises, such as being halfway through a bite of toffee apple
when God picks up on the other end, or a brief moment of struggle in John and Karen
when the titular polar bear realizes he has overdunked his biscuit to the point of flaccid
saturation. For Matt, the point at which these elements are incorporated into the story
tends to vary (Figure 2.12).
“Sometimes, when I write a scene in the script, I’ll have a very clear idea of what’s going
on in the scene, or the reaction of another character, or anything that’s happening in the
background, and I might write that in the script. But sometimes, stuff like that just comes

26 2. Story Development
Figure 2.11
Mockup and final layout for the sparsely detailed Operator (Dir. Matthew Walker). (Courtesy
of Matthew Walker, ©2007.)

from doing the animatic, working out the layout of the scene and then thinking of another
joke that can be added, or another layer of interaction with the characters. There’s no rule
with it; it just happens as it happens.”
Matt Walker’s films also represent how some stories are best delivered with restraint
and understated humor. Although the characters may have an identifiable arc, or the story
a satisfying resolution, the films maintain a consistent low-key tone throughout. This
accentuates how a grand denouement that resorts to visual gimmickry can be unneces-
sary and arbitrary, as seen so prominently in mainstream films or effects-driven, design-
oriented studio projects. Similarly, the pacing of the films benefits from being allowed
to breathe, not succumbing to the impulse to pepper quiet moments with sight gags or
constant activity. While “plussing” (a term coined at Pixar to describe how critiques of
in-progress work are used to constructively embellish and enhance their films) is a vital
process for some films, in others, a more moderate approach that allows the story to speak
for itself is far more appropriate.
“I always like to be very minimalist and restrained with the dialog and the humor, but
sometimes, that has come about from my own limitations, whether it’s time or skills. It’s
interesting, when I think of making Astronauts, that kind of ended up defining my style,

Independent Animation 27
John: *swallows his mouthful* John: "About last night .. John: "I am sorry~

John: "Your fishing skills are excellent and, okay, so you can't catch a whale, John: ".. you .. are .. ."
but nor do you need to and 1... I know that these things aren't important to me ... ~

John: "And your swimming! I didn 't mean

what I said about that either"

Figure 2.12
John and Karen (Dir. Matthew Walker) thumbnail board excerpts. (Courtesy of Matthew
Walker.)

but it wasn’t deliberate at the time. The nature of Astronauts, the way it ended up, a lot of
it was down to just circumstances and limitations” (Figure 2.13).
Of all his films, Matt regards Astronauts as perhaps the most organic, given the inher-
ent freedoms of student film production. One limitation that ultimately benefited the film
was having nonprofessional voice actors take on the two main roles. Matt not being sat-
isfied with how some of the written dialog translated, these instances helped determine
how best to pare down a script originally 20 pages long to something more concise. To
compensate for the removed dialog, the story was able to be carried visually through ani-
matic revisions.
“Even though I wasn’t deliberately making it minimalist, it ended up being that way,
and I liked it like that. That’s kind of what I’ve continued doing, but more deliberately
since then, when there have been times I’ve tried to do stuff that isn’t as minimalist.”
In terms of feedback that Matt has picked up over the years, there is one particularly
identifiable strength that audiences have engaged with, one again shared with the work of
Adam Elliot and Sam Morrison and an integral mainstay of scripted films—the characters
themselves (Figure 2.14).

28 2. Story Development
Figure 2.13
Astronauts storyboard to final film comparison. (Courtesy of Matthew Walker/University of
Wales, Newport, ©2005.)

“I think that people seem to really respond to the characters, particularly in the case
of John and Karen. A lot of the feedback on that was couples saying it was just like them,
or really identifying with that situation. Also, I guess in terms of the characters, there’s
an underlying sadness and loneliness that the films seem to have. I think people like that.
With Astronauts, it was the nastiness as well. I guess just the subtlety of the humor gets a
good response; I like to think it’s different to a lot of the stuff that’s out there. Some people
probably don’t get it, but I think others respond to it.”
Taking the above case studies into consideration should help paint a clear enough pic-
ture of how a script-based approach to a short film will determine its outcome. Indeed, the
hope with all of the examples shown in the book is for you, the reader and prospective (if
not already active) animation filmmaker, to pick up each artist’s variety of perspectives
and approaches and determine whose you have the strongest creative kinship with. This
will be the key to developing your own personal production pipeline, one that may not
necessarily be consistent with major studios and mainstream projects but will guarantee
your own follow-through on whatever animated undertaking you set for yourself.
If scriptwriting is not your forte, however, then don’t be dissuaded. There are many
other approaches to story from which a strong animated film can emerge. As you will see
in the coming chapters, we’ve only just begun to scratch the surface.

Independent Animation 29
Figure 2.14
John and Karen (Dir. Matthew Walker) early concept art, storyboard excerpt, and final still
demonstrating the film’s visual development. (Courtesy of Matthew Walker. Still ©2007
ArthurCox Ltd.)

30 2. Story Development
3
The Visual Storyteller

Still from The Dam Keeper (Dir. Robert Kondo/Dice Tsutsumi). (Courtesy of Tonko
House LLC, ©2014.)

Having established in the preceding chapter that the line between strictly written and
strictly visual storytelling can be a blurry one at best, one key factor that remains is that
animation is, first and foremost, a visual medium. So while a scripted approach is often
integral to the successful animated short, by animation’s very definition, it is never quite

31
as essential as the visual component. More to the point, writing a script, like every other
type of creative process, is not necessarily an easy thing for everyone. Beyond having the
solid germ of an idea, the actual act of describing environments or writing dialog can
be something that is more organically achieved through a visual process. Fortunately,
independent animation is an accommodating medium for those whose films need not be
dependent on conversational interactions between characters (or the presence of “charac-
ters” in a literal sense at all) and conventional approaches to film structure. In this chapter,
we will look at several instances where the “script” of a film is a far more visually driven
affair.

Branching Out
Our first major case study for this chapter may not at first seem especially relatable, being
in many respects the product of a creative union forged at Pixar Animation Studios, a
powerhouse of big-budget, mainstream animation production and, as such, one of the
least “indie” operations out there. Following a stint as visual developer at Blue Sky Studios,
Dice Tsutsumi’s talent eventually brought him to Pixar, where he worked as an art director
on such films as Toy Story 3 (2010). Over the course of 7 years, Dice worked closely with
Robert Kondo, himself an art director on Ratatouille (2007), the two of them contribut-
ing significantly to Monsters University (2013). Having neighboring offices, the two would
oftentimes find themselves looking over one another’s shoulders and finding excuses to
collaborate, Dice in particular harboring a desire to work on his own independent project
one day.
“When I met Dice,” Robert recalls, “he always made a really clear distinction that I had
never really heard anybody else put the same way. He would say, ‘I’m an artist who works
for a studio, not a studio artist.’ I think that spirit was really kind of the impetus, very
much making the clear distinction that these feature films are a collaboration between
artists and a studio rather than a studio having artists that are ‘theirs’; it’s really more of
a collaboration. That also means that it’s really important to have your own ideas, to have
your own identity as an artist” (Figure 3.1).
This sense of artistic identity was nurtured over time with extracurricular projects such
as a promotional film for Sketchtravel, a collaborative charity project in which a sketch-
book traveled across 12 countries, picking up artistic contributions along the way. The
animated promo made use of a very striking visual concept, in which the elaborate, paint-
erly aesthetic of an animation film’s production art is applied to a series of quickly intercut
images that tell a story.
“Sketchtravel wasn’t really made as a short film,” affirms Dice. “Any film artist, when
creating concept artwork for films, thinks about story, about how our paintings will turn
into actual, moving images. Of course, we don’t have the skill set to make it into an actual
animation, but we do think about it. So when I made Sketchtravel as a kind of PR film, it
was as an animatic, albeit totally painted.”
Surprised by how effectively this approach was still able to convey a story in spite of
not being fully animated with smooth motion or in-betweening, Dice equated the end
result with a moving picture book. Applying a similar approach to a short film, one that
maintained the same artistic depth while incorporating a somewhat heightened aspect of
the character animation, seemed very achievable.

32 3. The Visual Storyteller

Figure 3.1
“Pig” from The Dam Keeper—early development drawing by Dice Tsutsumi. (Courtesy of
Tonko House LLC, ©2014.)

“I told Robert, ‘Why don’t we make it together? Since I made a 7-minute PR short by
myself at two frames per second, if there’s two of us, that means we’ll have four frames
per second.’ It came with the naive idea that we could maybe smooth out the animation
if there were two of us. We always dreamed of having a painting animated, but when
we decided to do The Dam Keeper, we realized there is so much more to animation. It’s
not just about a series of paintings; you have to know how to animate, which we didn’t.”
Embracing their own limitations as well as the opportunity for collaboration, Dice and
Robert approached a studio friend, Erick Oh, to become their animation supervisor, head-
ing up a crew of contributing animators.
A complicating factor, though one that, in many senses, reduced the risk element had
it been an entirely new venture, was that Dice had initially approached Robert about the
prospect of their own film deep in production of Monsters University. Getting it off the
ground with such a demanding day job was not the only hurdle, and as we’ll explore fur-
ther in Chapter 9, funding was an important reality to face. Rather than go down the
now well-trodden route of crowdfunding, realizing the extra demands that campaign
management would have on time, energy, and resources better spent making the film
itself inspired the duo to self-fund as a more viable alternative. The Dam Keeper ultimately
took the form of many truly independent works, as a passion project and group effort
(Figure 3.2).
“In the beginning,” Dice recalls, “we had some savings and talked about paying
everybody, but there are certain kinds of restrictions that didn’t allow us to do that, so

Independent Animation 33
Figure 3.2
The Dam Keeper early development by Robert Kondo. (Courtesy of Tonko House LLC, ©2014.)

everybody on the project was a volunteer. So, by default we saved a lot of money there.” In
lieu of crowdfunding, a more traditional fundraising approach was used, accruing enough
of a budget to get started from selling original artwork they had created for the preproduc-
tion of the film through avenues such as eBay. In spite of this, what the film’s production
hinged on more than anything was dedicated time, effort, and commitment, with a total
production period of 9 months (3 of these full-time and the other 6 alongside their day-job
on Monsters University).
When it came to story itself, the two certainly benefited from being in a nurturing cre-
ative environment, as Robert remembers.
“Being inside Pixar was great for seeing all the parts that it takes to make these
multimillion-dollar feature films, but at the core of it was this idea of storytelling. I
wouldn’t even say that we were good at that; we just had a real interest in it and didn’t
expect a studio on the scale of Pixar to just hand us the opportunity to play in that world,
because we really hadn’t done anything within the walls of the studio to warrant that.”
The film’s visually rich look is bolstered by the story, one that uses simplicity as a
strength and acts as an effective platform for the duo to flex their artistic muscles. At its
heart, it subscribes to the convention of an underdog lead in the form of a porcine narra-
tor recalling his youth as a village dam keeper, ostracized by his schoolmates. Effective
visual scenarios are driven by the story elements: the operation of the dam’s windmill
that keeps a perpetually threatening dust storm at bay; the idyllic visualization of the
village itself; and the dark turn of the film when the dam keeper, despondent, forgoes
his duty and allows the storm to take over. Robert attributes the visual success of the
piece to the same reason that the two gravitated toward one another in the first place
(Figure 3.3).

34 3. The Visual Storyteller

“The absolute, most important thing was us working together, so the visual style really
came from the fact that we both paint very similarly, and so it felt like the easiest solution
for us. It made the most sense, given that we knew story was going to be the most challeng-
ing thing for us. We didn’t want to create a really challenging visual style that would push
us in a different direction where there was potentially another area to have disagreements
about. As for the story itself, I think a lot of creative relationships come out of somebody
having an idea first and really wanting to make it—we did not have that at all. We really
wanted to work with each other, to see what we were capable of.”
Embarking on a film with a vague story idea is an uphill journey at the best of times,
so embarking on one with no story at all, without a traditional storytelling background
or experience, would make the prospect especially daunting. That they would do just
that speaks volumes of the duo’s certainty that something good would come of the
endeavor, though ultimately, going into the project completely green when it came to
a rather vital area turned out to be to its benefit. “We went through almost five or six
versions, completely different stories, before we got to this final story. So I’d say the core
of everything was the relationship, wanting to work together. Then after that, the look
kind of fell into place, and the story itself was something we struggled with; knowing
that it was going to be our first film, we told ourselves that while we weren’t going to just
rush this thing out, let’s just make sure we finished. It’s our first story; we can’t be pre-
cious with it; if it’s not perfect, we’ll do another film that’s better! So that was our plan”
(Figure 3.4).

Figure 3.3
Still from The Dam Keeper (Dir. Robert Kondo/Dice Tsutsumi). (Courtesy of Tonko House LLC,
©2014.)

Independent Animation 35
Figure 3.4
Still from The Dam Keeper (Dir. Robert Kondo/Dice Tsutsumi). (Courtesy of Tonko House LLC,
©2014.)

Nightmare Worlds
Let’s take a cross-country trip to the complete opposite and far less sunny end of the inde-
pendent animation spectrum. While matching The Dam Keeper’s ambition in terms of
length and impulse to eschew a formal studio hierarchy, in most other respects, you could
not envisage a more different film than British nightmare-weaver Robert Morgan’s British
Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA)-nominated Bobby Yeah.
Robert’s name was established in the late 1990s with his stop-motion student short The
Man in the Lower Left-Hand Corner of the Photograph. While the original meaning of the
film’s title* is somewhat arbitrary and open to interpretation, in the case of the film, it serves
as a cue for the setup in which a lonely, corpse-like man who spends his days spying on his
suicidal neighbor keeps a photo of himself amongst his minimal possessions. Despite—or,
arguably, because of—the relatively meager resources available for the film’s production,
it perfectly captures the same uneasy, claustrophobic tone conveyed in such nightmare-
visions as David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977) or Roman Polanski’s Repulsion (1965).
With a clear precedent set, Robert moved on to professional film production shortly
thereafter, with 2001’s equally horrific (albeit faster-paced) The Cat With Hands, in which
a terrifying apocryphal story of a supernatural cat who absorbs the body parts of its vic-
tims is told through a mix of live action and irreal stop-motion. The film, partly inspired
by a recurring nightmare of Morgan’s sister’s, began life as an Animator In Residence
scheme once run by UK television network Channel 4. The successful end result led to
a bigger budget for his harrowing, slickly produced third animated short The Separation
(2003), a horrifyingly violent and tragic tale of twin co-dependence.

* The title is named after a track from the equally unconventional Adult Themes for Voice, a semiobscure 1996
album of voice-only soundscapes by alternative musician Mike Patton.

36 3. The Visual Storyteller

In another era and under other circumstances, the idea of returning to independent
film would most likely not have been the most logical next step. In truth, Morgan was
motivated by the realization that, in a country whose arts funding had been decimated,
going solo was the only way forward (Figure 3.5).
“After The Separation, I did Monsters, a live-action film in 2004, then basically, there
was about 5 years of What shall I do now? Oh, there’s no funding. I’m never going to make a
film ever again! Oh well, that was fun. I remember literally lying on the bed awake at night
wondering what was next, because it felt like there were no more opportunities to make
stuff, especially as animation is so time-consuming, and you need the right gear to make it
work. Around the same time, it became much more possible to do that stuff; the dropping
out of the funding coincided with the arrival of things like Final Cut, DragonFrame, and
iStop Motion, which I was using for Bobby Yeah. So with the arrival of home stop-motion
software and kits that could capture HD with a stills camera, I realized I could actually do

Figure 3.5
Bobby Yeah (Dir. Robert Morgan) poster. (Courtesy of Swartz Can Talk/blueLight, ©2011.)

Independent Animation 37
something. The original idea was just to make a little placeholder, a 2-minute short just to
remind people I was still here while I worked out how to get funding.” Once the film was in
motion, however, Robert quickly developed a renewed enthusiasm for the process, mainly
for the freedoms that automatically come with being independent. It soon became clear
that, him being liberated by not requiring permission from funders or clients to make a
film, something far more substantial than a 2-minute placeholder was on the cards. “The
biggest, most exciting thing was to not have to ‘okay’ everything with a higher authority,
which is what you normally have to do when you’re making a film. That’s why I think the
film is so unhinged, because there was no one telling me ‘You can’t do that!’ Three years
later, I was still making it” (Figure 3.6).
“Unhinged” is certainly apropos. While Robert’s prior work never shied away from
troubling premises and visuals, Bobby Yeah is a masterpiece of unrelenting, hallucino-
genic excess, one that earned him a BAFTA nomination in 2011.

Figure 3.6
Bobby Yeah (Dir. Robert Morgan) character sketch and film still. (Courtesy of Swartz Can
Talk/blueLight, ©2011.)

38 3. The Visual Storyteller

“This film was a stream of consciousness. Previously, I have written scripts when I have
a story to tell, and the visuals come second to the story, but this time around, there was no
story. I just started filming, and the first shot of the film is the first shot I filmed, the last
shot is the last, and everything in between was chronological. All I had at the start was
just a visual sense. I just had a puppet and a set and just started animating that; I had this
character run into the room; watched it back; thought, Okay, now what can happen? and
went from there. So it was only visual to begin with, and then you start noticing you’re
subconsciously telling a story.”
To fully appreciate just how unconventional said story is, here is a beat-by-beat break-
down of the first 5 minutes of the film:

• We open on a sparse, minimally furnished room bathed in blue light, into which
scurries Bobby Yeah, a creature of indeterminate species (though resembling a
squat man with rabbitlike ears and a mammalian tail).
• Seemingly anxious, Bobby retreats from the room and, shortly afterward, reenters
carrying another inexplicable creature in his arms. It resembles an earthworm
with a cluster of fingernail-clippings for a head, out of which a pair of squinting
eyes peer. Both Bobby’s and the creature’s body language suggests that it has been
either stolen or rescued.
• Placing his find on a bed, one of the room’s few furnishings, Bobby examines it as
it writhes around the mattress.
• Bobby gently strokes the creature’s wormlike torso, calming its frantic move-
ments, and then spies a stark red, metallic button protruding from it.
• Clearly tempted by what may occur if he presses it, Bobby visibly attempts to resist
doing so until the suspense is too much to take.
• Once the button is pressed, we briefly cut to a shot of a dramatic sunrise and
then return to the room, where the creature and Bobby find themselves joined by
two new monstrous entities. One is faceless save for a toothy mouth, the other all
tongue and beady eyes, both fleshy, amorphous, and protruding from tanklike
machines.
• Bobby approaches as the two creatures gyrate disconcertingly, acknowledging the
anticipatory twitching of one creature’s tank barrel.
• The barrel eventually secretes two tasseled globules. The two creatures briefly
pause, inspect what they’ve produced, and then resume their gyrations with fervor.
• As more and more globules pile in front of him, Bobby takes action and muzzles
the barrel with his fingerless hand.
• Pressure builds until the mechanism clogs and breaks, the backed-up secretions
instead coming out of the creatures’ faces.
• Pressure continues to build until the tank explodes, sending Bobby hurtling across
the room followed by a rapid-fire succession of globules from the splayed barrel.
• Globules continue to fly, ricocheting off of every surface and item in the room.
• Bobby races over to the creature whose tank is (one assumes) malfunctioning and,
in desperation, punches it, which has little effect.
• Bobby’s plan B is to grab the creature’s protuberant tongue and pull with all
his might, eventually removing it along with what looks like a spinal column,
attached.

Independent Animation 39
• The creature is seemingly felled, one final globule leaking out of its destroyed
mechanism. The second malformed creature remains alive.
• Bobby surveys the bizarre detritus around him, his attention soon taken by the
cry of his wormlike, fingernail-headed kidnappee.
• The wormlike creature’s shimmering tail opens and expands like a trunk, grow-
ing and spilling onto the floor, where it proceeds to vacuum up (or consume) the
spilled globules.
• Once all the globules have been absorbed, the wormlike creature lays a blood-
smeared egg on the floor and returns to its original shape (Figure 3.7).

At this point, we’re less than a quarter of the way through the film, with nearly
20-minutes to go. Though obviously, Morgan’s machinations are not for the weak of stom-
ach, this is excellent news to an audience who delights in the animation’s weirdest, darkest,
and most surreal potential—an audience I’m staunchly amongst. As Robert freely admits,
a pitch meeting or funding application for Bobby Yeah could only boil down to “a list of
disgusting events that wouldn’t work as a document”—so what does make it work? In the
midst of the hypnagogic nightmare-fare, the success of the film ultimately comes down to
an unexpectedly traditional trope: the sympathetic lead.
“What links it all is the character of Bobby,” Robert offers. “I think he’s a very relatable
character in that he becomes the audience’s eyes. In a slightly perverse way, he wants to see
it all, but at the same time, he’s squeamish about it. Once the game is revealed, that every
time he presses these buttons that appear, something really weird happens, the audience

Figure 3.7
Bobby Yeah concept sketch. (Courtesy of Robert Morgan.)

40 3. The Visual Storyteller

becomes him: they want to see what happens, yet at the same time, they’re afraid. So
there is that push and pull of being tempted that I think satisfies a certain perverse feel-
ing within the audience. I never expected anyone would like this film, but the fact that so
many people did, I think that’s why, because they relate to the character; he becomes the
thread through which the audience can relate to events.”
The events themselves continue in a vein similar to the opening as outlined above, and
accompanying the thread of Bobby himself, a story slowly starts to emerge (Figure 3.8).
Bounding from scenario to scenario at the push of a succession of mysterious, enticing,
red buttons, we come to learn that Bobby is indeed a thief, and it soon transpires that those
he has stolen from are not to be trifled with. When Bobby is called to be accountable for his
behavior, the turns the action takes are wholly unpredictable, utterly surreal, and yet very
easy to make sense of. As with the practice of free-association writing, a method of idea
generation in which a writer will put pen to paper without thinking of what he/she will
write until the moment it’s being written, oftentimes with surprisingly creative results, the
improvisational approach to Bobby Yeah’s story does build up a comprehensible narrative
around itself.
“It was completely ad-libbed. I would shoot in chunks until I would get to a point where
I felt like I’d boxed myself into a corner because I didn’t know what he was going to do
next; then I had the idea of the red button that kind of got me out of it. If this button
appears and he presses it, then literally anything can happen. So my process was animat-
ing a little bit, watching it, and then fantasizing about what could happen next. I set myself
a little rule that whatever occurred to me, I wouldn’t analyze its meaning. If I liked it, it
would go in. If I had analyzed anything, it would’ve killed it, so I forced myself not to.”
This process extended to the creation of the ensemble cast, a silicone mishmash of intri-
cately detailed, hyperreal features set against a mess of detritus and viscera, evocative of

Figure 3.8
Still from Bobby Yeah (Dir. Robert Morgan). (Courtesy of Swartz Can Talk/blueLight, ©2011.)

Independent Animation 41
Figure 3.9
Bobby Yeah (Dir. Robert Morgan) storyboarded characters to final film comparison. (Courtesy
of Swartz Can Talk/blueLight, ©2011.)

Francis Bacon’s furies, Clive Barker’s cenobites, and the mixed-media sculptures of David
Lynch. When it came to the point at which Robert felt a new character should be intro-
duced, the animation itself would be halted so that a new puppet could be built from
scratch. One example of character development in particular perfectly exemplifies just
how circumstantial the progress of the story could be:
“I had gotten to the point where this bird-headed creature and Bobby are fighting
(Figure 3.9). Bobby kicks him, and his head goes into the wall. When I reached that bit, I
stopped for Christmas for a 2-week break. I’d left the set as it was, with this bird-headed
man’s head in the wall, and I was going to continue after; he was going to pull his head
out, and the two would continue fighting. Then for Christmas, a friend, for some bizarre
reason, bought me this weird little ragdoll key ring. As soon as I opened that present, the
image popped in my head that when the bird-headed man pulls his head from the wall and
turned around, he’d now have this ragdoll’s head. It made me laugh because it was so, so
weird. I just thought, That’s going in the film, no analyzing, that happens now! I went back,
and then that’s how I carried on; the creature pulls his head, and he’s got this new head.
That type of opening yourself up to anything that occurs to you is what really frees you up
to do some really surprising things on this journey that you go on.”

Idea Generation
While Robert’s spontaneous method of idea generation is incredibly freeing, it carries
with it a high risk factor if applied to most other types of film than the surreal or horrific.

42 3. The Visual Storyteller

Even the ever-present humor of Bobby Yeah owes its success to the director’s intuitive
sense of comedic timing, something that is especially tricky to pull off when dealing with
such unconventional characters and events. As seen in the accompanying illustrations,
some of the most outlandish visuals of the film are rooted in sketched-out character con-
cepts and basic thumbnail boards, which can be a huge contributor to a film’s cohesion in
the absence of a script.
Returning to a comparatively lighter side of stop-motion production, acclaimed
LA-based animator Kirsten Lepore, perhaps best known for such auteur short films as
the multi-award-winning Bottle (2010) and Move Mountain (2013), has her own personal
process that assists with idea generation (Figure 3.10).
“I have no way of just coming up with ideas out of the blue; however, there are certain
things I can do to help get inspired. I keep a sketchbook/notebook of ideas I get and always
write them down, so I can go back and reference those once I need to generate ideas for a
project. I also get inspired by browsing the aisles of craft stores, driving, and being out in
nature.
“I’ve never written a script, as my ideas are almost always visually driven. My sketch-
books, however, mostly contain writing (such as a quick note I will have jotted down) and
the occasional thumbnail to help jog my memory further once I revisit it. When I first
have an initial seed or spark of an idea that feels right, it usually includes a technique, color
palette, or sense of movement that excites me. From that starting point, I branch outwards
until I can narratively justify that element.”
Striking visual concepts are a mainstay of Kirsten’s work, going back to her first stop-
motion project Sweet Dreams, an undergraduate thesis film produced in 2008 at the
Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA). From a production values standpoint, there
are certain tells that the film is a formative outing, especially in contrast to her later

Figure 3.10
Still from Move Mountain (Dir. Kirsten Lepore). (Courtesy of Kirsten Lepore, ©2013.)

Independent Animation 43
work, but the marriage of an inventive visual approach (the film is made almost entirely
out of food, presenting a world where sugary snacks build structures out of sugar cubes)
and a well-thought-out story (a bored cupcake sets sail to start a new life and finds itself
stranded on an island occupied by healthier food, quickly adapting to their simpler yet
more fulfilling—and ultimately pragmatic, as it learns on its return—way of life) would
prove to be one of Kirsten’s major strengths.
This quality is further refined in Bottle, a stop-motion/pixilation film that sees two
lone figures on opposite sides of the ocean—one made of sand, the other of snow—
communicate with one another via a bottle sent back and forth between their respec-
tive shores. Using actual sand, snow, foliage, and miscellaneous detritus, a sense of
growing friendship is conveyed to the audience to the extent that, when the film con-
cludes, they are emotionally invested in the connection between these two and the
poignancy of their geographical separation.
While Bottle would ultimately prove the more acclaimed and visually sophisticated
project, both films are grand in scope when considering the circumstances of their pro-
duction. Yet both also began life as relatively simple ideas.
“Both Bottle and Sweet Dreams were created as university projects—it’s doubtful that
they would exist had I not had an assignment to fulfill. The idea for Sweet Dreams was
sparked because I thought the idea of using kale and leafy greens as foliage in a film would
be interesting. I built out that world and story from there. For Bottle, I had the initial spark
for that idea while I was watching a snowfall at my parents’ house in New Jersey a year
prior. I had the realization that packable snow behaved much like clay and was curious
about animating with it.”
That such engaging work can be built upon these types of idle musings goes to show
that even a passing thought might be worth expanding on. A great film has to begin some-
where, after all.

Returning to the Scene

The approaches explored previously both go to show the potential independent animation
can have to still succeed even when throwing the rulebook out of the window (or in the
case of Bobby Yeah, setting it aflame and stomping it into oblivion). Sometimes, this does
not prove to be the case, and entering into a film’s production blindly may very well be
reflected in the final result. To elaborate on this, we will take a look at Sausage, a playful,
high-energy short by Robert Grieves about “two artisan stallholders whose idyllic world is
invaded by a devious fast-food vendor.”* The film is considered successful in terms of both
its execution and reception. This, as it happens, was very nearly not the case, as the largely
unseen first attempt at the film demonstrates.
One of the major considerations when it comes to personal work is knowing precisely
when to draw a line under a project. Without deadlines or a client, it can be very hard to tell
impartially when a film is truly finished and deliverable. When it comes to student films,
however, the lines can tend to be a little blurrier. Technically speaking, a student short will
have a deadline in terms of its assessment, but in a great deal of instances, the door is open
to return to it and tighten things up before sending it out into the world. Allowing yourself

* Vimeo synopsis, Sausage (Dir. Robert Grieves).

44 3. The Visual Storyteller

a week or so to take a second swipe at the edit of your film might increase its festival per-
formance immeasurably. (I speak from firsthand experience here.) As the months go by,
the urge to open up the project files and tinker around more and more eventually fades, to
be replaced, hopefully, with the urge to create something new.
In the case of Sausage, however, Robert rightly identified the unrealized potential for a
film that could make his name but would have no chance of doing so as made (Figure 3.11).
Several months after completing it for his master’s degree, he realized that despite the high
marks it had earned, it simply wasn’t a professional enough piece of work to appropriately
convey his true vision of its story.
“After a couple of weeks of just being a bit depressed about it, I got that wave of no, these
things aren’t meant to be easy,” Robert recalls. “So I ended up fixing it, which ended up being a
process of complete deconstruction. I suppose it was mainly the story, but to be honest, every
discipline needed rethinking—the editing, the storyboarding, the animation, the music,
everything had to be reworked, because this style of narrative animation was very new to me.”
“To me, just designing interesting characters doesn’t work; I have to build the world
first, the reason for it all to exist. I want to see the narrative take shape, and I want to see
where it’s going to end up. You hear novelists talk about how they developed some char-
acters, set them on a journey, and they don’t know how it’s going to end. While I respect
that, it’s nothing like how I write. I tend to build it up in that layered way; I want to know
that everything works and is in place, and then I’ll start going into details.”
This approach being contrary to that taken by those who would start with details and
then develop outward does not make it either right or wrong. You will know as a creative
what is right for you based on the obvious—which approach yields more by way of actual
results? For Robert, the emotional place he wishes to take his audience to is the most
important catalyst for character development (Figure 3.12).
“It’s just not the kind of person I am, so I can’t worry about it too much, but one of
the issues I have about my work in general is that I wish I was more of a doodler. I never
doodle. Everything I do is for a purpose; it’s all functional, to go towards whatever it is that
I am making. I think doodlers are similar to the novelists who start with a character and

Figure 3.11
Sausage (Dir. Robert Grieves) lobby card art. (Courtesy of Robert Grieves, ©2013.)

Independent Animation 45
Figure 3.12
Sausage original storyboard excerpts. (Courtesy of Robert Grieves.)

46 3. The Visual Storyteller

‘take the lion for a walk.’ I definitely start with the bigger picture and then narrow down;
I did that on Sausage, and I would say I continue to do that.”
Robert having made a fair amount of short-form animation, both narrative and experi-
mental, the duration of Sausage had presented him with challenges that had been entirely
unfamiliar at the time. One particular area of weakness boiled down to not appreciating
how best to approach the character animation itself, which, given how character- and
performance-oriented the film’s premise was, proved a major pitfall. Conceding that the
fundamental issues with the film were, in fact, issues with the fundamentals of animation
production itself, Robert realized he needed outside assistance.
“My use of character animation didn’t really give much emotional depth. Fortunately,
I had worked with someone on some random little commercial job in Sydney, this English
guy, Simon Williams, who was storyboarding on the job, but his previous life had been in
London, where he was an animation director on various animated series. I went to him
and said, ‘I’ve got this film I really need to work out,’ which led to the classic moment of
‘What do you want to hear? Do you want me to just tell you enough to get it finished and
out there, or do you really want to know the deal?’ ‘Yeah, c’mon, hit me with it!’ So he basi-
cally started that deconstruction process.”
During their evenings after work, Robert and Simon tried for several months to work
out fixes for the film as made. Eventually, both admitted defeat, that time was only being
wasted, and that the only realistic option was to put the existing animation to one side and
return to the storyboard stage, where the story issues could be resolved, before embarking
on new animation. Although such an undertaking is far from appealing, Robert acknowl-
edged it as an exercise in correcting the missteps of his first attempt; by redoing the film
in this way, it would become far easier to appreciate how best to create a dynamic flow and
marry shots properly for better cohesion. In a direct sense, it was a matter of learning from
one’s own mistakes (Figure 3.13).
“It wasn’t hitting the audience at the right time, all those things that you don’t have
to deal with in 2 minutes. Two minutes is jazz-hands, it’s eye-candy, it’s punch lines,
whereas anything over 5 minutes—and this was 8 minutes—you will need to have an arc,
and things have to deliver; you have to let the audience know where you are in any given
moment. All those things that keep the audience engaged. Although he was outraged at
my lack of knowledge and my audacity to make a film, he was wonderful, and with his
help, we built it and got it to a point where I could not only watch it again without retching,

Figure 3.13
Sausage early sketches. (Courtesy of Robert Grieves.)

Independent Animation 47
but I was actually really excited! And now I watch it, and I am entertained by it; it carries
an audience, and it carries me.”
One way to rationalize the failings of a short would be that there was not enough time,
and that with more hours and more commitment, might come the fixes necessary. The
truth of the matter is that, no matter how much time is available, knowledge of the craft
itself is what is required more than anything, and there is no shame in reaching out to oth-
ers with a more expansive skill set than us for help; in fact, what better way is there to learn?
“One of the big things that I have learned to appreciate is how sophisticated the audi-
ence is. It isn’t as though we’re in the 1920s inventing cinema and people are going to be
impressed by anything; our audiences have grown up on what is not just random kids’
television; some of the best animators and filmmakers out there make kids’ television and
then go on to make adult television. You could choose to ignore the three-act game, but
you have to know what that game is because the audience certainly knows it. They might
not know enough to teach a course on it, but they instinctively feel when things are work-
ing or not. So you have to respect the audience by understanding what it is they already
come to any screening with. The reason we make these films is to get better; it’s an oppor-
tunity to get stuck in.”
Despite the massive reworking of the short, efforts were made to preserve some of the
original character animation that had actually proved successful the first time around.
As a result, the overall style of the film—modern digital animation processes applied to
a retro approach to 2-D character construction—needed to remain the same, as did the
general arc of the story (Figure 3.14).
“There were things that got dumped, like a minute at the beginning with a whole back-
story of the two main characters as children—talk about killing your babies; it was a baby
slaughter! But that’s all part of the process, and sometimes, you need someone to come
along to make you realize which babies need to die.”
The major limitation regarding the character work for the original film was an absence
of emotional range that could translate to visual performance. Without dialog or a narra-
tion, effective character acting would be needed to carry the entire film, so that an emo-
tional journey could be communicated. Though the film has a largely whimsical story,
every major character conveys a vital emotion at some point throughout—the hero and
heroine running the gamut of contentment, elation, fear, horror, sadness, anger, confu-
sion, joy, and despair; the villain, smugness, malice, revulsion, and fury. While the final
film boasts all of these with no ambiguities, the performances of the original pass at the
film were far more stilted (Figure 3.15).
“My characters weren’t good enough actors; it was like putting someone with a stroke
on screen and expecting them to be Marlon Brando. So I was in that situation where sty-
listically, I had gone through that limited animation look, but I was telling a story that was
more sophisticated and had more requirements. This is all stuff that you learn, isn’t it? If
your story asks for this degree of emotional range, either you need a voiceover that tells
you, ‘This character’s sad,’ or you need a character that can really be the particular type of
sad that the script calls for. So I did keep the stylistic thing, but there was a big discussion
about whether that should change.”
Most of us will have past projects that, were we to dust them off and take a second run
at them, would doubtless be improved by the newly accrued and more finely honed skills
we’ve developed in the interim. When, then, is doing so an advisable, practical idea?

48 3. The Visual Storyteller

49
Sausage revised storyboard excerpt. (Courtesy of Robert Grieves.)
Figure 3.14
Straightforward or down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth Straightforward or down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth Straightforward
Straightforward or down-to-earthor down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth Straightforward or down-to-earth

Independent Animation
Straightforward or down-to-earth Straightforward or down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth
Straightforward or down-to-earth or down-to-earth Straightforward
Straightforward or or
Straightforward down-to-earth
down-to-earth
!Page 45/51 1 Sausage
Figure 3.15
Sausage character design sheets demonstrating poses and actions. (Courtesy of Robert
Grieves, ©2013.)

50 3. The Visual Storyteller

Figure 3.16
Still from Sausage (Dir. Robert Grieves). (Courtesy of Robert Grieves, ©2013.)

“You’ve got the two levels. One is where I’m at personally, having done the film, that
definitely, it was worth it because I’m now a confident filmmaker—I wasn’t before. It also
gave me a product—which these things are—that was able to go out and have life. I’m now
getting the kind of jobs I wanted to do, that I wouldn’t have been able to without the film,
and I’m able to do them, having done the film. So it’s a double bonus! (Figure 3.16).
“If I ever spoke to a bank manager, he’d think I was an idiot! The amount of time I was
working and spending on my own, I would have been better off doing something more
simple. Watching the younger graduates who are doing sensational stuff at the moment
and really using the Internet as a way of connecting with the world, I don’t know if it’s
instinctively or not, but people just seem to be doing these much shorter, sweeter things,
and it makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it? You get it out there, throw something at the world. If
it sticks, great; if it doesn’t, then move on to the next thing. The other approach, of putting
all your effort and spending years working on one thing that’s 7 minutes long, it takes for-
ever to do. So of course, you learn from doing it, but you might have learned just as much
from doing some shorter, quicker things in a short amount of time.”

Pleasing Abstractions
One of Sausage’s other appealing attributes is how the liveliness of the visuals is bolstered
by composer Dan Radclyffe’s playful musical score. Indeed, the interplay between music
and visuals is obviously a huge consideration when it comes to animation. We’ll look at
this further when considering animated music videos in Chapter 5 and score composition
in Chapter 21. Music also has a part to play in the conceptual and visual development of a
film, and it’s worth taking a look at work whose “stories” are far more open to interpreta-
tion, if not outright abstract. Canadian experimental film artist Steven Woloshen began

Independent Animation 51
making films at around 17 years old in the 1970s, making use of the Super 8 cameras and
projectors his parents had lying around their house in Laval. With the project beginning
as a means to pass the time in lieu of much by way of quality TV entertainment, Steven
joined forces with his friends, an assortment of artists, designers, and musicians, to dip his
toes in the waters of experimental filmmaking (Figure 3.17).
These freeform efforts, primarily involving the destruction of Super 8 film cartridges
and scratching over the negatives, paired with unplanned musical improvisations, would
prove to be the first step of a long career. Indeed, Steven’s formative years of playful experi-
mentation would heavily foreshadow his eventual—and quite extensive—filmography.
The first major turning point came during his studies at Vanier College in Montreal.
“My professors were experimental film teachers who were really interested in Stan
Brackhage, Len Lye, and all these formalist experimental filmmakers. They kept on talk-
ing to me about the surface of the film, the surface of the screen, the materiality of the film.
I told them I had been bashing up film cases and having a really good time, so they said,
‘That’s perfect, bring it in!’”
Spurred on, Steven began making films with hole punchers and pins, beginning with
an experimental use of the projector as a filmmaking tool in itself. The positive response
and high marks this early student effort garnered cemented his affection toward this par-
ticular area of filmmaking, and he has not looked back since. During his studies, he was
educated on the works of Len Lye, such as Free Radicals, a 4-minute short incrementally
created over a 21-year period (from 1958 to 1979) by scratching 16 mm black film leader
with needles. The stark simplicity of this process appealed to Steven, and no further
encouragement was needed to actively fill the remaining gaps in his knowledge about the
culture, the process, and its terminologies.

Figure 3.17
Steven Woloshen scratching on film. (Courtesy of the artist.)

52 3. The Visual Storyteller

“I didn’t know until later on that it had all these designations, terms like absolute film
and Cinéma Pur, but all I did was what I wanted to do in my parents’ basement, like Letra-
film on top of film, ink, paint, dipping it, rolling it over with bicycles, setting it on fire. I
didn’t know what I was supposed to do or what I wasn’t supposed to do; I just did it any-
way, and it was a lot of fun.”
“I used those films to get into university, but there, I made documentaries. The docu-
mentaries were not going my way, because they were 16 mm Bolex. I would waste a lot of
film forgetting to take off the lens cap, so instead of throwing the film away, I would paint
and scratch on it a little bit more. So how it started was basically the result of bad docu-
mentary filmmaking” (Figure 3.18)!
“I’ve always considered the films that I make to be a kind of document of the way I’m
feeling about something, or the way my hand moves, the way my eye moves, the light that’s
in a room, the tools that I have on hand, if I find a marker or a bottle of ink that I really
like—it’s always just a reflection of what’s around me. If I can get the material to make the
film, if I hear music I really like, it’s a reflection of that too. So it’s not really about a story
per se except the story of me, as a document of what I’m going through at the time. This
isn’t really a linear document, like a narrative, but it’s still what I perceive as being really
important in my life. A lot of times, that’s music, color, movement, light—in the early
1980s, for example, I started getting into calligraphy. I wanted to exercise my skills, so
instead of making letters on paper, I made them on very small squares of film. So it’s just
a reflection of the things I thought were important.”
The projects that followed share certain fundamental approaches throughout—
manipulation of existing film is a dominant theme, as is the role of carefully selected
musical accompaniments and a tactile physicality to the variety of textures and images,
however briefly glimpsed. To give some small sense of Steven’s variety of approaches, these
films include Bru Ha Ha! (2002), a film timed to a found brass musical piece that had been
previously transferred to 35 mm magnetic film, on which Letraset symbols are strategically

Figure 3.18
Still from When the Sun Turns into Juice (Dir. Steven Woloshen). (Courtesy of Steven Woloshen,
©2011.)

Independent Animation 53
placed; When the Sun Turns into Juice (2011), making use of both sides of film leader using
both ink and paint and lighting the results from both sides during the optical printing
stage; and Crossing Victoria (2013), combining hand-painted rotoscoping with the projec-
tion of imagery onto raw stock using a self-constructed variation on an optical printer.
Noteworthy amongst his body of work is 1000 Plateaus (2004–2014), so subtitled
because of its decade-long production history (Figure 3.19).
“It started when I was a driver on film sets in Montreal. I drove actors, directors, tech-
nicians, directors of photography—and as a driver, you usually want to make your pas-
sengers comfortable. What I did was I tried to get their mind off my bad driving skills and
just let them talk about something. (Of course, you’re not allowed to be the one who talks
first.) So I placed a roll of film on a little wooden box with a glass surface and a flashlight in
it between the passenger’s seat and the driver’s seat. What I wanted to do was just scratch
on film while I was waiting for the actors to come out of their hotels, just so I could work
on the film a little bit, here and there. They would ask, ‘What is that thing?’ ‘I’m glad you
asked; I’m making an animated film in the car!’ And they’d respond, ‘Are you sure you’re
allowed to do that?’ We started a process where I could tell them a little bit about what
animation was, and slowly, they encouraged me. So over time, whenever I was free, I’d do
a foot here, a foot there, and by the end of it, I’d done about 300 feet.”
Even when it comes to experimental film, discipline and forethought are important—
one might argue, in fact, that experimental film, by its very nature, demands even further
consideration in these areas. When dealing with a film that has no characters or linear
narrative, it is more of an uphill battle to wind up with an end result audiences will con-
sider watchable. As loose and freeform a visual medium as scratch-on-film is, the visuals
have to make some kind of sense. An abstract film can, in the right hands, prove curiously
entertaining; an assortment of arbitrary and thoughtless visual noise, however, cannot
carry itself. When it comes to Steven’s work, great pains are made to ensure that his end
result falls into the former category. In lieu of a script, his films are often structurally
dependent on their soundtracks.

Figure 3.19
Still from 1000 Plateaus (2004–2014) (Dir. Steven Woloshen). (Courtesy of Steven Woloshen,
©2014.)

54 3. The Visual Storyteller

“What I had to do was chart out what piece of music I was going to use, how long it
would last, where the changes would happen, and stick to that ‘script’ from the beginning
of the film to the end of the film. So it all landed in sync, I would have to count perforations
just like an animator would do with a dope sheet, counting where events would occur. So
there was no digital technology for me to use; it was just the box. It started in 2004 on a
magnetic strip, an audiomagnetic tape with perforations, and that’s where it continued!”
Ten years later, the finished 1000 Plateaus (2004–2014) was released to much festival
success, picking up major awards at festivals such as the Melbourne International Film
Festival (Figures 3.20 and 3.21). Steven has accompanied the film as it has traveled, bring-
ing workshops to various international festivals and events to showcase the tactile joy this
branch of experimental filmmaking can evoke.

Figure 3.20
Still from 1000 Plateaus (2004–2014) (Dir. Steven Woloshen). (Courtesy of Steven Woloshen,
©2014.)

Figure 3.21
Still from 1000 Plateaus (2004–2014) (Dir. Steven Woloshen). (Courtesy of Steven Woloshen,
©2014.)

Independent Animation 55
“I really find that I’ve made it my goal to make an imaginary toolbox of all the things
I can do with film, either by stapling it, burning it, gluing it, peeling stuff off from it, or
combining it all together. I just want to make a very big compendium of what animated
films could be. I do a lot of workshops, and everybody always moves towards scratching
on it or painting on film, so I suggest, ‘Well, why don’t we try doing both?’ Or ‘Why don’t
we try bleaching it, or putting paint underneath, or scratches underneath? Why don’t we
try combining what we already know with something that we don’t know?’ To me, that has
always been the most important thing, just to move forward with something that’s been
around since the 1930s.”
Later in the book, we will look at other projects whose creative approaches have been
similarly informed by music and experimentation, such as Thomas Stellmach and Maja
Oschmann’s Virtuos Virtuell (2013) and Benjamin Arcand’s Wackatdooo (2014). If you’ve
skimmed or skipped ahead in the book, you will have gleaned that in many instances, the
films and artists we have discussed serve as prime case studies for a number of areas, and
not just within production. Now that we have canvassed a range of script-based and visual-
based storytellers, for the next few chapters, we will expand on other types of approaches
and genres that can kick a film idea into gear.

56 3. The Visual Storyteller

4
Consider the Source

There’s no shame or failure in conceding that we are not all of us storytellers. In truth, it’s
something of a rarity for directors, animators, and/or producers to be responsible for the
story on top of everything else they have to deal with. So where to turn for a great film
idea? In the upcoming chapters, we will hear from animators whose work spans musical
interpretation, nonfiction, metafiction, skit-based vignettes, and interaction-driven,
multimedia projects, amongst others, to assuage any potential concerns that there are
limits to what form your independent project will eventually take. For this section, we will
be presenting a cross-section of animated projects that used preexisting source material
as their jumping-off point.
It is worth establishing the fundamental difference between a respectful adaptation
of another artist’s work and just outright stealing their ideas. It’s sad to say, but on occa-
sion, it’s not been unheard of for some people, in lieu of their own original concepts, to
go the lazy route of either stylistic or narrative plagiarism, sometimes even justifying the
practice as simply taking inspiration. Have you ever seen a bold, ingenious approach to an
independent film online or at a festival and then seen more or less the same idea replicated
with a higher budget in a television commercial a few months later? In some instances, the
original creative will have been hired to direct a variation of his/her idea or brought on as
a creative consultant, but it isn’t unheard of that some poor, meek, nonlitigious soul has
just been ripped off.

57
In terms of being taken more seriously as a creative and artist, this is obviously not a
route you want to take. It can be a thorny business, and one that further hammers home
the need for audience feedback not just after but also during production. So if the process
of idea generation does indeed turn out to be a constant battle wherein every idea or con-
cept is second-guessed or falls flat—or, frankly, if you simply want to direct or animate a
film but have no impulse to write it—then it’s advisable to look elsewhere for your story.
One of the most rewarding creative partnerships can thus be predicated on pairing a
writer and a director, mutually beneficial especially if both are at a similar stage of their
career. It may even be the case that the story you want to tell has already been written.
Based just outside of London, Slurpy Studios is an award-winning animation produc-
tion company whose client base includes the BBC, ITV, and the British Council. Headed
up by producer Aaron Wood and creative director Katie Steed, the studio quickly built
up a strong body of work spanning entertainment, commercials, corporate videos, and
educational content. With a desire to expand into animated series development and pro-
duction, a crucial opportunity came about when the studio was approached by Giles
Paley-Phillips in 2013 to potentially adapt his children’s book The Fearsome Beastie, which
had been published by Maverick Arts 2 years previously (Figure 4.1). Thus began an ongo-
ing, symbiotic creative partnership.
“To be honest, I think it was around the time that The Gruffalo and The Gruffalo’s Child
were doing really well.” As Aaron recalls, “That was obviously a big reason; authors were
trying to create an animation out of their idea, even if it wasn’t for money. So Giles got
in touch with a book that he had written and wanted to make into something. He didn’t
know whether it would be a series, a short film, or an app, but we were up for meeting up
and talking about possibilities.”

Figure 4.1
The Fearsome Beastie concept visual. (Courtesy of Slurpy Studios, ©2015.)

58 4. Consider the Source

Slurpy had, as it happened, been on the hunt for just such a project themselves, so
the timing could not have been more fortuitous. A meeting with Giles at his publisher
Maverick’s office in West Sussex showed that, the tone and illustration style of The Fearsome
Beastie was a perfect fit for Slurpy’s own developing visual identity. Although the more
ambitious avenues for adaptation such as apps or ongoing series did not have legs—the
story in essence being a short-form poem—the short film option perfectly matched up to
both the source material and the studio’s resources (Figure 4.2).
“Giles was completely cool with that; he just wanted to see it come alive as an anima-
tion. To be honest, it was the publishing company’s first foray into animation, so they were
just happy to have somebody on board who would take it on as a project; it was win–win.”
In lieu of a formal development deal or starter funds, Slurpy and Maverick, being two
relatively new companies in their respective industries, instead took on a mutually benefi-
cial arrangement in which the film rights and potential profits were passed over to Slurpy
for them to develop on their own time and fund through commercial projects taken on
simultaneously. With Maverick maintaining the rights to the book itself and the potential
to earn money from any future sales, the partnership proved ideal for both parties.
“Financially, from our point of view, after whatever we spend on production costs, we
can make that back. If it makes money, then it’s an 80%–20% split in our favor, so we were
happy with the deal.”
The project was more than just an opportunity to network and pad out the studio’s
output; its very nature carried with it the potential to define their identity and bring them
closer to the ideal scenario of regularly producing content for a younger audience.
“We felt, at the time, very much that we needed to prove that we could do something
for children,” says Katie, “because our aim as a studio is to make content for that audience.

Figure 4.2
Katie Steed’s first Fearsome Beastie concept designs. (Courtesy of Slurpy Studios, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 59
We were approaching people with our series ideas, and we always felt slightly as though we
just didn’t have any work that backed them up. Although it wasn’t asked of us, for our own
confidence, we wanted to spend time with that age group, with that kind of film.”
“And we wanted a personal project,” Aaron adds. “One hundred percent of our work
is commercial, it’s what we do all the time. At that point, we didn’t have a single personal
project in the studio, so to have something else that was fun and enjoyable was good.”
For Katie, this comes with the acknowledgment that it’s tricky to keep personal projects
on the boil, especially alongside the demands of running of a commercial studio. “But if
you ‘owe’ a debt of some kind to someone else, like the author or the publisher, which we
did, it gives you that impetus to keep going, when, if it’s a purely personal project, some-
times that enthusiasm can die quite quickly.”
While some instances of children’s book adaptations go through a process of heavy
script revision and story changes—any Dr. Seuss feature adaptation, for example—
keeping the runtime of Slurpy’s The Fearsome Beastie down enabled the original source
text to remain largely untouched. Although some experimentation with additional lines
and story embellishments was entertained, ultimately, a word-for-word adaptation was
deemed most appropriate. Instead, the fleshing out of the story is largely down to carefully
considered visualization, expanding the universe of the story rather than convoluting it
with needless detail (Figure 4.3). This approach had also been taken with Magic Light’s
successful mainstream adaptation of The Gruffalo (Dir. Jakob Schuh and Max Lang),
albeit to a larger extent accommodated by their budget.
“The Fearsome Beastie is a roughly similar length of poem to The Grufallo. Our adaptation
is 5 minutes, and The Grufallo’s is 20 minutes, so they expanded it a lot more than we were
able to. I think our first cut was 8 minutes, so we’ve looked a lot at expanding it, and we’ve
come up with a lot of other ideas and a lot of other characterizations; but both for time and

Figure 4.3
Visual development and early CG modeling on The Fearsome Beastie’s “Clive.” (Courtesy
of Slurpy Studios, ©2014.)

60 4. Consider the Source

budgetary reasons—and just because of how concise and clever the poem is—we’ve actually
ended up getting it right back to 5 minutes. Also, the timing and the pacing of the poem,
we’ve often found it has a certain rhythm that carries you along. It’s an adventure story, so it
does have a natural pace, but it’s hard to stick in extra scenes without breaking that pace up.”
Alongside The Gruffalo, other Magic Light adaptations such as The Gruffalo’s Child
(Dir. Johannes Weiland and Uwe Heidschötter) and Room on the Broom, next to Studio
AKA’s Lost and Found (Dir. Phil Hunt), were turned to when researching which ideas
most effectively translate from one medium to another. Other elements of successful
adaptation—including, for example, a well-executed framing device in which the story of
The Gruffalo is set up in a manner better suited to film—were the ways in which embel-
lishments could be made to the world of the story while again leaving the original text
unchanged (Figure 4.4).
“We’ve also had to expand the world,” says Aaron. “In the book, it takes place inside
one room really and maybe outside on the street, and we had to do it in a much more filmic
way and set up a whole village.”
“I think The Grufallo and those sorts of books have quite a lighthearted tone,” adds
Katie. “For us, the big challenge was setting up this darker tone while keeping it kid-
friendly and cartoony, so that it wasn’t too scary.”
Adaptation is far from a filmmaking cheat or hack—it can be a tricky process, and
effectively translating one storytelling medium to another is a skill in itself. The process
of finding a story that proves a fit as far as your artistic sensibilities are concerned may
eliminate the initial ideas phase of the process, but rarely will a story as written trans-
late immediately to film. Some concepts may need to be embellished; others significantly
edited down; focuses may shift; and structurally, the narrative may require much by way
of tweaking. To stay true and respectful to your source material while creating a film that
stands up on its own is a gentle art that warrants a great deal of communication.
Depending on the circumstances of your initial arrangement, it may very well be that
the story’s original author is perfectly content for you to adapt it in whatever way you

Figure 4.4
Visual development of the children’s house from The Fearsome Beastie—early sketch con-
cept to CG render comparison. (Courtesy of Slurpy Studios, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 61
please, in which case it makes sense to proceed as you would under any other circum-
stances. However, keeping lines of communication open with a story’s originator gives you
a direct line to the humanity of its characters and the intended narrative arcs and helps
guide you toward defining the response you want from your audience.
Narrative children’s fiction, ordinarily having been adapted from shorter stories, as the
medium of picture books dictates, can very well stand on its own when adapted to anima-
tion, at least in terms of the narration and dialog. Where the animation can come into its
own lies more with how the visual illustrations are interpreted and built upon.
By going the route of adaptation, we need not be limited to one story type or audience.
Not that there’s anything wrong with films aimed toward younger audiences (certainly,
as one of the more indefatigable animation genres, they may very well be in with a bet-
ter chance of generating revenue down the line), but just as not every writer can sit down
and scribe a children’s book, not every filmmaker will have the creative impetus or inter-
est in producing a children’s film. Along with preexisting scripts for unproduced proj-
ects, numerous other sources that can serve as a springboard can include short stories,
essays, articles, and biographical nonfiction. The latter we shall explore more extensively
in Chapter 7, though it is worth examining here a successful instance of how all four can
combine and be brought to life through animation.

Standing Tall
Love in the Time of March Madness (2014) is an animated memoir written by filmmaker
and writer Melissa Johnson (Figure 4.5). With a background predominantly focused on
live-action documentary films, her work has leaned toward rite-of-passage stories focus-
ing on women athletes, such as No Look Pass (2011), a feature documentary project for
Showtime, as well as Brittney Griner: Lifesize (2014) and Queen Vee (2015) for ESPN.
Alongside her documentary work, she is also an acclaimed humorist, cocreating the
Comedy Central web series The Worst Speeches of All Time along with writing a number
of first-person essays published in the New York Times, Boston Herald, GOOD Magazine,
and Salon.com. Posted on the latter in March 2011, Melissa’s essay “The Tallest Woman in
the Room Tells All” proved a huge hit for the website.
“I received a lot of positive feedback about the essay, which was hugely encouraging. It
was based off a series of anecdotes drawn from a 20-year span of my life. The film is a pared
down version of the Salon piece.”
The essay, an endearingly candid series of her own recollections and personal con-
flicts as a 6’4” basketball player often prone to romantic misadventure, seemed to
Melissa to be best suited to an animated film adaptation over any other approach. As
she didn’t have any direct experience in this arena, a mutual contact introduced her
to Robertino Zambrano, then working at a New York ad agency, having hailed from
Sydney.
With some early dabblings in animation and computer-generated (CG) images dur-
ing high school, Robertino’s enthusiasm for motion graphics kicked into gear when he
embarked on a visual communications degree at the University of Technology Sydney.
With a knowledge of design, illustration, and animation, he would eventually branch out
into other areas such as advertising, though the call of more creative projects remained
strong.

62 4. Consider the Source

Figure 4.5
Love in the Time of March Madness (Dir. Melissa Johnson/Robertino Zambrano) poster.
(Courtesy of High Hip Productions/KAPWA Studioworks, ©2014.)

“The piece immediately resonated with Robertino, and it felt like creative kismet,”
Melissa recalls of their initial meetings. “I mean, he’s not a 6’4” white American woman,
but that didn’t matter a bit. Robertino just got it. We started going back and forth, refining
the script and creating the storyboard. I don’t think I’ve ever had such an experience of
total alignment in a creative collaboration from the very start.”
For Robertino, collaborating on Love in the Time of March Madness with Melissa was
an ideal incentive to make the shift back into the creative side of animation and motion
graphics. “I think starting on that project was one of the big factors in what propelled me
to leave my job there in New York. I moved back home to try and start up my own practice
where I’d just try and focus solely on animation and motion and film.”
Similarly, Melissa was feeling the call to step out from under her agency life and estab-
lish herself in the world as an independent artist. With Robertino having moved back to
Australia, setting up shop as KAPWA Studioworks, and Melissa leaving New York for Los
Angeles, the two began the transcontinental process of adapting her resonant essay to an
animated short, sharing the directorial reins (Figure 4.6).

Independent Animation 63
Figure 4.6
Love in the Time of March Madness concept sketch by Robertino Zambrano. (Courtesy of
KAPWA Studioworks.)

“It then took about 3 years to complete because of the complexity of the animation,”
explains Melissa. “We wanted an Alice in Wonderland–meets–Alexander McQueen
aesthetic—dark, ornate, irreverent—with exaggerated plays on perspective and a dry sen-
sibility to the humor. I don’t normally talk deadpan like I do in the narration, but I wanted
it to have this insider, intimate feeling, which I think animation complements so well. I
want you to feel like I’m speaking only to you. Maybe we’re driving in my car and I’m tell-
ing you this story; or it’s just the two of us over candlelight, and I’m sharing something
that I don’t share often. But of course, in reality, I’m sharing it with everyone.”
The pair began working with a first draft of the script in early 2011. With Robertino
producing the film as a sideproject to his commercial projects, they were able to indulge
a year or so of visual development, experimenting with a variety of different styles
to determine what would be the best fit for the script. With the project initially quite
ambitious in scope, it was then essential to edit down the script to make its completion
more feasible. Ultimately, tightening up the film at this stage proved to be beneficial,

64 4. Consider the Source

especially as Robertino’s initial hope was to produce it using traditional, frame-by-
frame animation.
“By then, we had a 15-minute script that we hacked down.” Robertino recalls, “I tried
to get it to 7, but I think we settled on around 9. That was when I thought, I don’t think I’m
gonna do this in 2-D; let’s start doing some 3-D and cheat our way through compositing to
get it looking nice!”
The most important factor was creating a piece of art that would reflect the tone of its
source material, especially when considering the personal nature of the original essay. In
this respect, Love in the Time of March Madness also serves as an additional case study
alongside other works of animated nonfiction we will look at in Chapter 7. It is clear when
comparing the two that the film is a faithful adaptation of the essay, albeit streamlined to
create a flow more suited to a short film narrative. Condensing the film in this way chiefly
fell on Melissa’s shoulders.
“As a writer, I had to cut a lot of words and trust the visuals to do the work. For example,
in the essay, I say, ‘I was a walking Rorschach, mirroring their self-image’; I cut the line
in the film because Robertino took it on and was able to visually communicate it. So I
think for me, I had to really go in with a red pen and strip away a lot of language and then
explore the complexity of his animation and think about what to simply.”
“At the start, I was very informal about storyboarding and doing all the layouts,” says
Robertino of the earlier stages of production (Figure 4.7). “It was only as we started getting
deeper into making the film when I really realized that I should have been as disciplined
with this as with commercial work!”
A major motivator for laying out a solid production plan came with bringing on other
animators and delegating tasks. With a crew to be accountable for, production on the film
began proper, using a combination of approaches to the animation itself (Figure 4.7).
“We built most of the raw elements, such as the characters and most of the main props,
in Maya. There are a couple of shots in the film that are actually just frame-by-frame 2-D,
done in Flash, but the majority of it is generated through CG. We brought all the footage
into After Effects and did all our compositing in there, adding any treatments and other
little elements, backgrounds, layouts, et cetera.”
The result is a truly unique and seamless blend of digital animation processes. Rendered
in stark black and white, Melissa’s animated counterpart occupies an ethereal world of
visual metaphors, inventive transitions, and wry onscreen gags that perfectly comple-
ment the humor of her original essay. An extra detail that gives the production an instant
identifiability is the line work, which runs together to create a painterly effect, something
Robertino had previously experimented with for a commercial project, TED-Ed’s: The
Science of Stage Fright.
“Photoshop has this oil-paint filter which looks really hokey if you just apply it, straight
up, to any image, but the thing I saw that it did—which most effects didn’t do—was it
actually picked up a lot of the contours in the image, so you could extract some really
cool painterly effects.” With this in mind, the Maya render settings were adjusted so that
each shot would contain enough visual information to be picked up on in this way. To
reduce the artificiality of the effect, the footage was combined with an assortment of hand-
generated digital textures during the compositing phase in After Effects (Figure 4.8).
“It really helped, especially when we had some of the more frame-by-frame Flash-
generated stuff, where I was wondering how we were going to marry these two animation

Independent Animation 65
Kind Kind
Kind Kind
Kind Kind

Kind Kind
Kind Kind
Kind Kind
Kind

Kind Kind
Kind
Kind
Kind

Kind Kind
Kind

Kind Kind
Kind
Kind

Kind Kind
Kind
Kind
Kind
Kind

Figure 4.7
Love in the Time of March Madness storyboard excerpts. (Courtesy of KAPWA Studioworks.)

66 4. Consider the Source

Figure 4.8
Stills comparison demonstrating the textural effect applied to the animation of Love in the
Time of March Madness. (Courtesy of High Hip Productions/KAPWA Studioworks, ©2014.)

styles together. A lot of the scenes at the start, where they’re all coming out of Maya, were
looking very 3-D, so it was trying to break up the perspective so it didn’t look so ‘nice.’
When you get to that point where someone who’s watching it wonders, How did they make
that? then you’ve done something right!”

Like-Mindedness
Were it not for the synchronicity and mutual understanding of Melissa and Robertino’s
creative partnership, both artistically and circumstantially, it’s hard to say whether or
not Love in the Time of March Madness would have come together in as successful a
way, if at all. Though they came from notably disparate backgrounds, it is encouraging
to see that the pair’s instances of common ground revolved around an art form they
both clearly care about. This is important to remember when contemplating any type of
collaboration; pairing up with somebody with whom you share little by way of empathy
or interests will probably not result in a successful film. Certainly, you can have differ-
ences, or even wildly dissimilar personality types, but it’s crucial to know for sure that,
on some level, there is an understanding and focused idea of what you both want out of
the project.
Amongst the variety of genres and filmmaking methods covered in the extensive film-
ography of director Chris Shepherd is one particular adaptation that came about from an
artistic rapport with Cheshire-born humorist and Turner Prize–nominated artist David
Shrigley. The eventual collaboration began during Chris’s stint on the BBC sketch show
Big Train, for which he animated a series of vignettes—The World Stare-out Championship

Independent Animation 67
Finals—whose minimalist absurdity would foreshadow the short to come. Discovering
David Shrigley’s work through a collection of his drawings titled Why We Got the Sack
From the Museum, Chris was immediately enamored.
“I looked at it and thought it was really great, because when I was a kid, I always used
to draw crazy pictures, and in a sense, his book reminded me of that. It reminded me of
the drawings that I’d do that would in fact be very dysfunctional. I always think it’s like
graffiti—in London, you can get graffiti that is superornate and beautiful, but when you
go up North, it’s just your straight, four-letter expletives on a wall with no frills. This book
was like that; these moments that are really raw; they just go bang, and there it is. That
really appealed to me.”
With David’s star having not yet risen within the art world, the possibility of collabo-
ration appealed to a mutual fondness for animation, but a suitable concept couldn’t be
decided on. In 2003, the binding premise of a new David Shrigley collection titled Who
I Am and What I Want served to finally get the ball rolling. The following year, with the
assistance of Arts Council England’s Animate Projects and Channel 4, the pair embarked
on an animated adaptation of the book (Figures 4.9 through 4.12).

Figure 4.9
Still from Who I Am and What I Want (Dir. Chris Shepherd/David Shrigley). (Courtesy of Chris
Shepherd/David Shrigley, ©2005.)

68 4. Consider the Source

Figure 4.10
Still from Who I Am and What I Want (Dir. Chris Shepherd/David Shrigley). (Courtesy of Chris
Shepherd/David Shrigley, ©2005.)

“What was great about that book for adapting was that it was all stories of one person.
Most of his other books are like snapshots of time, vignettes; they’re all different moments,
so they don’t have that narrative. I remember the first thing I did was scan all the pages in
the book and put them in a timeline. What I ended up with came to something mad like
40 minutes, with no shape to it.”
The absence of a narrative in any strict, traditional sense was remedied by the addi-
tion of a framing device in a manner bearing some similarity to that of Magic Light’s
Grufallo adaptations, though wildly different in terms of tone and audience, with the
addition of scenes set in a forest in which the protagonist (voiced by natural-born odd-
ball Kevin Eldon) is established as a societal outsider and woodland-dwelling hermit. In
this context, the disconnected musings as presented in the original book are presented as
remembrances of a life he has left behind. Despite maintaining the nonsensical nature of
the narration’s array of nonsequiturs, the film effectively builds a structure for itself.
“It starts off in the woods and ends in the woods, to give the illusion that it has a story.
Then when we did the animation, I drew the animatic all in Flash, really roughly and just

Independent Animation 69
Figure 4.11
Still from Who I Am and What I Want (Dir. Chris Shepherd/David Shrigley). (Courtesy of Chris
Shepherd/David Shrigley, ©2005.)

Figure 4.12
Still from Who I Am and What I Want (Dir. Chris Shepherd/David Shrigley). (Courtesy of Chris
Shepherd/David Shrigley, ©2005.)

70 4. Consider the Source

in my own style. Then I’d ask Dave, who was getting really megafamous then, and sort of
superbusy, to give me some drawings of buildings or some trees, different things, street
furniture. He’d give me pages of those, and then I just assembled it, a bit like Letraset, in
the computer. That way of doing it worked really well because it meant he didn’t have to
draw the whole world.”
With Chris taking the lead on the animation itself, David maintained an active involve-
ment in the codirection of the film and the adaptation of the script.
“When we did the script, we did it together. I’d write and bounce it back to him; he’d
come along to come up with ideas, do voices. We changed some things and created some
great inversions on the film. There’s a line where he says, ‘I want to be in a cage with the
lions and dress like a clown,’ but I think it was different in the book; I think it was ‘I want
to be in a cage with clowns and dressed like a lion.’ At the last minute, he said, ‘I know, why
don’t we just swap it?’ and it was much more surreal. It was a good collaboration because
nobody was precious about it; we just got on with it.”
The final film, an appealingly bizarre affair all at once filthy, violent, and curiously
thoughtful, proved a major hit on the festival circuit, winning 13 major awards in its
first year of release alone. In 2014, 9 years after its production, it also won the Filmmaker
Grand Prix at Japan’s esteemed Sapporo Film Festival, a further testament to its relevance
and longevity.
Traveling in creative circles will generally lead to opportunities for collaboration, but
a more proactive approach may be handy too. If the concept of applying your knowledge,
skill, and passion for animation to an adaptation of a preexisting work is something that
appeals, then it may be worth stepping outside of your comfort zone and reaching out
to writers directly. Montreal-based animator Claire Blanchet’s understated and haunting
National Film Board of Canada short The End of Pinky, for example, began life as a film
noir short story by Heather O’Neill that appeared in a magazine the director happened
upon fortuitously one day. Instantly enamored of the writer’s style of humor and feeling
a connection to its evocative tone and use of familiar Montreal locations, Blanchet made
contact with O’Neill. The eventual film was able to showcase the director’s own sense of
mood while complementing the original text, even featuring O’Neill as the film’s narrator.
Writers’ groups, literature festivals, meet-ups, and of course the Internet are all good
facilitators for potential collaboration. At the risk of sounding drippy, it may very well be
that making the effort and reaching out will become the catalyst for something special.

Independent Animation 71
5
The Beat of a Different Drum

Still from Dub of a Preacherman. (Courtesy of Rumpus Animation, ©2011.)

The composition, production, and performance of music are creative exercises not without
their animation parallels. It’s no surprise, then, that music and animation have so often
made fine bedfellows. From the very dawn of animation throughout its golden age, music
was often the thrust behind the early shorts and feature films of every major studio. From

73
Norman McLaren’s work for the GPO and NFB to the musical sequences of The Beatles’
Yellow Submarine, music has been an established linchpin of the animation world since
long before the dawn of MTV. Once the concept of music videos became mainstream, ani-
mation was quickly integrated and, on occasion, propelled forward as a medium. While
showing their age nowadays, early videos showcased exemplary animation techniques,
such as rotoscoping for A-ha’s Take On Me (Dir. Steve Barron, 1984), early computer-
generated (CG) images in Dire Straits’ Money For Nothing (Barron again, the following
year), stop-motion in Michael Jackson’s Speed Demon (Dir. Will Vinton, 1989), and the
mixed-media masterwork of Peter Gabriel’s Sledgehammer (Dir. Stephen R. Johnson,
1986), which depicted the singer alternately through live-action, Plasticine animation, and
pixilation against a predominantly stop-motion backdrop, serving as a formative outing
for the talents of Aardman and the Brothers Quay.
As time has gone by, the role of the music video as a promotional tool has hugely dimin-
ished in importance. With the nature of music sales a completely different beast than it was
in the 1980s and 1990s, along with the oversaturation of music-based channels (their origi-
nator MTV having long succumbed to the lure of cheap ’n’ cheerful “reality” shows mak-
ing up the bulk of its schedules), music videos are no longer considered an indispensable
branch of an artist’s, band’s, or album’s advertising. They do, however, remain quite vital
in the cultivation and preservation of a band’s image, and the viral potential today’s online
outlets allow for is mutually beneficial to both musicians and filmmakers. Mainstream
examples of modern animated music videos remain plentiful, outfits as diverse as Queens
of the Stone Age, Radiohead, R.E.M., Daft Punk, U.N.C.L.E., and The White Stripes mak-
ing up a mere fraction of those who’ve had their work represented through animation in
some form or other, not to mention the entire branding of Damon Albarn’s Gorillaz.
Alas, this isn’t a history book you’re holding (which is a bit of a shame for me as I’d
rather love to bang on about this subject at tiresome length), though hopefully, the afore-
mentioned helps to legitimize a music-oriented project as a tenable prospect for short-
form animation.
Bristol-based studio Rumpus Animation began life as far back as 2007 in the way many stu-
dios do, as an assortment of hypothetical film ideas and character concepts discussed between
animator Joe Wood and designer Seb Burnett. When the two officially began the company
proper in 2010, there was a long road ahead as far as forging their brand and reputation.
One formative project that served as a valuable exercise in establishing the studio’s
identity was Dub of a Preacherman, a collaboration with DJ Count Skylarkin, a mutu-
ally beneficial exercise that also served to develop his own visual branding. The music
video embraces some of Rumpus Animation’s major strengths, a wide variety of quirky
character designs coupled with short, endearing, loopable animations (a perfect fit for
the up-tempo music), composited together to create a showy animated barroom scenario
(Figure 5.1).
An issue to consider is that “independent,” be it animation, music, or otherwise, tends to go
hand in hand with nil budget. As Seb reasons, “Most record labels or indie bands who might
want you to produce work for them as an indie studio are going to be broke as well. So unless
you’re working with big bands through an agency, it tends to have to be more of a labor of love.”
“But it’s the only one where they probably can pay you in exposure,” adds Joe, in refer-
ence to the dubious lure most emerging creatives find themselves faced with when embark-
ing on the first stage of their career. “It actually works sometimes, as opposed to lots of

74 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

Figure 5.1
Dub of a Preacherman character designs. (Courtesy of Rumpus Animation, ©2011.)

projects that offer to ‘pay’ you in the exposure. At least with music videos, sometimes you
can get quite a free reign to do what you want.”
As a means of getting the ball rolling for the studio itself, the advantages are fairly obvi-
ous. There may very well be a plethora of half-formed film ideas, character concepts, and
vanity projects that come with establishing a studio’s identity, though without a focus for
these creative energies, it’s likely that they won’t take flight. “Apart from having the musi-
cian chasing us all the time to make sure we’ve actually done it, all you need is the music
and the animation, and it’s done. Our job is to make some cool stuff to go over this music,
so it’s quite a nice thing to do. Although it took us a while to get it done, we were chased
up quite a lot, which made us do it.”
“Because it was our first project, instead of doing something quite simple, we put as
much as we could into it,” explains Seb. “The idea was to keep everything really simple,
reuse, loops—that’s the thing with music videos; they’re sort of made for reusing visuals.
We started enjoying the fact that we could put any character we wanted in there; it sort of
mushroomed a bit.” The assortment of characters, a tradition that Joe and Seb enthuse is
paramount to the Rumpus MO, regardless of medium, were amassed from sketchbooks,
stalled projects, and pitches. The premise of the video itself uses simplicity to its advan-
tage, with bar patrons and soul singers animated in a variety of dance loops. To Joe, this
simple setup made the overall process “quite fun, because you can pretty much use anyone
you like the look of, and they won’t be out of place in the film” (Figure 5.2).
“In fact, it was a chance to just do the funniest stuff we’d normally not make for a com-
mercial film,” adds Seb. “We had a bit more free range. I think originally, it was set in the
woods—I just like setting everything in the woods—it would be the same except at the
start you would go down into an old tree trunk. For whatever reason, we decided to change
it to a city; that way, it’s sort of based on an area in Oxford he does a lot of DJing in. We’re
mostly interested in funny characters or funny stories. Whether that’s for a game or an

Independent Animation 75
Figure 5.2
Artwork demonstrating the visual development of a sequence in Dub of a Preacherman.
(Courtesy of Rumpus Animation, ©2011.)

76 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

animation or comics doesn’t matter, as long as we’re enjoying making something funny
happen that hopefully people will enjoy—light relief, daft little characters falling over or
pulling things out of their pockets in a funny way. It’s always the story and characters that
are the most interesting.”
Producing work for friends carries with it a diminished risk factor when compared to
producing work for major clients, who are less accommodating about missed deadlines.
Though it took longer than expected, it served as a ropes course in the realities of produc-
tion that, as well as making their mark on the animation community, cemented their more
disciplined approach when the commissions began.
The film and song both performed well, with the music video making the Annecy
International Animation Festival official selection and the song receiving extended air-
play from prominent UK DJ Craig Charles, leading to a significant boost in YouTube hits.
Since then, Rumpus have dipped their toes in the waters of music video production with
a follow-up Count Skylarkin video, Dubplate Iko, in collaboration with live-action direc-
tor Miho Lomon in 2014, preceded by 2011’s Dresinen for the Norwegian band Casiokids.
Though the opportunity didn’t offer a huge budgetary advantage, weighing up their own
fondness for the song itself as well as the opportunity to appeal to an entirely new, inter-
national audience again proved vital to the company’s visibility. Seb, who took the lead on
the project creatively, looked at it as “a chance to experiment for the first time by combin-
ing stop-motion and Flash. So it’s all cut-out characters arranged in Flash, then animated
as if it were stop-motion, with real fingers. I’m still quite proud of that one because it looks
quite different; it’s still got identifiably Rumpus characters, but it looks quite different as a
technique to what we’ve normally done, so that made it worth it.”
The chance to develop a technique that the studio most likely would not have happened
on otherwise proved another advantage, with Seb drawing upon influences such as the
1977 Polish adaptation of Tove Jansson’s Moomins series. “I had been playing around with
ideas of how we could make it, and the song was a really good opportunity because they’re
Scandinavian and the sound of the music fit rather well with the imagery. That was prob-
ably one of our more successful projects because it was for a more established band.” The
opportunity originally arose through the brother of a studio friend owning the indepen-
dent record label the band was signed to, which makes a case for exploring all avenues of
networking when they present themselves.
As with Dub of a Preacherman, Rumpus was afforded creative reign in lieu of a hefty
budget, which, hand in hand with the exposure, made for a successful end result (Figure
5.3). This too makes its own case, that the circumstances under which monetary compen-
sation need be strictly proportionate to the labor involved are not necessarily that cut and
dry. Whether a studio or individual, we are all of us aware at some level of our own worth
and the value that being associated with a certain project can bring. If a high enjoyment
factor, genuine visibility that will lead to more regular work, and an excuse to try new
approaches all align, then accepting the odd honorarium or stipend now and again will
not grind our careers to a standstill, so long as they can be time-managed effectively.
“Definitely the indie stuff we’ve done, like the music videos, have led to getting some
work in,” Seb reflects. “Then when you’re pitching work as well, you can show stuff you’ve
made to prospective clients. It just shows that you’re making work as well. We try and keep
Rumpus so that funny animation comes first. Occasionally, we do quite a lot of work where
there’s no humor involved whatsoever, but they’ve seen some of our work and realized,

Independent Animation 77
Figure 5.3
Still from Dub of a Preacherman. (Courtesy of Rumpus Animation, ©2011.)

technically, we can animate, but the project will be in a completely different style than
what we usually do. We work with different illustrators as well; I’ve got constant freelancers
coming in; it’s quite a flexible way of working, but the basis of it all is the humor, basically.”
“We’ve tried to keep a balance doing our own little experiments, and as visual language
changes and different things become fashionable, new techniques emerge. You need to
keep trying to experiment with different approaches to different films, so you’re not just
‘that’ studio with ‘that’ style.”

Going Solo
The ways in which music and animation can complement each other need not even be
dependent on collaboration, as plenty of animators with a musical bent have demonstrated.
There is clearly a place for music and its potential to take hold of an audience in the
world of web-based animation (an area we shall explore in more depth in the following
chapter). The viral success of self-propelling online personalities such as Jonti Picking, a
prolific producer of online content under the moniker Weebl, is often peppered with ani-
mated musical numbers (Figure 5.4).
The roots of Jonti’s enthusiasm for bringing music and visuals together began before
his first major strides in the world of design and animation. He took a music tech course,
which introduced him to Macromedia Director (an early incarnation of Adobe Director),
which ran alongside Flash in the development of interactive CD-ROMs, which, at the
time, were quite prevalent.
“Music was hugely important to me,” Jonti recalls, “until I became sort of disenfran-
chised by the whole music scene. Eventually, I decided to write tunes to amuse myself and
try to annoy other people, which made it all fun again. Songs like Badgers* and Scampi†

* http://weebls-stuff.com/songs/badgers/
† http://weebls-stuff.com/songs/scampi/

78 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

Figure 5.4
Narwhals—a viral phenomenon. (Courtesy of Weebl’s Stuff, ©2009.)

use the most obnoxious melodies and sounds possible, so that they are really hammered
into the brain.”
Said clips, as well as a smorgasbord of others, including Narwhals,* Magical Trevor,† and
Kenya,‡ serve less as music videos than as hook-centric microshorts that take advantage
of their Flash SWF file format to play on a perpetual loop. As with many of Weebl’s viral
companions from the earlier days of webtoons, they use simple visual concepts, oftentimes
random and surreal, combined with musical earworms that linger with their audiences for
days. While these have frequently proved extremely popular, racking up millions of views,
Jonti has been keen to evolve and embrace the broader role music can play in his work.
More recent song-oriented projects include Savlonic, a series of animated music videos for
a faux-electro band that has quickly developed a considerable fan base in its own right,
with successful crowdfunding campaigns ensuring the professional production of their
studio albums (Figure 5.5).
“As I’ve gone along, the technology and equipment I’ve been able to buy has improved,
so it’s been nice to dabble with slightly more sensible stuff. Hence Savlonic, which will
possibly become a proper, full-on electro band. It was meant to parody electro bands, but
their lyrics became as daft as ours. There’s not much point in parodying something that’s
become a parody of itself anyway, so we may as well write proper music.
“People attach themselves to tunes; they’re easy to share and understand; straight away,
music videos are engrained on our psyche. You can come back to them as well; with a comedy
script, obviously, with each viewing, the comedy will be less and less, generally, whereas with
music, you can get the comedy element and then go back and watch it for the tune because that’s
stuck in your head. I think that’s why music is so successful with animation. It’s rewatchable.”

* http://weebls-stuff.com/songs/Narwhals/
† http://weebls-stuff.com/songs/magical+trevor/
‡ http://weebls-stuff.com/songs/kenya/

Independent Animation 79
Figure 5.5
Still from Savlonic music video The Driver. (Courtesy of Weebl’s Stuff, ©2012.)

Even when dealing with the supershort, absurdist subsection of music-driven anima-
tion, there are certain disciplines that differ from standard webtoon production. “You
don’t generally have a script to begin with, so the tune very much drives what’s going to
happen. With a script you’ll write it, then you’ll do the audio, then you’ll animate every-
thing to the script and add background music last, so for music videos, it’s sort of the
reverse of that. It means you can do things quite quickly as well, which, when dealing with
online content, is a bonus.”

Branching Out
Beyond reinforcing one’s independent career, as with Rumpus and Weebl’s Stuff, music
videos are also capable of allowing individual creatives on the periphery of animation to
proliferate and take the plunge. Illustrator Tony Johnson, having traditionally trained as a
fine art sculptor, took his first steps into the animation world as a hobbyist.
“I started combining film with animation in the early 2000s, which slowly progressed
into just straight animation, mainly because of budgets, things like getting camera crews
together. Although it is time-expensive, you don’t have to have a huge budget with anima-
tion. I could still keep creating in my bedroom and just plough on, so it kind of stemmed
from there. I taught myself through online tutorials; I was quick to pick up the software
side of things and could already edit, so it was another step further to learn about anima-
tion timing and theory. It was kind of a natural progression because the same sort of ele-
ments you get with editing transpose quite cleanly over to animation.”
Following a modestly received, low-key animated music clip for indie artist Benbo in
which Tony displayed a sound comprehension of stripped-down After Effects animation,
musician Holly Dearden approached Tony with an animated music video concept for
“Marzipan Reindeer,” a song by her band Holly and the Wolf (Figure 5.6).*

* http://hollyandthewolf.com/

80 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

Figure 5.6
Still from Marzipan Reindeer (Dir. Tony Johnson). (Courtesy Tony Johnson, ©2012.)

“They essentially just wanted to release a Christmas single, so it was a case of meeting
up with them and chatting through their ideas. They wanted something that was kind of
fairytale-esque, and I had been looking quite a lot at Russian and Czech animation around
that time: cutout animation, Jiří Trnka, The Merry Circus, things like that. I was trying to
think of a way to knock this video out quite quickly and economically without having to
hand-draw everything, which is how the style came about, trying to capture that sort of
fairytale look along with retro puppet animation while keeping everything on budget, so
it wouldn’t take too long.”
The mutually beneficial nature of such collaboration suited both the needs of the band’s
expanding visual identity and Tony’s own impulse to further develop his animation skill
set. Beyond an initial meeting, Tony was given largely free reign over the visual concepts
and execution (Figure 5.7).
“The one meeting I had with them was just talking over what the music was about and
what they could picture it being. There was this whole story embedded underneath the events
of the video, as a bit of a subtext for her, one which the audience probably wouldn’t read but
that she can see quite clearly. On the surface, however, she wanted things reminiscent of
Little Red Riding Hood with a bit of an edge to it. I went away; wrote them a one-page treat-
ment outlining everything; and sent it back along with a few sketches, some character mock-
ups and a few style ideas (Figure 5.8). I sent it to them as a little package and then just kept
in contact with them via e-mail. As I progressed through it, I kept sending them updates
so they could see where I was and I could get a temperature of what they thought about it.”
Production proper on even an independent music video carries with it some early
essential considerations. To get the project delivered on time and within budget, Tony
developed a working process formed largely by his own intuition while partly emulating
established production pipelines.

Independent Animation 81
Figure 5.7
Marzipan Reindeer—character designs scale sheet. (Courtesy of Tony Johnson, ©2012.)

“I started with the treatment. If you don’t nail it in the treatment, then you’re just going
to run into problems. From there, I fleshed it out into a larger script, which is great, but I
find in short form, a script is very difficult to be able to gauge timing in animation, espe-
cially when you’re working very closely to music. A lot of what you write in a script often
has to get dumped for timing reasons, so you have to be quite concise; the narrative can’t
be too complex; you have to strip it down quite a lot. Once the script is in place, then I try
and do an animatic, working on character designs alongside it. I think a lot of people go
into doing the design side of things first, before going into animatics, but I tend to do them
parallel. It’s perhaps not the best way to work, and it may take me longer than it should do,
but it’s a way I prefer to work; it just seems more organic to me. Maybe that will change in
the future.
“The next step is to get all the timing right with the music, which should at least be
delivered as a temp track by then so the timing is exact. Once that’s nailed down, I’d break
the video down into shots. I had a big board on the wall that took over my living room for a
while, lots of sticky notes with each shot laid out, along with a shot list. As I did each shot, I
could just cross it off as I went, so I could visually see on the wall how things were progress-
ing. It’s a good way to work because you can see how much you’ve got to go, as well as which
scenes made use of the same effect or the same backgrounds. You certainly might see issues
with continuity, so it can be a bit of a time-saver in that way; if there are three or four shots
with the same background, then they can all be comped and worked on together. Then it
was just a case of getting the final mix, editing, and sound put on and exported in all the
different formats. There’s lots of bits in between, but that’s the essence of it.”
When it comes to scripted, narrative animation, there’s realistically very little mar-
gin for improvisation along the way. So much of the movement, design, and overall tone
will be set down in preproduction to the point where any derivation will potentially

82 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

Figure 5.8
Marzipan Reindeer—storyboard/shot list. (Courtesy of Tony Johnson.)

Independent Animation 83
create problems, if not throw things out of whack completely. Music videos can poten-
tially be a little looser for creative experimentation, while benefiting from an upkeep of
self-discipline and stylistic consistency.
“I think the biggest challenge is getting it tonally right, because although it was a
fairytale story, a quite lighthearted Christmas tune, they wanted this little edge to it. Even
when getting the timing stuff really nailed down, it’s the tone which is the thing that can
change. You might find that in the animatic, because they’re still shots, certain movements
actually take longer than you expected them to, or they don’t play well at the same pace as
the animatic. Sometimes, you have to be brutal in terms of cutting it down even further or
combining shots, so there’s still an element of fluidity to that animatic. It’s like a road map;
it serves as a rough guide, but it doesn’t point out all the challenges and problems you’re
going to face. It’s only when you’ve finally got everything edited together and the music’s
there that you start to notice whether shots don’t match properly or the timing feels off, or
if it slows somewhere and doesn’t build in the right place. So there’s always an element of
trying to rebalance all the elements of the project.”
With a sound knowledge of timing and forethought in design, character animation
can be approached economically without looking “cheap.” Using a combination of assets
for each character, some with rotational pivot points, others rigged using the After Effects
puppet pin tool, Tony applies swift, fluid movement to the characters throughout, infus-
ing them with life and character despite being comprised of very few drawn elements
(Figure 5.9).
“Probably about 65%–70% of the character work was puppet animation. Then I would
say maybe 15% would have been a little bit of the After Effects puppet tool, just fudging
things around a little bit, with the rest hand-drawn. There are a few effects as well, for exam-
ple, the snow was actually just After Effects particles. While I try to keep it mostly puppet
animation, there are times when traditional animation—or at least drawing a few frames
that you could whip through really quickly to give that illusion of drawn animation—can
actually be a lot faster. Basically, every decision was always an economic one” (Figure 5.10).
The other major challenge that Tony found himself working against was time manage-
ment. “It was quite involved for the time I had, which was 3 months working alone, part-
time, alongside a full-time job, so quite an intensive period. That and possibly the render
time—not having a very fast computer at the time, there were often shots that, although
they look quite simple and flat, have a lot going on in them, and it could sometimes take
days to render a single shot! Fortunately, I’ve gotten a faster computer now, but when
you’re looking at a 2-day render, planning is the key. Whatever time you’ve got, it’s a mat-
ter of knowing quite clearly what you have to do and hitting those key markers all the way
through a project so you know whether you’re ahead or behind. Always build some leeway
into your plan, because you’re going to need it. It always takes longer than you expect.”
The seasonal nature of the story has infused in it some extra longevity, insomuch as the
holiday season inevitably leads to a boost in views, posts, and shares. Perhaps ironically,
the video’s online and festival success has led to more of an influx of illustration-based
work than animation, although the positive experience of the project has kindled more
enthusiasm in Tony for animated personal projects. From the perspective of the band
themselves, the collaborative effort was a gambit that paid off.
“They’re very happy with it; it’s been their most successful so far. They’ve had a lot of
live-action videos and have said that there’s something about animation that seems to

84 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

Figure 5.9
Marzipan Reindeer—”Holly” character turnaround and assets. (Courtesy of Tony Johnson,
©2012.)

have a lot more longevity and stands out more. There are lots of incredible live-action vid-
eos out there, but there are also quite a lot which are generic. With animation, even if it’s
not perfectly executed or really well animated, there’s just something very graphic about it
that just seems to stand out a little bit more. So I think the music video helped push their
sales and prominence a little bit more than their past videos.”

From Scratch
Another virtue of collaboration, in a manner not dissimilar from that explored in
Chapter 4, would be one in which a piece of music is not only the basis of an animated
short but created specifically for it. A project preceding her success with Bottle and Move
Mountain saw Kirsten Lepore joining forces with fellow undergraduate, animator and
songwriter Garrett Michael Davis.
The two met during their time at the Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA), when
Kirsten was working in the experimental animation department and Garrett in inter-
disciplinary sculpture. Over time, they would begin a series of creative collaborations,
Kirsten providing ideas and concepts to prompt improvisational monologues and char-
acter performances from Garrett. In their senior year, finding themselves both studying

Independent Animation 85
Figure 5.10
Marzipan Reindeer—opening shot background art. (Courtesy of Tony Johnson, ©2012.)

86 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

animation, they decided to work together on their final project, having composed a piece
of music originally titled The Spider Song, in which a frightened boy entreaties his father to
dispatch of a spider and is instead met with a series of increasingly surreal and existential
hypotheticals (Figure 5.11).
“The spider song was written well before we had film in mind,” confirms Garrett. “I
wrote it while spending a summer in Colorado, working in the gift shop of a white-water
rafting company and trying to write songs. Lacking ideas, I asked my girlfriend at the time
what I should write a song about, and she suggested a girl asking her Dad to kill a spider in
her room. Obviously, it became about a little boy, but the seed of the idea came from her;
hence, she’s thanked in the credits.”
Deciding to animate a video for it, the two collaborated on the retitled Story from North
America, originally intending to professionally rerecord the song but ultimately preferring
the raw, hastily recorded demo version (Figures 5.12 through 5.14).
“It was the natural preference. I recorded it on my Nikon Coolpix digital camera that
had an audio recording function. I recorded it very soon after writing the song, and since
at that point, I had not yet memorized the lyrics, the page turn that got animated as the
narrator turning the page in a barren field was me turning the page of my notebook as I
read the lyrics. Aesthetically though, recording in such a low-fi way was just how I liked to
do things then, and still do now, though that process has evolved quite a bit.
“I’m not impressed by the technical slickness which is so idolized at the moment (and
was back in 2007 as well). We did rerecord the song with an extra guitar in a sound booth,
and it was just so obvious that the original version was better. On this point, I also must
mention that having a finished audio track like this to work with is a dream come true.
There is no need to think about sound effects if you don’t want to, as the skeleton of the
timing is already present. Working with music has such a rich history in animation, and
having a set audio track to animate to, whichever way it has been generated, simplifies
things a lot. It gives you set limits within which to explore, makes a lot of decisions for you
at the outset so you have more time and energy to go wild generating ideas of how to fill it.”
Though Kirsten contributed, mainly insofar as the animation of the spider itself and
the ever-beseeching child tormented by it, obligations toward her own production and
thesis meant that Garrett ultimately took the lead on the visuals, though the idea genera-
tion behind them harkened back to their earlier, improvisational collaborations.
“I animated all of the Dad’s parts, and things like the narrator, the devil in the cloud of
smoke in the kid’s room, the spider family blessing their feast, the scene where the kid has
a glass of blood on his nightstand, the spider at the end. Our working dynamic was very
natural and effortless. For any given line of the song, we’d just say, ‘What should this be?’
We would think of ideas, decide on one, and go do it. We both understood each other’s
sense of humor intuitively, so it just flowed.”
“Garrett did most of the animation and made most of the design decisions on the film,”
Kirsten assures. “We definitely approached the visualization in a very unique way where
we wouldn’t plan too far ahead, but instead meet, assign each other a verse, loosely figure
out what we think we’d animate for our respective verses, and then go off and animate
separately. We never boarded anything; the animation itself was relatively stream of con-
sciousness. When we’d meet back up, it was always exciting to show the other person what
we had animated. Since we had not pencil-tested, it felt like Christmas every time we shot
a scene because we were seeing our finished animation for the first time.”

Independent Animation 87
88
Figure 5.11

5. The Beat of a Different Drum

Original lyrics for The Spider Song by Garrett Michael Davis. (Courtesy of Garrett Michael Davis.)
Figure 5.12
Still from Story from North America (Dir. Garrett Michael Davis/Kirsten Lepore). (Courtesy of
Garrett Davis/Kirsten Lepore, ©2007.)

This sustained commitment and fondness for the process is what Garrett credits for
the success of what, on its surface, might not be the most accessible of films. Through the
scratchy designs and fuzzy audio, a film with no small amount of appeal shines through,
something that never would have happened without their combined forces.
“It was also just the friendship and camaraderie of it,” says Garrett. “Staying up all
night in Kirsten’s apartment drawing and then her cooking up some ingenious meal out

Figure 5.13
Still from Story from North America (Dir. Garrett Michael Davis/Kirsten Lepore). (Courtesy of
Garrett Davis/Kirsten Lepore, ©2007.)

Independent Animation 89
Figure 5.14
Still from Story from North America (Dir. Garrett Michael Davis/Kirsten Lepore). (Courtesy of
Garrett Davis/Kirsten Lepore, ©2007.)

of the scraps she had in her kitchen. Making the rounds of the computer labs, taking paper
out of the school printers to draw it on, and bringing giant stacks to this one particular
security desk that had a three-hole punch that would punch about a hundred sheets at
a time.”
Alongside these rituals was an overall rejection of how “best” to approach the produc-
tion pipeline, instead opting to wing it without tests or storyboards. Working to a primi-
tive dope sheet in Flash for timing reference, the pair wound up working straight-ahead
for the most part.
“Our classmates were completely shocked that we didn’t storyboard it. We didn’t care
about the accepted way of doing things. We found those methods stiff and boring, an
unnecessary layer of tedium heaped onto the already nearly unbearable tediousness of the
animation process itself. While everyone was busy imitating those who had influenced
them by drawing off-brand anime, we were doing our own thing.”
“I think the spider with the knife up to the kid’s throat is one of my favorite of Kirsten’s
contributions. It’s hard to say, people always ask who did this, who did that, but really it all
blends together when the collaboration is successful, and it doesn’t matter who did what.
I guess it matters to other people cause they are curious and they always ask, but I don’t
really care as long as the final product is good. And honestly, with animation, when it’s
done, you’re just glad that it’s over!”
Certainly, amongst Kirsten Lepore’s work, oftentimes focused on tactile stop-motion
projects and Flash-based 2-D, Story of North America stands out as unique, again attrib-
uted to Garrett’s taking the lead on the look of the film. “Although this was probably
because I was trying more to match Garrett’s style of drawing. I really had only done 2-D/
drawn animation up until that point. Sweet Dreams was pretty much my first stop-motion
film. We also decided from the beginning that we wanted Story from North America to
remain a fun, super loose project where we resolved never to pencil-test anything, but

90 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

instead to embrace all the weirdness and shiftiness that came naturally. It was such a won-
derful, liberating way to work.”
Completed in 2007 during their senior year, the film’s ensuing viral success validates the
time spent on it as a university side project. Despite it being mostly Garrett’s vision, the most-
viewed versions of the film have been uploaded to Kirsten’s YouTube and Vimeo channels, a
decision made for pragmatic reasons, chiefly that Garrett had neither of his own at the time.
“I was living in a converted Airstream trailer inside a warehouse in Philadelphia for
$140 a month, working as a furniture mover and a slough of other weird jobs. Kirsten
was building her freelance career and ‘had her stuff together’ way more so than I did.”
Though this has generated a modicum of confusion amongst audiences, as stated earlier
by Garrett, the film stands up either way. “The overall audience response has been over-
whelmingly positive. I’ve received loads of nice messages from people who’ve enjoyed the
film, and it’s been a point of connection with so many people I’ve met in the animation
world in Los Angeles.” The visibility of the film would also help Garrett secure freelance
commissions and festival exposure the world over.
“It usually gets interpreted as a political statement, though it was not consciously
intended to be one. Overall, I think what people respond to is its rock and roll spirit.” The
film would also eventually be followed up by Story From South America, though the alter-
nate funding circumstances (it being commissioned for Fox’s Animation Domination HD
late-night programming block) and absence of Kirsten’s input would make both produc-
tion of the film and the end result quite a different beast, as we’ll learn in Chapter 9.

Playing with the Majors

When it comes to independent animation figurehead Bill Plympton, music videos make
up a percentage of his output and help him fund his more independent work. Though these
are more often than not commissioned and not entirely “independent” by some classifica-
tions of the term (see Chapter 1), the independent spirit of his style and creative approach
has become, over the years, a valued commodity to a diverse array of mainstream artists,
from Kanye West to “Weird Al” Yankovic. As such, his approach remains applicable to
those approaching their own indie music video.
“I think that the union of music and animation is one of the great duets of culture; put-
ting the two together is always beautiful. I mean, look at some of the old Fleischer Brothers
films with Cab Calloway. Fantasia of course is another great example of the union of
music and animation. It’s just a fun art form for me. There’s a lot more freedom and a lot
more chance for experimentation. There’s not necessarily a story you’ll have to deal with,
and it’s a lot of fun creating images that are really fascinating, interesting, and hopefully,
compelling. Sometimes the money’s great, sometimes the money’s not so good, but more
than anything, you’ve got to love music.”
From the earliest days of Bill’s work, this passion has been evident, most notably in Your
Face. The film, made in 1987 to an original song by Maureen McElheron, introduced the
world to his capacity for hypnagogic insanity, as a well-dressed man simplistically lip-syncs
the song’s eerily slowed-down lyrics while his face melts, contorts, and metamorphoses
throughout. The wide-reaching effect of Bill’s striking imagery extended to Kanye West,
who, in late 2005, eschewed the live-action video Michel Gondry had directed for the song
Heard ‘Em Say in favor of an animated interpretation from Bill. Shortly afterward, Bill was

Independent Animation 91
recruited as one of several prominent animators to direct a video for Weird Al Yankovic’s
twelfth studio album Straight Outta Lynwood. Bill’s work animating the album’s closing
track Don’t Download This Song stood alongside that of the likes of John Kricfalusi, Jim
Blashfield, and Doug Bresler, who also directed videos for the album package.
“Kanye West was very hands-on; in fact, he came to my studio for 2 days and actually
looked over my shoulder while I was drawing. He definitely has certain ideas, and they’re
great ideas. He’s a very smart, talented guy, and he’s very visual, whereas other people
like Weird Al Yankovic are much more easygoing to work with. Al doesn’t need to see the
storyboards; he just wants to see it when it’s finished.” Bill was brought on board again
with Al’s 2011 follow-up Alpocalypse, to direct and animate the video for TMZ (a parody
of Taylor Swift’s You Belong with Me, the new lyrics and video depicting the hounding
of an unsuspecting celebrity desperately trying to avoid the titular website’s notorious
paparazzi). “I also did one for Joe Cartoon, the guy who does Frog in a Blender. He has a
wonderful album out and asked me to do a music video for one of his songs, which was a
lot of freedom; it was really fun.
“There was another one I did called Mexican Stand-Off by Parsons Brown from the
Netherlands, a cowboy-themed one. I really had fun doing the cowboys because I’d loved
to draw them since I was a kid, so I sort of developed a whole new side with that.”
Bill’s experience on this particular video proved to be an informative new creative direc-
tion. Approaching the animation entirely using ballpoint pen, something he had never tried
with animation before, the process and overall look of the end result inspired him to apply
a similar approach to a subsequent independent short. In 2013, Drunker than a Skunk is
an animated poem created during the last year of production of his feature film Cheatin’
(see Chapter 8), mainly with the (successful) aim of inclusion at that year’s Annecy festi-
val. The film is visually reminiscent of Mexican Stand-Off, also adopting the ballpoint pen
look. Previously, Bill had used the opportunity of creating Heard ‘Em Say to take his style
in a more extreme direction than he had before, using highly caricatured proportions and
ambitious approaches to layout. This was an approach that ultimately determined the over-
all aesthetic of Cheatin’, a film that might have had an entirely different tone and comedic
sensibility otherwise. These further serve as a testament to the value of taking on different
creative projects for the sake of one’s own artistic direction, and music videos have a demon-
strable ability to give artists an outlet for experimentation they may not find elsewhere.
Here we have looked at how songs themselves, from chart hits to hastily recorded indie
offerings, can serve as a basis for an animated music video. This is, of course, quite a differ-
ent practice than an animated short that uses a musical score as its thrust, something we
will explore more in Chapter 21. Before then, however, let’s venture into one of indepen-
dent animation’s more anarchic arenas, the Internet, and consider how viable an option it
remains so many years since the birth of the online webisode.

92 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

6
Going Webisodic

It is a sobering thought to look back and see how swiftly web culture of all varieties has
blown up over the past couple of decades. Humankind can barely get anything done
for the glut of vlogs, cute animal clips, video game playthroughs, and autonomous sen-
sory meridian response (whispering, ostensibly) videos out there. It may seem a distant

93
memory now, but the sheer quantity of today’s procrastination bait was not always within
such easy reach, calling to us like a siren song from our smartphones and minimized
browser windows. As most of you reading this are probably aware, it is animation in its
most independent form that started that particular ball rolling.
In many respects, we live in a very different world from that of the dawn of animation
on the web. Video content and the Internet were rarely a comfortable pairing, short MOV
clips taking up entire megabytes of hard disk space, provided that one’s household dial-up
connection had the fortitude to survive the hours-long download process. The concept of
streaming high-definition (HD) content was so far out of the general public’s grasp that the
very phrase “streaming HD content” most likely wouldn’t even have made sense to anyone
who heard it. By the late 1990s, however, several enterprising creatives began taking advan-
tage of a fortunate loophole facilitated by both the possibilities of creating animation, how-
ever rudimentary, in a program called Macromedia Flash. Said loophole was the software’s
ability to export its projects with small enough file sizes to be watched online with relative
ease. The mechanics of the hows and whys are surely well known to anyone who knows
their vectors from their bitmaps (which I’m cautiously optimistic includes anyone who is
reading this). An entire subculture was born, in a semilawless online world where broadcast
regulations had no authority and content could be as provocative, daring, and gratuitous
as their creators desired. Though originally leaning toward juvenilia, some of the Internet’s
most significant webtoon pioneers got their start through a mix of Flash-animated ani-
mal misfortune and vaguely risqué celebrity impersonations. Certainly one of the more
entrepreneurial-minded of this first wave was John Kricfalusi, who helmed several online,
Flash-animated properties from 1997 onward, following his rise to fame as the creator
of the revolutionary-yet-troubled Ren & Stimpy Show near the beginning of the decade.
Making use of characters he’d retained the rights to following his much-documented dis-
missal from his own show, new series such as The Goddamn George Liquor Program (1997)
were ambitious ahead of their time and called for a particularly labor-intensive approach:
“We had a really elaborate system when we were first doing the Flash cartoons,”
Kricfalusi recalls, speaking to Skwigly in 2012. (We) drew everything in pencil, inked it,
but once we turned it into vector art, it would destroy the lines, make them look weird. So
we had to add a step called optimization where I had a whole army of people who would
take the screwed-up vector lines and move those little points around to make it look like
the original. That was expensive and time-consuming—and irritating—but I don’t have
that problem anymore. The (Toon Boom) brush is so good, it eliminates all the stages in
between the pencil line and the inking. Not only is it faster; it looks better.”
In a manner similar to how Ren and Stimpy had an undeniable ripple effect on the
landscape of contemporary animation culture, paving the way for shows that would enjoy
more success, it was this degree of early trial and error that laid the groundwork—and
opened the floodgates—for an animation revolution, one that has evolved and incorpo-
rated itself into the cultural mainstream.
Yet the independent roots of this relatively new approach to animation have always
remained, and with the advent of social media and influx of platforms through which to
showcase original, self-made content, the potential for profitability is stronger than it has
ever been. To get a clear sense of how this corner of the independent animation world has
developed, it is worth looking at webtoon creators who have consistently produced origi-
nal content to this day, forging entire careers out of it.

94 6. Going Webisodic
A Life in Webtoons
Having begun his career as an interactive developer at AMX London, Jonti Picking mainly
worked on Flash development for blue-collar clients until the dot-com bubble burst at the
start of the millennium (Figure 6.1). In the ensuing lull, Jonti took to using Flash for his
own purposes, animating cartoons for the web, initially through the website B3TA. At this
point, the phenomenon was slowly building serious momentum.
“There was Joe Cartoon’s Frog in a Blender, you had Joel Veitch of Rather Good doing
his dancing kittens and Homestar Runner, who were fantastic and still are. There were
loads of Newgrounds people obviously, using their horrible speech synthesis to do stuff.
Newgrounds was big noise back then. It was definitely a more creative environment.”
Starting with small, quirky GIFs, Jonti soon graduated to using Flash for web shorts
that would accommodate the limitations of most household Internet capabilities. With
most of the public connecting to the web with 56k or 28k modems, even the small file
sizes of Flash cartoons could prove taxing to people’s connections. In creating his own
animated characters, Jonti opted to bypass this concern as much as he could through sheer
minimalism, creating the duo Weebl and Bob as a consequence.
“Obviously, the simpler the shape, the smaller the file size. The sound was designed
around short little music loops and snippets of speech to try and keep everything as tiny
as possible, which just about worked.”
Whether or not the asset-light approach made the cartoon easier to stream, its immense
audience reaction when it debuted in June of 2002 was a clear indication of the mileage in

Figure 6.1
Jonti Picking, AKA Weebl. (Courtesy of the artist.)

Independent Animation 95
the characters. Cemented by a 2-month stint producing Weebl and Bob shorts for MTV,
Jonti quit his day job and used the funds to host his work on his own site, Weebl’s Stuff
(Figure 6.2). Since then his output has extended to multiple series, with a variety of writers
and animators to add in extra dynamic visual range. As for what grabbed the attention of
the public initially,
“It’s really hard to say. I think it’s that there is a lot of catchphrase-oriented material, easily
quotable lines and such. The fact it had quirky music choices I guess helped it along, that it was
very simple and iconographic, so that you knew instantly what it was. Ambient comedy was
quite big at that point as well, and looking back on the early Weebl and Bob shorts, there were
massive pauses between each line. It had this weird flow to it that wasn’t really seen, which I
think helped.”
Having taken on corporate work alongside his web-based output, Jonti has a firm concept
of how web-based production differs from the more business-driven animation industries.
“It’s very improvisational, though if it’s scripted, then obviously, that will give some
direction. We tend not to bother with animatics, because if you’re making Flash video
correctly, it should be done in a way where you can make changes fairly quickly. I like the
improvisational approach because people often bring their own approach, their own style
or timing, which is why I like to pick certain animators over others.
“Generally, I’ll do a callout for animators via social media. People will send their stuff,
link me up to a few of their videos, and if I like the style, then we’ll chat more on e-mail.
I generally give them one short test animation, a tune or a short script, to see what they
would do with it. This gives a better idea of what their sensibilities are, because I like to
bring people on for their methods as well. I don’t force them down a specific route unless
it has to look or be a certain way; generally I think it’s nice to mix it up. I like the sense of

Figure 6.2
Online animation superstars “Weebl” and “Bob.” (Courtesy of Weebl’s Stuff.)

96 6. Going Webisodic
community; I can link to their other work; it’s important to me that people get to appreci-
ate them for who they are rather than what I’ve made them do.
“A lot of the mistakes that people working in Flash will make is to put everything on
one layer or timeline. It makes things a lot easier to break everything down into layers so
you can change anything within the project really quickly. I’ll spend the extra time setting
things up, building the asset library, and then I can change assets on the fly as and when I
need to. I think that’s the best way of doing it, especially if you’re doing advertising work,
where the client will often do rewrites. You don’t want to lose months of work when you
can get it right in 2 hours. So I’m very much about that; just build your assets, then ani-
mate, then change as need be.”

Different Worlds
While cult phenomena like David Firth’s Salad Fingers (2004–2013) would occupy very
insular universes and appeal to very specific—though large—audiences, Mike and Matt
Chapman’s ongoing Homestar Runner (2000–2009, later to resume in 2014) is a prime
example of how one main series can expand into different narrative strands. One of the
crucial audience draws the series maintained was the expansiveness of its universe and
the Chapman brothers’ intuitive impulse to spin off strong concepts into their own series,
ultimately creating metaphysical universes within universes that fans were hugely recep-
tive to. Chief amongst these was Strong Bad Email, which served as an outlet for new
webisodic content on the site with the added appeal of using real fan mail as a jumping-off
point. Another example of a well-received show-within-a-show concept is Teen Girl Squad,
which began life as a crudely drawn and barely animated comic created by antihero Strong
Bad about four high school girls who inevitably meet surreal, grim ends. Beginning as
a one-off, the identified potential following the strong audience reaction led to further
episodes, each maintaining the same degree of crudity and individual sense of humor,
serving to both broaden the world of Homestar Runner and expand on the personality of
its “creator,” Strong Bad himself (Figure 6.3).
As hugely popular as the phenomenon of independent webtoons has grown to be, it
remains curiously separate from the comparatively insular world of broadcast anima-
tion production. In many respects, the initial sense of individuality and informality that
allowed for such creative freedom has been retained, prominent practitioners more occu-
pying the world of online celebrity rather than industry notoriety. In this universe, the
type of viral success a major studio would dream of achieving is noticeably less earned by
the ingenuity of a piece of work than the established fan base of the online personalities
who have produced it. I myself had never truly appreciated this disparity until my first roll-
ing contract producing animation for web content developers Channel Flip in 2012–2013.
While it served as an especially gratifying gig with many creative freedoms, I was aware
throughout that I was disconnected somewhat from the other artists, many of whom had
their own YouTube channels and an established following. My comparative anonymity
gave me some free reign to take risks that might have had greater ramifications working
on a broadcast series at an animation studio. For others, however, the work produced was a
very visible extension of their online persona, and there were significant audience expecta-
tions to meet. At the reins of Channel Flip’s specially developed online channel was Jonti
Picking, contracted to produce consistent, rapid-fire animation content over the course of

Independent Animation 97
Figure 6.3
Assassin Babies—skit from the web series Wobble Box. (Courtesy of Jelly Penguin, ©2013.)

that year. With this, certain mainstays of the Weebl universe were brought over, notably
Weebl and Bob themselves.
“We’ve got a Weebl and Bob–only channel, so every single episode is now uploaded in
HD with better sound. I decided not to put them on the main channel because of the way
YouTube works—if you put something up that people aren’t expecting, don’t necessarily
like, or aren’t aware of its context, then it’s going to affect everything else.”
The demand for regular original material with new characters in this environment was
high, with numerous interwoven series boasting their own independent, ensemble casts.
Amongst these was Wobble Box, an animated skit show where each episode required an
assortment of one-time characters, premises, and styles created from scratch.
“We generally have a writers’ meeting round our house, with everyone at the table
bouncing ideas around. If we think there’s something to an idea, we’ll do maybe a rough
block of what would happen in the sketch and then assign writers. If I need to fill time,
then I will simply draw the first things that come to mind and ask myself what would
happen.”
From these intense sessions come occasional instances of ideas and characters with
enough of a hook to recur in multiple episodes. The potential appeal of a concept beyond
its first outing is a major consideration for all of Jonti’s work. Sometimes, an idea intended
as a one-off or throwaway gag organically evolves into the basis for an entire series in its
own right. The opposite, inevitably, has also been known to happen.
“There’s stuff we’ve written as a series from the off which has just not picked up. We did
a short called Zombie Street that we thought would be popular; it wasn’t until it was finally
animated that we realized it probably wasn’t going to work. Then there are one-off ideas
like Rescue Whale and Bad Advice where the audience response was ‘This’d be a great
series!’ The ideal thing about YouTube is that you receive brilliant feedback straightaway;
we learn what people like so we can do things without giving up the ideals we have. Instant

98 6. Going Webisodic
feedback has always been there on the Internet; when you can read comments straight-
away, you just go with it—if people are liking it, then do more; if they don’t, then don’t be
afraid to just dump it and move onto the next thing.”
So of this feedback, what are the main recurring wants and needs of an online audience
that have been picked up on? After so many years of evaluation, Jonti has some idea.
“The songs are generally popular. A few people have a bit of a bee in their bonnet about
the more puerile jokes, but they’ve always been there and always will. They actually seem
to be more popular; they get shared a lot more because people want the world to think
they’re above something, while secretly, they’re chuckling away. These days, people have
quite a short attention span when it comes to online videos. You shouldn’t spend too long
developing a character; you have to hit it straightaway and start moving the plot along
quite rapidly. If you’re doing something that is slow, then maybe you can get away with it
if it’s beautiful, but that’s a big risk, I would say. It’s nice to do something along those lines
occasionally, but mainly, it’s all rapid-fire.
“The Internet’s always been quite segmented in a way, so specific websites that you deal
with will have their own preferences. The original ethos was ‘Bad equals Good,’ which
kind of worked back then; it was punk; it didn’t matter what it looked like as long as you
had the core idea. I think this was carried across on Newgrounds to a certain extent, but
their idea was to push yourself and become better, which is why you have people like
Harry Partridge* and Egoraptor,† who really started pushing what Flash could do, more
in the direction of traditional animation in many ways.
“Then there’s YouTube, who like catchphrases and memes. There’s still an appreciative
audience there, but the main audience who are the driving force tend to just like the things
they already know reinforced. There’s a ‘tipping point,’ as Malcolm Gladwell put it. In televi-
sion, there are rewrites; they like to hone ideas, and there’s time to do it, for the most part.
Their budgets have dropped quite extensively, but they still have a mind for production
values. With online content, there’s an attitude of wanting the same values, except the
money’s terrible and you have to upload something new three times a week!”
Amongst the core team who make up Weebl’s Stuff is Jonti’s spouse, Sarah Darling,
who became heavily involved in producing content during a commission for the iconic
children’s series Sesame Street. Sarah’s natural inclination toward writing for younger
audiences led to her commandeering some of the website’s more innocuous fare such as
Cat Face, a series whose titular protagonist floats through the air due to his inflated head
(Figure 6.4). Though tinged with occasional innuendo, this series is largely stripped of
content that would limit its audience. Directing these energies into an outlet more focused
on child-friendly content, the pair developed the online channel JellyBug in 2014. The
channel, for which Sarah is head writer, serves to accommodate the increasing demand
for quality children’s entertainment through such staples as catchy music, repetition, and
bright, simplistic visuals, occasionally remaking existing family-friendly Weebl’s Stuff
videos such as Badgers with a more distinctly children’s aesthetic (Figure 6.5).
“We’ve got two young kids now, and when we sit them with a tablet and YouTube,
they just swipe away. It’s good that they’re using computers, and there is a lot of stuff on
YouTube that’s well made but mostly stuff that isn’t. If you’re out with your family and

* http://happyharry.newgrounds.com/
† http://egoraptor.newgrounds.com/

Independent Animation 99
Figure 6.4
Cat Face (Dir. Sarah Darling). (Courtesy of Weebl’s Stuff, ©2007.)

your kids start screaming while you’re trying to have a nice chat, now we can show them
something safe on their tablets and have a little break. But we were sick of them watching
really shoddily animated stuff, some with millions of hits that were really poorly sung,
looked atrocious, and were of zero educational value. So we thought we’d make something
better, some great kids’ stuff in our own little style. Around that time, YouTube really
started pushing that side of things as well; there are some interesting things happening on
that front. It’s something we’re really passionate about; I really want good kids’ animation
to be out there for people to watch.”

The Virility of Virality

The career potential of a viral short, one that transcends ephemera and the fickle attention
spans of online audiences, has been proven elsewhere. Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s satiri-
cal animated sitcom South Park, a show presently in its second decade, would never have
existed without their first, seemingly-halfhearted stabs at animation going viral before the
term even existed in such a context. The duo’s seasonally themed short Spirit of Christmas
(a loose remake of their 1992 University of Colorado student film of the same name, com-
missioned by Fox for a video Christmas card) was a word-of-mouth sensation following
its initial distribution in December 1995, ultimately serving as a style guide and precursor
to the show’s eventual pilot, which aired in 1997.

100 6. Going Webisodic

Figure 6.5
Badger Badger Badger—original and redesigned (for online preschool channel JellyBug)
versions. (Courtesy of Weebl’s Stuff, ©2003/JellyBug, ©2014.)

More recent examples of virality translating into mainstream success largely take
advantage of the new relationship that has developed between creators and audiences.
When an established fan base reaches the millions, it is more than just opportunities for
merchandising that become valid; a supportive viewership can nowadays further the ani-
mation itself. Web series such as Simon Tofield’s Simon’s Cat and Natasha Allegri’s Bee
and Puppycat have been able to successfully crowdfund (a phenomenon we shall explore
more in Chapter 9) proposed projects more ambitious than their standard output, audience
enthusiasm for both exceeding their proposed goals by hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Nowadays, the influx of original, auteur web series and one-offs is so voluminous that to
stand out and achieve a significant viewership is especially challenging. As always, there are
key components that will serve as a leg-up, such as quotability, anarchic/surreal humor, and
effective use of music, but it’s all too easy to miss the mark; for every bright-burning flame

Independent Animation 101

Figure 6.6
Still from Chop Chop (Dir. Ant Blades). (Courtesy of Ant Blades/Birdbox Studio, ©2012.)

such as Jason Steele’s Charlie the Unicorn, there will be hundreds, if not thousands, of forget-
table imitators who do little more than replicate these traits on an entirely superficial level.
Breaking this mold somewhat is British animator and cartoonist Ant Blades, whose
work has proved that today’s broader web audience can be as impressed and bowled
over by technical skill as by comedic hooks. Having worked as an animation freelancer
at Tandem and Prism Entertainment, Ant eventually found himself disheartened with
“the hard graft of other people’s animation,”* gravitating more toward the world of online
design. Working for Google as part of YouTube’s creative team, Ant found that his enthu-
siasm for animation began to rekindle over the years (Figure 6.6).
“It was fairly limited in terms of what I could do creatively, so there was an itch to do stuff
on the side. Being very aware of YouTube, I knew of the stuff that was out there and thought
it would be quite nice to have some really short but nicely animated stuff, to put it out there.
After I had put about four of those out, then people started getting in contact and saying
they wanted me to do some work for them. That was always the plan, though I never quite
thought it would come off. Then work started coming in, so that was the point to jump and
then go for it. It’s weird though; as soon as what you enjoy becomes your job, suddenly it’s not
quite the same anymore. Now it suddenly seems like work, but it’s work I want to be doing.”
An early motivator for Ant’s work came via a local comedy festival that would show-
case short films and up-and-coming comedians. Setting himself a monthly deadline tied
in with each festival event spurred him on to create new, short-form work that was not
unreasonably labor intensive or demanding on his time.
“I’d be amazed that students would be making a film for a year or two that was a 5- or
10-minute masterpiece. It just seemed such a commitment. So I quite liked that I was only
trying to get these quick-as-possible ideas, and because that was successful, I’ve tried to

* Skwigly—An Interview with Ant Blades of Birdbox Studio: http://www.skwigly.co.uk/ant-blades-birdbox/

(interview conducted by Steve Henderson)

102 6. Going Webisodic

keep them going, keep them short and very funny, and try to remember what got them
started in the first place.”
Birdbox has since served as an avenue for Ant’s personal creative work, creating a series of
unfailingly viral sensations that go against the grain of established webtoon culture, instead
indulging the public’s appetite for more sophisticated humor, rich in physical comedy and slap-
stick. Rarely longer than a minute and a half, every second is meticulously thought through, a
process that required some adaptation after his prior career as a newspaper cartoonist.
Working on his weekly strip Bewley would, from time to time, present an opportu-
nity to execute a sight gag without the aid of dialogue balloons. Although this proved a
rare instance in the strip itself, taking that approach with the Birdbox shorts of physical
comedy–based payoff humor was essential. One of the major concerns about appealing to a
broader audience is the automatic limitations the inclusion of dialogue can incur; a partic-
ular regional accent, in spite of whatever the creator’s intentions may be, can appeal to one
audience while simultaneously alienating another. A particular intonation, characteriza-
tion, or turn of phrase can similarly cordon off a presumed target age rage. Consider shows
such as South Park or Beavis and Butt-Head, made for adults but ultimately finding maxi-
mum viewership amongst the demographic they were in fact skewering, due undoubtedly
to the well-observed and effective use of relatable vernacular. Naturally, if a filmmaker
wants to target a specific niche audience, then dialogue can be used advantageously, but in
the world of viral appeal, the more universal, the better (Figures 6.7 and 6.8).
“If I can avoid words, then I will. If, in a script, it looks like someone can say something,
I will do my best to think how can we avoid them saying it, or have it be a mumble. Or how
can we avoid there being writing anywhere in the background, things that will keep it as
open as possible (Figure 6.9). That probably leads to more slapstick than anything else.
“To be honest, I’ve actually got out of the habit since the cartoon ended some years
ago. It was a weekly strip, so I was definitely used to having to sit down, trying to churn
out ideas, having to throw away the bad ones that weren’t working, and then having that

Figure 6.7
Chop Chop character animation in Flash. (Courtesy of Ant Blades/Birdbox Studio, ©2012.)

Independent Animation 103

Figure 6.8
Chop Chop background colors in Photoshop. (Courtesy of Ant Blades/Birdbox Studio,
©2012.)

deadline, so even if something wasn’t working, to have to push through the barrier of
thinking what I had was awful until something eventually emerged. Translating that to
shorts worked quite well. Going off and spending an hour or so without getting any good
ideas didn’t dishearten me, because I knew that was part of the process, that if I just kept
pushing, eventually, something would turn up that would be worth doing. I used to put
aside a morning just to sit down and, even at the end of the morning, not have anything at
the end of it, but it definitely helped with the process of hammering out bad ideas.”
The earlier shorts made their way online via the BBC, who at the time were after origi-
nal comedic content for their website. Accompanying similarly short and punchy com-
missioned vignettes created to raise awareness for World Mental Health Day in 2010, the
first handful of Ant’s shorts premiered on the network’s official channel exclusively, an
arrangement that worked well in terms of initial visibility. From 2012 onward, new con-
tent was put out independently through Birdbox’s own channel to better serve the studio’s
interests. “For what I was getting back, I thought I’d rather have this bank of my own
shorts on my own channel rather than selling them off. Even though you only get pennies
back from YouTube, it made more sense as a brand to have them all together.”
Relying less on repetition, music, or asset-based design, Ant’s shorts have more of an
archetypal focus on silent comedy, with an assortment of visual gags leading up to a main
payoff. The only concession made to the first handful of shorts is retaining a rough, digital
line-test style, presenting the films without cleaned-up line work and sometimes without
color. Rather than devalue the work, this “sketchy” quality of Guard, Duel, Blues, and
Ice Creams (the most popular of the four, in which a hapless father is left disastrously in
charge of his children for mere seconds) allows the fluidity of movement, timing, and
sound design to speak for themselves. As each of the films plays out in one continuous
shot against a single background, special attention is paid to the character animation

104 6. Going Webisodic

Figure 6.9
Chop Chop compositing in After Effects. (Courtesy of Ant Blades/Birdbox Studio, ©2012.)

itself (which, by and large, makes use of the entire layout of the shot) so that the viewer is
visually engaged throughout. This approach rules out the idea of mass-produced, weekly
content, though producing several films over the course of the year provides the dual
benefits of a maintained viewership and higher-quality ideas. As a result, the films play as
stand-alone works of art whose presentation happens to be well served online.
“I tend to have around 10 personal works on the side at any point. I’ll have an idea
and quickly sketch it out in Flash, which is a very easy way to sketch out an animatic of
the idea. I normally have other work on, so I will spend the first morning working on it,
show it to other people, and leave it for a month. I always know that if people are after
something, I will have a few things to one side that can be used.” Although over time,
this style has veered in numerous directions, from Ant’s perspective, this hasn’t had
any aversive effect on the audience. With public feedback on most of the work largely
visible, it’s clear that the substance of the content itself is what has kept his viewers on
board. “I think Wildebeest could have worked in a different style. As you’re coming up
with an idea, you sense certain styles will lend themselves to it better. With Wildebeest,
it definitely helped to have that look where it felt like wildlife documentary, something
a bit more realistic. It also helped because there was minimal movement in it anyway, so
it was quite nice to make something that looked a bit more plush, a bit more colorful. It
might have been a bit boring if it had just been a line drawing because so little is going
on” (Figure 6.10).

Independent Animation 105

Figure 6.10
Stages of production for Wildebeest (Dir. Ant Blades). (Courtesy of Ant Blades/Birdbox
Studio, ©2012.)

Regardless of these shifts in visual style (it is worth noting, despite all of the afore-
mentioned, that the most successful of Ant’s work in terms of viewers alone is the more
traditionally webtoon-designed, asset-dependent Wildebeest), each short carries with
it equivalent economic concessions that accentuate the artistry of the animation; more
often than not, Ant’s shorts have been approached with speed in mind, and as such, the
production carries with it an acute awareness of its circumstances.
Dinner, for example, uses simple digital painting in lieu of sketched line work. Carrying
on the tradition of the original Sketchy quartet is 2012’s Chop Chop, where a gallant knight
crashes an execution too late to rescue an already beheaded maiden. Of all Ant’s work, it
is this film in particular that required the most fine-tuning.
“Certain films were labor-intensive just because I was messing around with them for so
long. Chop Chop could have been done months before, but I was just fiddling around with
it for ages, with no real point at all. The original idea, I came up with 4 years before finally
finishing it, and looking back at it, the first pass almost worked as well or better than the
others. Having no deadline just makes it so much worse; you just keep messing around
with stuff forever. I’m sure as I try and make them a bit more polished, they’re gonna
stretch out a bit more, and more time will go into them.”
Setting Ant’s work further apart from standard online fare is his altogether more tra-
ditional approach to the production itself, which is a major contributor to timing and
choreography. “As the animatic is kicked off, I definitely am aware of the kind of rhythm
that the films will need to be, so you can see as it’s starting, Okay, this is kind of building
up to something, so we need to pick up the pace. Then you can start to feel that there’s some
kind of rhythm to it. You’ll get that in most of them, or you play with the rhythm, and as
you feel it’s going somewhere, then you just cut it short and end it. When it comes to Chop

106 6. Going Webisodic

Chop, that’s playing in a slightly different way in that you know it’s going somewhere and
then just kind of tails off. That’s part of the humor, I suppose, that it’s not really ramping
up in any way; it’s just tailing off to nothing, to failure.
“The timing is definitely in the back of my head as I’m planning it out, that I know there
will be a certain rhythm to getting there, getting the best comedy from it. When you look at
a film like Carpark, with the dog in the car, you know that you’ll need a slow buildup because
he’s got the shopping and you need to wonder what’s happening; there’s a tease and then the
jump. Mostly, the ending has to be fairly snappy—bam bam bam, then there has to be a finish.”
Work produced since has continued to range in quality and ambition, animations such
as 2011’s Singing Christmas Hedgehogs making use of YouTube’s in-video hyperlinks to
present the viewer with an interactive, “choose your own adventure”-style film. Perhaps
the most visually “slick” of Ant’s films is 2013’s Carpark, which retains all of the hallmark
strengths of his earlier work with additional cleanup and a well-rendered, textural qual-
ity. One of the reasons behind the alternate approach was the short’s origin (Figure 6.10).
“Carpark was a personal idea I wanted to get out there (Figure 6.11). This was actually
a rejected idea from the Life is Full of Ups and Downs BBC Headspace campaign from a
couple of years ago. It was put to one side as it was too long and not quite the right message,
but it made me laugh, so I thought it was worth tidying up. The approach is pretty similar.
The difference between commissioned and personal work is mainly how time is spent on
them. Commissioned work forces ideas through to completion a bit quicker, which can be
helpful. It feels more productive. Personal work can drag out longer than it needs.”*
As time has worn on and commissioned work has increased in direct correlation with
Birdbox’s visibility, the speed at which new original work makes its way online has inevi-
tably slowed down. Given the ruthless nature of YouTube’s tendency to favor consistent
output in its rotation, the quality-versus-quantity argument bears some evaluation.
“I suppose a bit more time’s gone into them, because they do have to stand out from the
rest of the content people are quickly churning out. A lot of that stuff is really funny, such
as the Cyanide and Happiness shorts.”
It stands to reason that if you produce a lot of videos on your channel, there’s a far
greater chance of building and maintaining a strong following. In terms of sheer volume,
however, each new film will be far less likely to strike an audience—or traffic-generating
outlets such as comedy blogs—as especially ingenious. Whether you make one film a year
or one a week, the law of diminishing returns will always play some part in your work. In
the case of Internet fandom, once regular output has been established, audiences no longer
tend to seek ingenuity. There are some exceptions, such as How It Should Have Ended,†
another revived entry in the pantheon of web series. Each episode astutely appropriates
both what makes a viral film stand out (humor, topical references, accessible satire, fast-
paced timing while appealing to its audience’s love/hate relationship with pop culture)
and what will keep audiences coming back, such as consistency and a relatively fast turn-
around. The vitality of a filmmaker such as Ant Blades, however, hinges on the notion that
each film is served by its own uniqueness (Figure 6.12).
“If you wait a bit longer to do something new, then it does have to be something a
bit standout that makes people think, This is funny in a slightly different way, and I’m

* Skwigly—Ant Blades Launches His Latest Short Carpark: http://www.skwigly.co.uk/ant-blades-carpark/

† http://www.howitshouldhaveended.com/

Independent Animation 107

Figure 6.11
Stages of production for Carpark (Dir. Ant Blades). (Courtesy of Ant Blades/Birdbox Studio,
©2013.)

gonna share it with my mates. It does pile on a lot of pressure, because the longer I wait
until the next one comes out, the more it feels like it has to do well. Obviously, it is bet-
ter if you want to build an audience to do one or two a month—even one every couple
of months is enough to keep an audience aware of what you’re producing and make sure
they keep coming back. It can be a bit more forgiving, because it doesn’t matter if you
haven’t produced anything particularly great as long as you have another one coming
along. So if you haven’t made something new in over a year, your next film really needs
to have something especially funny or quirky about it that’s going to make people want
to send it round.”
Although Ant himself confesses a tendency to hammer out ideas for years without ever
seeing them cross the finish line, the number of his successfully completed undertakings
affords him some perspective on when and, more crucially, when not to persevere.
“If I was talking to myself, I’d say not to get hung up on one idea too much and, if it’s
not working quite as you want, move on to the next one. I think it is quite easy to think
you’ve come up with some genius idea and then get stuck on it for so long because you
can’t quite get it to work, when you might find that three ideas down the line is one that
works a lot better—if only you could actually get there!
“Also, if you are kind of trying to come up with ideas, do a vague sketch of what you think
will happen. It doesn’t need to be sketched, but as soon as you’re doing the animatic, just try

108 6. Going Webisodic

Figure 6.12
Ant Blades in studio. (Courtesy of the artist.)

and get as much of it done in the first pass. It’s quite easy to do half an idea and think, This
could be good, and think you’ll come back to it, but then by the time you do, you’ve lost your
energy for it. If you’ve got that first spark, you have to make use of it while you’re interested
and excited about it—try and get it as finished as soon as possible, in terms of an idea.”
What we learn from Ant Blades’ success is that Internet audiences are a very different
beast than they were at the dawn of the online animation revolution. As with every major
cultural shift, it usually takes one practitioner to make the first move so that others may
follow. From Ant’s perspective, in his preceding years working with Google and YouTube,
there is one pioneer in particular he cites as being especially influential.
Simon Tofield, whose formative animation influences were such Saturday morning fare
as Transformers coupled with the more artistically valuable (one might argue) work of Bill
Watterson and Gary Larson, set himself the personal task of getting to grips with Flash by
creating a short animated skit inspired by the behaviors of his cat Hugh. Fast-forward to
2012, 4 years after the short was originally uploaded to YouTube, and Tofield is regarded
as the creator of one of the most recognizable characters of modern animation, producing
new work through Disney with an audience in the tens of millions. Since then, his popu-
larity has stayed consistent, but how did one short have such a monumental cultural effect
to begin with?

Independent Animation 109

Figure 6.13
Simon’s Cat: Off to the Vet crowdfunding campaign image. (Courtesy of Simon’s Cat Ltd,
©2014.)

There are many qualities of Simon’s Cat, now a long-running series, that are worth dis-
secting in determining its public response. Luck and circumstance will always be a factor
in anything that goes viral, certainly, but in this instance, the sheer volume of enthusiasm
and fundamental staying power of the premise stands out as exceptional. This is owed in
no small part to its sense of visual comedy and the fact that audiences from all walks of
life—even those who don’t own cats—can engage with it. Certain varieties of humor will
always be universal, and as with much of Ant Blades’ work, the absence of dialogue is
another major win as far as international appeal is concerned (Figure 6.13).
Subscribing more to the storytelling approach outlined in Chapter 3, Simon’s process
generally begins with writing a “visual script”* in the form of a rudimentary storyboard.
With the animation itself being especially sophisticated, the economics at play are largely
regarding postproduction. This is best exemplified by the disparity between most stan-
dard episodes of Simon’s Cat and the crowdfunded, full-color, and significantly longer
outing Off to the Vet (again, to be explored further in Chapter 9).
To wrap up on this subject, the somewhat manic glut of arbitrarily rewarded web ani-
mation has definitely subsided two decades on, or at the very least, the arbitrary rewards
are being designated elsewhere, to online “personalities” and the worlds of commentary,
gaming, and other such easy-to-produce ephemera. The advantage of this is that anima-
tion is no longer a novelty on the Internet but as respected a medium as any other form of
filmmaking. So is the era of the animated web series behind us? As we once knew it, very
possibly, but in its place, more doors are open for creatives to use the web for collaboration
and to keep one another inspired.

* http://www.skwigly.co.uk/simon-tofield/

110 6. Going Webisodic

7
The Animated Documentarian

Making animation with Yellow Sticky Notes (Dir. Jeff Chiba Steams).
(Courtesy of Jeff Chiba Steams.)

Just as with live action, some animation filmmakers can find themselves more at ease
with the world of nonfiction. Of course, dealing with real-life as the subject of a film isn’t
some hidden cheat to sidestep the labor of coming up with an original work of fiction; it

111
carries with it its own set of disciplines, some even trickier to master. Crafting a structure
that an audience acclimated to the pacing of television and cinema can appreciate—be it
drama, comedy, or anything in between—requires a great deal of forethought and atten-
tion to detail at all stages of production. The story a documentary filmmaker might hope
to tell at the outset can turn out to be wildly disparate from the final product. Henry Joost
and Ariel Schulman’s Catfish, for example, begins as a fairly unremarkable study of a
child prodigy, one that only becomes compelling when it takes a bizarre turn and winds
up an alarming portrait of psychological delusion and deception over social media. Seth
Gordon’s The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters starts off as a fluffy look back at retro
video gaming, escalating into a surprisingly emotional underdog story with an antago-
nist almost too joyfully idiosyncratic to be believable in fiction. Joe Berlinger and Bruce
Sinofsky’s famous Paradise Lost trilogy is a series of films spanning 15 years, beginning
with a chilling case of a group of allegedly homicidal teenagers, which unravels as a jaw-
dropping dissection of how manipulatable and presumptuous society (including, by the
third film, us as the audience itself) can be, with little provocation.
While all of the aforementioned are examples of live-action documentaries, the verac-
ity of all questionable in varying measure (there is, naturally, some artistic license taken
in the construct of a nonfiction “story”), the same major principles should apply to any
filmmaker who appreciates the potential a documentary film can hold, regardless of the
medium he/she chooses to make it in.
So, given that it can hardly be considered a labor-saving device, what are the main
advantages of choosing animation over live-action? Largely, it depends on the subject mat-
ter, tone, and artistic direction best suited to the director. Animation, whether used exclu-
sively or in conjunction with live action, can be an ideal way in which a director might
experiment with visual concepts in a freer, less-linear fashion.
A film dependent on talking heads can be made visually rich or even have its mean-
ing subverted, as with Wallace & Gromit creator Nick Park’s groundbreaking and often-
imitated 1989 Aardman film Creature Comforts, in which the accounts of British citizens
alongside recent immigrants acclimating to life in the United Kingdom are ingeniously
recontextualized as those of animals evaluating their quality of life in a zoo. Creature
Comforts carried on the tradition of Aardman’s prior short films that were largely based
on recordings of the general public set to animation. While earlier shorts such as Down
and Out (1977), Confessions of a Foyer Girl (1978), and Late Edition (1983) relied on eaves-
dropping, feasibility issues forced Nick to deviate from his original plan of doing likewise.
“I went around Bristol zoo with a hidden microphone,” Nick describes, speaking to
Skwigly in 2014, “the idea being to try and record what people said about the animals but
reverse it, so in the animation, the animals were saying these things about people—‘Look
at that strange-looking thing; what’s he doing?’ But the recording situation was never
that good or easy, and the zoo didn’t really want me to record there either! Afterwards, I
thought, Why not just go up to people? We had done some vox pops as a test—approaching
people outside the zoo and asking for their thoughts about zoos and animals in cages. It
was good, but people all said the same thing, that it was nice to see the animals, but a pity
they were locked up.
“So myself and an interviewer went to people in their houses, small flats, old people’s
homes, and foreign students to get a view on what it’s like living in the UK, things that had
parallels to animals being dissatisfied with their environment. And I happened to find this

112 7. The Animated Documentarian

student from Brazil, who just loved ranting about how he hated living in Britain compared
to the hot Brazilian weather. He stole the show.
“What I had liked about what Aardman had done before was that it was different to
how you thought about animation. It wasn’t whiz-bang, exciting, fast-quipping, big car-
toony jokes, but it was like minimal and realistic.”
The Brazilian student’s vocal contribution to the film was, as an example of the film’s
contextual subversion, animated to a mountain lion, who in the film comes across as
yearning for the plains of his home country. Granted, this type of subversion takes the film
a step away from straight-ahead documentary, but it serves as a prime indicator of how
banality can be repurposed to become engaging and visually rich. The film was produced
as one of five films for Aardman’s Lip Synch series commissioned in 1989, two others being
Aardman cofounder Peter Lord’s Going Equipped and War Story. While the former is rich
in atmosphere, the focus of the animation is largely a straightforward interpretation of
the interviewee, detailing the lamentations of a former convict through the minutiae of
Plasticine character animation. War Story, by contrast, incorporates vibrant, witty, and
occasionally slapstick interpretations of the stories told, more fully making use of the free-
doms of animation without changing its overall context.
While animation and nonfiction had undoubtedly crossed paths before, the cultural
impact of this early, comparatively independent work (from a studio that has since grown
to become an industry powerhouse) is undeniable, as Peter Lord himself is aware. “I
couldn’t take credit, but I do feel a certain satisfaction that we kind of started a genre.
Nowadays, if you go and see any student degree show, there will be three or four films
based on these self-revealing soundtracks. It’s quite a big deal now, when no one had
thought of it before.”*
To get a greater sense of how nonfiction can serve as a legitimate basis for powerful,
witty, and emotionally engaging animated films, let’s take a look at a sampling of some
recent exceptional filmmakers who have taken it on.

Oral Histories
The influence of Aardman’s early work has spread far and wide, as demonstrated by the
impact on brothers Mike and Tim Rauch, who were living in Ann Arbor, Michigan, when
they were introduced to these early shorts via magazine-order VHS anthologies. As Tim
recollects, “We wore that tape out. The first two pieces on it were Going Equipped and
Creature Comforts. Everybody loves Creature Comforts, it’s wonderful and hilarious, but
we also really responded to Going Equipped. It’s just this little stop-motion puppet in a
room by himself, talking about his life of crime, and yet it was completely riveting. That
you could do something like that with animation just blew my mind as a kid, and I really
wanted to do that ever since—certainly to do a documentary but also just to tell stories
that are more about the drama of regular life.”
Far removed from the brothers’ general impressions of what animation was all about
(impressions forged mainly by “Animaniacs and Disney movies”), seeing it used as a valid
storytelling tool beyond children’s fiction, fairytales, and slapstick comedy was a joint
revelation to Mike and Tim. The brothers had a long history of working alongside one

* http://www.skwigly.co.uk/nick-park-peter-lord/

Independent Animation 113

another, from restaurants to swimming pools, going all the way back to sharing paper-
routes as kids. This working dynamic manifested itself early on in creative ways, also, with
the creation of a family newspaper alongside their four other siblings.
“It had comics in there and stories about the one-on-one basketball games of the week,”
Mike describes. “I think it was, in some sense, destined that we would spend some time
working together as adults.”
Now operating as Rauch Bros. Animation and based in Los Angeles, the two have a
more refined working process that sees Mike generally taking on producer roles with Tim
focused on the artwork itself, both of them sharing directing duties for the most part
(Figure 7.1). As with most studios, different projects will dictate just how firmly these
positions are held; sometimes, they’ll collaborate in all areas when external directors are

Figure 7.1
Mike and Tim Rauch outside of their “Brooklyn studio” (Tim’s Bed-Stuy apartment). (Courtesy
of Adam Smith.)

114 7. The Animated Documentarian

involved. This arrangement, spurred on by their mutual fascination with the animated
documentary format, ultimately led to a major project with StoryCorps, for which they
brought to life a series of real-life personal accounts through animation.
“The way it started was just as independent short films,” Mike remembers. “We did one
short every year for 3 years, starting in 2007, when we began work on the very first short.”
Said short is their 2007 piece Germans in the Woods, a brief (coming in at a mere two
and a half minutes) yet immediately affecting account of retired infantryman Joseph
Robertson, recalling a life-altering moment during his service in the United States Army
during World War II’s Battle of the Bulge. Though minimal in its execution, the film
achieves what many independent shorts strive to, by having its visual approach steer clear
of muddying or overwhelming Robertson’s story. The gathering of such stories was an
important part of Mike’s early involvement with StoryCorps.
“StoryCorps’ stories air on National Public Radio in the United States, but they actually
are an independent nonprofit based in Brooklyn, New York, which is where we were based
until we moved to LA about a year ago. Initially, I actually worked as an intern and then
what they call a ‘facilitator,’ which in some ways was sort of like a field producer—the per-
son out there recording the interviews, asking questions to get the best story on tape and
give them the best shot at having something that they can then produce as a radio piece.
Also, every single story, with the participant’s permission, does get archived at the Library
of Congress. It’s sort of a collection of oral histories of everyday people.”
Following Germans in the Woods were a series of similarly constructed minidocumen-
taries, setting the stories (be they amusing, tragic, or, on occasion, combinations of both)
of people from all walks of life to the brothers’ animation style. These include Q&A, in
which 12-year-old, Asperger’s-diagnosed Joshua Littman interviews his mother, shedding
unexpected light on both the struggles and the positives of their relationship (Figure 7.2);
No More Questions, in which a reluctant and guarded grandmother is cajoled into being
interviewed by her son and granddaughter, offering the briefest of snippets from her
life story; and The Human Voice, featuring Studs Terkel, whose own work chronicling
American society and culture, largely through oral histories, was a major influence on
StoryCorps. Amongst the most popular and emotionally resonant of the StoryCorps sto-
ries to eventually be animated is Danny and Annie, a reminiscence of the titular couple’s
27-year romance, reflecting on what is most important in life.
Despite the brevity of these films, they are loaded with emotion and information and
oftentimes present a surprisingly full impression of their subjects. Q&A, for instance,
paints a picture of not just the relationship between Joshua and his mother but also,
in a mere handful of sentences, his perceptions of other family, friends, and confu-
sions regarding the world at large. The effectiveness of these audiovisual snapshots is
largely down to the approach taken during the recording of the interviews themselves
and a keen ear for which moments in a long audio session have the most impact and
relatability.
According to Tim, “Miss Devine was an early one that really came off the way we
wanted it to. It’s a piece about two cousins and their memories of a larger-than-life Sunday
school teacher. That’s some of the best character design I did before Stephen DeStefano got
involved and helped take the design to an even higher level. I was really looking a lot at
Milt Gross’s comics from the 1930s and 40s. Then the work (background artist) Bill Wray
did there really was amazing, very evocative, with a different mood for each scene.”

Independent Animation 115

Figure 7.2
Mike and Tim Rauch with Q&A’s Joshua Littman. (Courtesy of Sarah Littman.)

Unique to Miss Devine is it being primarily a humorous short. While many of the other
films incorporate humor to varying degrees, they are frequently counterbalanced with
emotionally charged, heavy-going, and sometimes dark subject matter. It served as wel-
come respite to make a film that was entertaining mainly for its comedic value, with a
strong central character.
“I think that was another thing that really made that story work,” Mike concurs. “The
strongest shorts always had a very interesting, unique character at the heart of the story.
That was an essential ingredient we looked for when considering which stories would
work well in animation. And after several years, one reason we felt it might be the right
time to move on to a new project was that StoryCorps’ creative preferences eventually
seemed to run in a different direction from the kind of character animation we hoped to
pursue.”
As more films were made, a disparity between Rauch Bros.’ and StoryCorps’ ideal
approaches to the animated segments would gradually make itself known (to be elabo-
rated on in Chapter 9). During this period, a number of other powerful shorts would be
made, including a series of three films specifically referring to the events of 9/11. To Tim,
taking on such demanding subject matter was, to an extent, an important creative and
emotional exercise.
“Most of these tended to be pretty heavy. John and Joe is about a firefighter and a cop
who both died on 9/11, and their father, a former firefighter, is telling the story. Again, Bill
Wray did some really evocative work with the background designs that I think that came
off really well.
“As New Yorkers, it meant a lot to us to be able to do those stories and get to know more
about that event and the people who lived through it. So it was a great experience in a lot

116 7. The Animated Documentarian

of ways, to get involved with that, but at the same time, it was just a really difficult process
to spend half of the year living through thinking about what had happened that day and
what those people lived through and what happened to the people who passed away.”
The flip side of this was in part brought about by just how immersive the animation
process in and of itself can be. For Tim, the time spent visualizing such harrowing
stories led to nightmares and anxieties when it came to flying on planes, for example.
It’s important to bear in mind that, even for the sake of your art, becoming so involved
in a difficult subject is not to be taken lightly. Yet levity remains a vital element of
all the Rauch Bros.’ StoryCorps shorts, whether it be simply a matter of the playful-
ness of each film’s design style. This approach would continue into their last year of
involvement, roughly half of the films produced in that time—The Nature of War, The
Last Viewing, and 1st Squad, 3rd Platoon—focusing on military subjects as part of
an initiative for veterans and their family members to represent their experiences of
post-9/11 combat. The prospect of taking on a more long-form version of these films
in the form of a half-hour special ultimately signaled that it was time for someone else
to take the reins and for Mike and Tim to move on to the next chapter of their anima-
tion career.
“From a budgetary point of view, that type of project is much more costly to do; there’s
more research and more detail in the animation,” reasons Mike. “Those sorts of stories
are also so much more emotionally draining, and the prospect of spending 12–16 months
with that just seemed very daunting.”
With KZ Animation picking up with StoryCorps in 2015 where Rauch Bros. Animation
left off, there remains a strong future ahead for all parties and, most crucially, a legacy of
vital studies in how independent approaches to animation can tell important stories with
sympathy, empathy, and genuine interest, both heightening their engagement and broad-
ening their appeal. Says Mike of the overall experience,
“I remember saying to some of the team at StoryCorps when we finished that I felt
like I definitely accomplished one of my bigger life goals by telling those kind of stories
in animation, and I meant it. It was a tremendous opportunity, and I’m very thankful to
StoryCorps, the generous funders such as the CPB, and our broadcast partner PBS’ POV
to have had that chance.”

Anecdotal Value
A traditional hand-drawn animator based in Minnesota, Tom Schroeder’s various films
have been screened at major festivals including Sundance, Annecy, Edinburgh, and
Ottawa. Although he has been active since 1990, it was the 2000 documentary tale Bike
Ride, his fourth self-directed film, that served as his first significant step into the waters
of animated nonfiction. The film is a 7-minute tragicomic recollection of James, a man
who travels 50 miles by bike to see his girlfriend, only to have to return home after get-
ting dumped immediately, with an improvised drum track from musician Dave King
(of The Bad Plus and Happy Apple) “reacting” to the events of the narration. It was
from this soundtrack that Tom took an adventurous, creative cue in his approach to the
animation.
“When you’re animating off of an audio track, the first step is to chart out the sound
frame by frame on an exposure sheet (Figure 7.3). When I’m drawing, I’ll have the structure

Independent Animation 117

Figure 7.3
Bike Race dope sheet. (Courtesy of Tom Schroeder.)

of both the story and the drum performance to use as a guide. My original idea with Bike
Ride was to have Dave King record his drums to the story, to animate to both tracks and
then pull out the voice in the final audio mix, so that you just had the visuals and the
drums with the story hopefully implied. When I tried that, it was clear the film didn’t
work as well. The quality of (narrator) James Peterson’s personality and the conversational
tone of the film were lost. I think a lot of the appeal of the film is that people can identify
with the situation very readily and find something appealing in James’ self-deprecation.

118 7. The Animated Documentarian

“In general, I’m following the vocal tracks first as a guide for the content and the acting
of the characters, and then I’m following the drums for accents and beats in the rhythm
of the movement. Having both of these structures as a kind of architecture that exists
before the animation gives me the freedom to improvise and work loosely without much
of a plan.
“In the improvisational spirit of the audio track, I draw straight-ahead without a story-
board or plan. I don’t think I revised anything that I drew; the simple graphic white-on-
black ink drawing style helped with that.” The success of Bike Ride, the first of Tom’s films
to prove a hit on the festival circuit, led to a series of commercials with Klasky Csupo’s
commercial division Ka-Chew, making use of the film’s unique style. In 2010, Tom pro-
duced Bike Race, not a follow-up film so much as a companion piece, dealing with a com-
pletely different story albeit retaining some of the crucial themes of love, relationships, and
misunderstanding. Though many of the qualities of Bike Ride’s aesthetic remain, there is
a discernable style shift partly brought about through bringing on board additional tech-
niques from his commissioned work.
“When I was working on the commercials in the Bike Ride style, I was compositing
photographic color cereal boxes into the line animation, and I liked the way that it looked
against the black field. So when I made Bike Race, I hired a former student of mine from
the Minneapolis College of Art and Design, Lindsay Testolin, to do the inventive photo
collage sections that you see in the film. I always liked the style that Lindsay developed
in After Effects and gave her a lot of freedom as regards her contributions to the film. She
provided another layer of improvisation in the conversation, so to speak.
“When I started designing the characters for Bike Race, I intended to use the same thick
ink line style as I used in Bike Ride. But I found that the complexity of the story and the
subtlety of the acting demanded from the characters required more detail than the thick
lines would allow. So I used a thinner pencil line; the film really is an inverted, cleaned-up
pencil test in the traditional sense of how character animation is created. I liked the feeling
when I inverted it that it looked perhaps drawn on a blackboard with chalk (Figure 7.4).

Figure 7.4
Still from Bike Race (Dir. Tom Schroeder). (Courtesy of Tom Schroeder, ©2010.)

Independent Animation 119

Both Bike films were drawn and rendered on paper, scanned into the computer, and com-
posited in After Effects. I like to think of the films as representing the manner in which
thought flows, because a long period of my thinking gets compressed into a short duration
in the finished film. I would aspire to make a film that is ‘thought’ rather than ‘told.’
“There was no initial plan to make Bike Race. But people really responded to the com-
bination of elements in Bike Ride; the sound, the picture, and the story worked very well
in support of a single idea. So I decided that perhaps there should be a trilogy of films
exploring this approach and thematic content, one every 10 years, thus Bike Race in 2010.
I have just recorded the vocal tracks for Bike Trip, which I plan to finish around 2020; it’s
in a queue of other films that I have planned. When the third film is finished, I imagine
them playing together as one half-hour program.”
Since Bike Race, Tom has gone on to produce another, entirely separate documentary
with 2012’s Marcel, King of Tervuren, another festival hit and crowd-pleaser (Figure 7.5).
This film serves as a prime example of how animation can infuse anecdotal storytelling
with wit, passion, and visual gravitas, chronicling the dramatic life of a Belgian rooster
belonging to Ann Berckmoes, a friend of his wife and also the film’s narrator.
“Each time we visited Ann in Tervuren on the outskirts of Brussels, we would drink
Belgian beer, and she would give the latest update on Marcel, her rooster, while chain smok-
ing, drinking, and punctuating each section of the story with a throaty ‘cuculurucoo’—
Ann is the archetypal bon vivant and reminds me of Jeanne Moreau in the 1960s. During
May of 2011, Ann visited my wife and I in St. Paul, Minnesota, and I took the opportunity
to record her telling Marcel’s story. She recorded the story in English, Dutch, and French.
I speak Dutch, and my wife Hilde helped with the French, so between us, we edited three
versions of the story in the different languages.”
The film, described by Tom as “Greek tragedy enacted by Belgian roosters,” also deals
with a love triangle, this time of the bestial, crime passionel variety. The story tells of
Marcel, who, having lived through a rooster cull during a bird flu pandemic, finds himself
ostracized from the farm where he lives after being half-blinded and cuckolded, essentially,

Figure 7.5
Still from Marcel, King of Tervuren (Dir. Tom Schroeder). (Courtesy of Tom Schroeder, ©2012.)

120 7. The Animated Documentarian

by his own offspring. The bloody battle that ensues when Marcel seeks to reassert himself
as the “King” of Tervuren is evocative of numerous Grecian myths, carrying with it a curi-
ous sense of humanity.
“I remembered a specific line from Albert Camus’s essay on Sisyphus: ‘There is no fate
that cannot be surmounted by scorn.’ I saw in Marcel an attractive, willful defiance, but
also the comic possibilities of contrasting the grandiosity of ‘King of Tervuren’ with the
ordinariness of the backyard setting.”
Tom’s approach with the film made use of developing technology in a manner that worked
to its aesthetic advantage, drawing the animation directly on computer using a Cintiq.
“Somewhat ironically, the loose, painterly style of the film developed from working
digitally rather than drawing on paper. The animation was about half rotoscoping from
live-action footage I shot and half traditional character animation. I gravitated to the roto-
scoping initially because I was still a little uncomfortable drawing with the tablet.
“As for the abstract transitional sections, these came about as a formal expression of the
main theme of the film. As Marcel fights to stay alive, his representation in the film struggles
to fight against the forms breaking into an abstraction of line and color (Figure 7.6). Form
and abstraction, life and death, matter and energy—I’ve always felt that the most successful
animated films demonstrate an awareness of the relationship between the technical aspects
of the production and the narrative content. My sense of this really comes from modernist
literature rather than graphic design, from having read James Joyce at a formative age.
“Between Bike Ride and Bike Race, I was gaining experience with the software as a
creative tool in making the films and in the storytelling. When you arrive at Bike Race
and Marcel, I’m thinking less in terms of traditional film language and more in terms of
continuous flow and transition. The technology has obviously evolved very quickly, and
you can see it in the period between Bide Ride and Marcel. In Bike Ride, I’m still drawing
on paper, but it’s the first film I made that I didn’t shoot with a film camera. By Marcel,
the last vestige of a physical process has disappeared—no graphite, no paper. It’s a bit of
a challenge to continually make these transitions demanded by the technology, but the

Figure 7.6
Still from Marcel, King of Tervuren (Dir. Tom Schroeder). (Courtesy of Tom Schroeder, ©2012.)

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new tools always present opportunities in reinventing how you tell a story. From Marcel
onward, I’ve drawn directly in Photoshop with a Cintiq. At first, I found the feeling of
working this way alienating, but now I like it a lot. I can still get the illusion of naturalistic
media but with the advantages, versatility, and speed of working digitally.”

Introspection
Of Tom’s work, it’s Marcel, King of Tervuren that most represents a perfect marriage of
animation and storytelling, though the strengths of all his work are in the stories being
told themselves being relatable for the audience. Themes of love, loss, victory, humiliation,
redemption, and revenge are all staples of highly effective narratives, whether fictional or
otherwise. How effective, then, can venturing into comparatively unknown territories be?
Harvard animation professor Ruth Lingford’s path into animation is a particularly
atypical one, stepping away from a career as an occupational therapist to pursue the arts
and eventually studying at the Royal College of Art. Having gone on to work with the
National Film and Television School (NFTS), Animate Projects, and Shynola among
others, her Harvard role as professor of the practice of animation came about following
a stint as visiting instructor in 2005. Her filmography frequently explores strong, per-
vasive, and sometimes sexual themes, notably the shorts What She Wants (1994), Death
and the Mother (1997), and Pleasures of War (1998), and upon receipt of a Harvard Film
Study Center fellowship, she set about applying these to an independent documentary
project.
“It’s important to me that when I tell people the germ of the idea, they react to it as
something they would like to see. Provoking curiosity in an audience is something I really
do value, so giving them something that they would be interested in is important.”
The result was 2011’s Little Deaths, which proved a strong talking point of the major
festivals it screened at. As with many affecting documentaries, the film tackles a subject
rarely discussed in casual conversation, in this case, the nature of orgasm as articulated by
an expansive cross-section of the public.
“I’d been working for some time on a documentary called Secrecy, directed by two of
my colleagues at Harvard, which was a film about government secrecy. The animation’s
role was to kind of be the unconscious of the film and to try and look at what secrecy
means to humans. A lot of that was images of Adam and Eve, the tree of knowledge, and
sex. I ended up doing a lot of animation that wasn’t used in the end, some of which I liked.
I was a bit embarrassed, having been at Harvard a few years and not having made a film of
my own, so I was thinking of ways to use this leftover footage to make a quick, 2-minute
film. I hit on the idea of taping interviews of people and asking them to describe orgasm,
thinking, Obviously, you can’t describe orgasm, so people will run out of words.”*
When dealing with a documentary that depends on a handful of outside contributors,
there are certain questions of handling and etiquette. One might assume that anything
pertaining to human sexuality might be automatically taboo and off-limits; In the case of
Little Deaths, however, this turned out not to be the case (Figure 7.7):
“My plan was to edit together the moments where people ran out of words, accompa-
nied by vague sexual images, and that would be the film—but when I started doing the

* Skwigly, The Films of Ruth Lingford, http://www.skwigly.co.uk/ruth-lingford/

122 7. The Animated Documentarian

Figure 7.7
Still from Little Deaths (Dir. Ruth Lingford). (Courtesy of Ruth Lingford, ©2010.)

interviews, I found that nobody ran out of words at all. I live in Cambridge, Massachusetts,
which is the home of Harvard, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), and a
lot of very clever and articulate people, so that may be why—but I found people were
really wanting to talk about it. People would say, ‘I’ve never put this into words before,’
then make a big attempt to do so, getting really interested in what their own experience
was, and of course, I got quite interested in the differences and the similarities between
people. So then it became a quite different project, and the animation had to start from
scratch.”
This serves as an important reminder to documentarians that you should not be dis-
suaded before you have even tried. Our internal self doubts—or perhaps even the voiced
doubts of our peers and immediate social circle—may not necessarily line up with the
realities of the matter. Indeed, in this case, the documentary highlights how society’s
mores quell discussion of a subject about which many people have a lot to say.

Self-Reflection
While other people’s stories may be compelling and offer you as a filmmaker a variety of
new perspectives to work with, this should not rule out the option of turning to one’s own
firsthand experiences for inspiration. As we saw in Chapter 4, Melissa Johnson’s Salon.com
memoir “The Tallest Woman in the Room Tells All” proved tremendously engaging and
popular when adapted to the animated film Love in the Time of March Madness (Figure
7.8). Though the visual execution predominantly fell to codirector Robertino Zambrano,
which of course allowed for a fresh twist on the film’s aesthetic, Melissa’s own involvement
with the film version of her story was also integral to its success. Though she was not previ-
ously versed in animation production, her established talent as a live-action documentary
filmmaker had a considerable part to play when turning the focus on herself.
“I think when you’ve made films about other people, when you tell a story about your-
self, you must operate on two levels. One: go deep into yourself and your experience. Two:

Independent Animation 123

Figure 7.8
Still from Love in the Time of March Madness (Dir. Melissa Johnson/Robertino Zambrano).
(Courtesy of High Hip Productions/KAPWA Studioworks, ©2014.)

You have to take a step back and say objectively as a storyteller, If I was making this about
someone else, what does the story need? Let me get some distance here and figure out from
a story arc and character development from the perspective of someone who does not know
me at all (i.e., the majority of people seeing this)—does this make sense? Is it compelling?
What else does the subject—in other words, me—need to reveal here? So, absolutely, my
background in documentary storytelling was a huge asset. It’s just helpful at times to for-
get that the story is about me, so as to make it a better film.”
As Love in the Time of March Madness proves, putting forward our own nonfictional
stories and observations as fodder for animation can yield tremendously appealing results,
especially when combined with visual invention and self-effacement. Another such exam-
ple is Latvian animator Signe Baumane’s Teat Beat of Sex, a series of semifictionalized
personal recollections that stem from the artist’s firsthand experience and an array of
viewpoints on the subject (Figure 7.9). As with Ruth Lingford’s Little Deaths (to which
Signe also contributed as an interview subject), the films are uncompromising yet refresh-
ingly candid, oftentimes dealing with somewhat taboo areas that can serve as discussion
points.
The series has perhaps the broadest appeal amongst Signe’s other short film work,
though they very easily could have not come to be at all, as the director recalls:
“Teat Beat of Sex came to life by accident. A few years ago, there were these websites that
were looking for content, and one of the sites contacted me and said, ‘We really love your
work; would you come over and pitch us your ideas?’
“So I gathered all my ideas that I had and brought everything to the meeting. There was
this big table in the middle of the room, with three men in suits and jackets sitting around
the table. I wanted to make small talk, but when I’m nervous, I always have to talk about
sex, for some reason.”

124 7. The Animated Documentarian

Figure 7.9
Teat Beat of Sex poster. (Courtesy of Signe Baumane/Pierre Poire, ©2009.)

With a gift for ribald anecdotal storytelling, Signe’s small talk ultimately became the
pitch itself—a series of films in which she would present her personal perspectives on sex
through a series of recorded monologs set to animation.
“I was so excited, because this project was a combination of three of my favorite things—
animation, ranting, and sex. So when I started to work on the film, I was so excited until
I thought, Wait, it’s a really original story, with original character designs; I wonder how
much they’re gonna pay me. So I called them up and asked how much. They were offering
$1000 for each episode along with all the rights.”
Her enthusiasm soured by that caveat, she proceeded with Teat Beat of Sex on her own
should a better offer come along. During the production of the second of these micro-
shorts, she was approached by Pierre Poire Productions, an Italian production team look-
ing for a new project dealing with love, sex, and bridging misunderstandings between
genders. This fit in perfectly with the spirit of Teat Beat of Sex, and the partnership would
eventually yield a full series of 15 uncompromising and “explicitly educational” shorts.

Independent Animation 125

Each film of the series makes consistent use of bold jump cuts stringing together mini-
mally animated visuals, some of which are so steeped in visual metaphor that they require
repeat viewings to be fully appreciated.
At face value, these films come across initially as more shallow than in fact they are.
To a casual viewer, or one perhaps not interested in the complexity of Signe’s explora-
tions of psychosexuality, the films may appear to be little more than a succession of dirty
jokes and visual innuendos. Once one is acclimated to the strange appeal of her truly
unique style and energy, however, the series proves to be something deeper altogether.
The narration is provided by Signe herself (as is also the case with her feature film Rocks
in my Pockets, explored in Chapter 8). At times, these monologs are scripted, quasi-autobi-
ographical anecdotes that tie several films together consecutively, though more often than
not, each episode is a stand-alone recollection, musing, or venting session. The candor of
each film’s monolog enables a tremendous range of visual expression when translated to
animation, and few efforts are made to temper Signe’s enthusiasm, passion, anger, or, at
times, unabashed naivety. Though all of these make for compelling visuals, it is perhaps
the latter that leads to the most effective, with glimpses of endearingly literal visual analo-
gies peppering the narrative as a consequence. The subject matter veers from the amus-
ingly frivolous (Hair, Juice) to the poignant and introspective (Envy, Respect), with Signe’s
on-screen counterpart renamed Cynthia in acknowledgment of the blurred lines between
fiction and nonfiction (Figure 7.10).
“It is a composite of both, because if I really launched into the ‘true’ story, then that
story would be an hour long, so since the premise of each final episode is 1 minute, you can

Figure 7.10
Still from Teat Beat of Sex—”Juice” (Dir. Signe Baumane). (Courtesy of Signe Baumane/Pierre
Poire, ©2009.)

126 7. The Animated Documentarian

imagine how many layers are stripped off. But mainly, I chose to call the main character
Cynthia because the depiction of the mother is not really accurate. In Teat Beat of Sex,
she comes off as very odd, dressed in strange garbs and so on. But for me, the mother in
the films represents the conservative voice, the voice of society that you sometimes hear
in your head, of what you ‘shouldn’t be doing’ because of what society might think. So the
mother is really not my real mother; it’s that conservative part of society that tries to get
you to fit to its standards. And so that’s why I choose to be in character as ‘Cynthia.’”

Sticking Points
Independent Canadian animator and documentarian Jeff Chiba Stearns trained in ani-
mation at the Emily Carr University of Art and Design in Vancouver, graduating in 2001
and immediately embarking on a career in animation filmmaking and teaching. Governed
by a fastidious need to plan and make lists, he found himself at the mercy of a barrage of
yellow sticky notes covering every available surface of his office by the mid-2000s.
“As an animator, I definitely admit to being a little OCD; I don’t think you can be an
animator and draw thousands of drawings if you’re not a little. I need my life organized,
but I still live in a sense of chaos, so my life is organized by sticky notes and to-do lists that
are scattered haphazardly around my office. I think I was going through a bit of a crisis
because I had just finished a film and was broke. I needed to find work; there wasn’t a lot
of animation work out there, so I became a teacher. All of this was being written down on
sticky notes, to the point where I was feeling really overwhelmed with the fact that these
to-do lists were running my life, and as fast as I was writing stuff down, I couldn’t accom-
plish all the stuff on these lists in time.
“I realized that when I self-reflected on the last 9 years of my life to the point where I
decided I wanted to pursue animation, some major world events had an impact on those
decisions. I had just graduated and was looking for work when 9/11 happened. That’s when
the entire animation industry in Vancouver kind of crumbled again—Disney left town, a
lot of the studios were closing, senior animators couldn’t find work—and so for a recent
graduate, it was the worst time to be in the job market. So I started to look back on that,
starting to sense this connection, and I figured I’d take revenge on these sticky notes,
make a film on self-reflection based on these to-do lists.”
Without a deadline, funding, or a budget of any description, Jeff embraced the organic
nature of the process. The film, titled Yellow Sticky Notes, progressed in fits and starts, the
sporadic nature of his process entirely down to whether or not he felt the impulse to work
on it on any given day. Jeff coined the term “animation meditation,” and the making of the
film became a therapeutic, self-reflective exercise where ideas could flow freely from his
subconscious. This was largely enabled by his production approach, which called for little
more than the sticky notes themselves (Figure 7.11).
“It was all straight-ahead animation, without even a backlight. I don’t in-between; in
fact, I don’t know if I have the patience for it. I like the idea that I can draw from one
drawing to the next, and the next, and the next; I think if you can do that right, you can
capture some really nice animated motion. I was teaching animation at the same time, so
it was a good way for me to get back into just drawing, pen-on-paper, and with sticky notes
themselves being very portable, I could take them wherever I needed to, including hotel
rooms and aeroplanes.

Independent Animation 127

Figure 7.11
Behind the scenes of Canadian Anijam, Jeff Chiba Stearns’ follow-up (see Chapter 14) to
Yellow Sticky Notes. (Courtesy of Jeff Chiba Stearns.)

“It took me about 9 months to do all the drawing. When I finished the film, all I had
were these sticky notes stacked about the place; I just arranged them from the earliest
date to the latest date, put them in little sections, spread them across the room, and said,
‘I guess I’m done!’ Then I just sat myself in a dark room with a camera stand and shot it
all. The editing took a few days because it was already kind of in the right sequence; I just
pulled drawings out here and there to make it succinct.”
After he tested a rough cut of the film with an audience of students at a Taiwanese ani-
mation festival, the positive reception inspired Jeff to move past his doubts about the film
and package it properly for festivals.
“I kept saying it was either going to be the greatest thing I ever made or the worst;
there was no middle ground; it would either tank or take off. It ended up winning for best
animation at an Asian festival in Toronto, and the guy who ran What Media saw it and
called me personally to say it was brilliant! That’s when it started to catch on, then when
it hit Tribeca, it just took off; YouTube saw it, and from there, it screened everywhere, won
People’s Choice at Clermont-Ferrand, racked up all these awards, so luckily, it became that
film that resonated with people.”

The Animation Advantage

Certainly, nonfiction can be a rich and invaluable resource for exciting short-film con-
tent. Another crucial factor to address is the necessity of animation as a medium. In the

128 7. The Animated Documentarian

preceding case studies, all of the films discussed were subjectively improved by having
been animated as opposed to taking a live-action approach, but why precisely is this?
What is the edge that animation itself has in this realm?
Jeff Chiba Stearns makes a strong case for animation’s practical ability to, more than
anything, make a documentary film more entertaining. “In the world of creating a docu-
mentary, sometimes if it’s spoken with a lot of talking heads, where it’s not so much
cinema verité but more a survey film, animation makes a kind of sense because it gets us
away from just seeing heads talking. Animation has the ability to bring those stories to
life in a way that’s appealing for the audience, an appeal that helps keep people’s attention
spans, helps keep them within the film, helps expand their imaginations. That’s why I love
animation and documentary, because it goes hand in hand. Sometimes you can’t always
find the right B-roll; you can’t find something that’s going to bring those stories to life; you
can’t recreate. I’m not a big fan of documentaries that do reenactments, and I think the
great thing about animation is that we can be a little bit more descriptive of these stories,
but in a way that’s more imaginative rather than specific interpretation.”
Ruth Lingford’s attitude is similar, while also acknowledging the significantly increased
range of expression animated imagery can bring to the mix, particularly its ability to visual-
ize the internal: “The thing about animation and documentary is that animation can docu-
ment the subjective, or can try to. When I was making Little Deaths, people would say, ‘Oh,
that’s been done before.’ There have been projects where people’s faces are filmed as they have
orgasms, which are kind of interesting but don’t really tell you too much about what’s going
on inside. In the way that people were grasping for ways of expressing their feelings in words,
I was grasping for images. There are moments where the film gets close, but it’s always a for-
eign land, a struggle to communicate this essence of your experience. It seemed to me that
animation could get nearer than live action, just because in this circumstance, the superficial
isn’t very interesting to me. Also, there is something to be said for the poetic mutability of
animation, a poetic metamorphosis of sorts that seemed to me to get close to one’s experience
of one’s own body during sex; that that is so subjective and so mutable, it seemed to me that
animation was the right means to try and approach expressing that feeling.
“It’s a side to animation that encapsulates that struggle as well, because people know
when they watch animation that the images are hard-won. There’s often a poignancy to
animation when you feel the animator’s time and struggle in their film.”
Bearing these qualities in mind, animation can also have a role within live-action
documentary, especially if dealing with a longer-form project. While feature-length ani-
mation in and of itself will be explored further in Chapter 8, the use of animation as an
embellishment of an otherwise live-action film is exemplified in another of Jeff’s works,
the multi-award-winning 2010 documentary feature One Big Hapa Family (Figure 7.12).
“I never looked at Yellow Sticky Notes or my previous film What Are You Anyways?
(an autobiographical look at Stearns’s mixed-raced heritage, produced in 2005) as though
they could be considered documentaries, but when I was at Tribeca and they actually
put Yellow Sticky Notes in the documentary category, that’s when it made sense. When I
started thinking of it as a documentation process through animation, it seemed logical to
make a documentary of greater length. Even though the majority of the film is live action,
there’s a lot of animated components to the film. That’s when I started looking at the col-
laborative animation process, because as I was the one editing the film, it meant that I
didn’t have a ton of time to be animating on it myself.”

Independent Animation 129

Figure 7.12
One Big Hapa Family (Dir. Jeff Chiba Stearns) poster. (Courtesy of Jeff Chiba Stearns, ©2010.)

Jeff having been on the festival circuit since 2000, many years of networking with like-
minded independents served to provide him with a pool of talent to reach out to for assis-
tance. Bringing on board six established animators—Jonathan Ng, Louise Johnson, Todd
Ramsay, Ben Meinhardt, Kunal Sen, and Sean Sherwin—who were willing to give their
time to the project, Jeff assigned each a segment of the film to animate based on his famil-
iarity with their respective bodies of work.
“As a lot of the interviews are historical or are telling a certain story, I had an animator
at the back of my head for each; for example, Louise Johnson is really good at doing paint
on glass, so for a historical story of Japanese internment one fellow was talking about, I
could see it coming alive with that technique. I let everybody animate in their own style,
which I think allowed me a chance to work in my own style too, so I could work with
chalkboards and different hand-drawn or stop-motion elements. It became what I call a
‘candy shop of animation,’ very eclectic in its animation approach.
“I didn’t give storyboards to the animators; I basically just gave them the chunk of the
dialog and asked them to animate it, so for them, they were able to do all the preproduc-
tion, design, animate in their own style, do all the drawing themselves, and do the post;
essentially, they were in charge, because I trusted them in their style and ability. Some
animators would keep in touch with roughs; they’d send storyboards, and we’d go back

130 7. The Animated Documentarian

and forth, but for the most part, I could trust that they would do what they do best. The
long and short of it is that animation both complements and enhances the appeal we need
to help the audience get into the mindset of the interviewees. The interviewees are going
back into their brain and pulling these stories out, and essentially, we’re bringing these
stories to life.
“The other thing that’s great is all the animators can work together at the same time,
independently of each other, which is a good way to get a lot of animation done quick as
opposed to having one animator who’s working on 20 minutes of animation that would
take them probably 6 months, if not a year or longer, whereas we can get 20 minutes of
animation done in 2 or 3 months by having different animators working on it, under-
standing and being content with the fact that the animation’s going to look different. In a
film like One Big Hapa Family, without the animation, it could be a boring film because it’s
just a bunch of talking heads—at least bringing a visual sense to the film by giving it that
kick of animation worked out really nice (Figure 7.13). If someone’s going to sit through
an hour and a half of this documentary, we better make sure they’re entertained as well as
being educated, inspired, and taken into the film.”
Audience consideration is a major factor when it comes to any type of film produc-
tion, be it animation, documentary, or otherwise. Pure self-indulgence, or the assumption
that everyone will find what interests you just as riveting, is never an advisable approach.
The artistry of nonfiction comes from how it is structured, packaged, and presented to
the audience, and the success of One Big Hapa Family undoubtedly benefited from the
addition of these visual representations in a way that an audience sees beyond what is
simply being said, to the spirit and relevance of it. While you don’t want an audience to
feel condescended to, there’s something to be said for holding their hand through more
challenging territory. As Tom Schroeder sees it, audiences are generally not accustomed to
the notion that animation and documentary can coexist until they see it in front of them:

Figure 7.13
Still from One Big Hapa Family (Dir. Jeff Chiba Stearns). (Courtesy of Jeff Chiba Stearns,
©2010.)

Independent Animation 131

“Some people are excited by this apparently contradictory idea of a ‘poetical truth,’ as
opposed to the ‘truth of accountants,’ as Werner Herzog likes to characterize it. Others
seem to like the fact that something as simple and immediately accessible as a rooster
in the backyard can be material for larger allegorical themes, that the viewers can then
project their own content into the situation. With Marcel, people tend to find appeal in
the lived-in rough quality of Ann’s voice, as well, her mingled amusement and affection.”
While the endearing quality of the narration serves as a firm audience foothold in Tom’s
case, with Jeff’s Yellow Sticky Notes, it came more in the form of audience–artist solidarity:
“I started to realize, when it hit online and I was reading through all the comments, that
it was starting to inspire people in really cool ways. I’d get comments from old ladies who
hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in 30 years who were inspired to paint again after watch-
ing the film! I guess the biggest compliment I ever got was that there’s an honesty to the
film—that we’re all busy people, and when people see other people’s lives as being busy as
well, they automatically relate to it. It’s very voyeuristic too; I think people enjoy, especially
in this day and age, glimpsing someone’s life and getting to read their to-do lists; you’re
seeing how they visually reflected on that day through the animation process. Which is
sort of what the 9/11 or tsunami or Columbine sequences were about: taking in the world
around us. I think that’s why people gravitated toward the film as much as they did.”

132 7. The Animated Documentarian

8
Going Long

Still from Cheatin’ (Dir. Bill Plympton). (Courtesy of Plymptoons, ©2014.)

For anyone who has already dabbled in the often-laborious, anxiety-inducing process of
creating his/her own independent short, the concept of tackling a feature-length project in
the same way probably seems like madness. Surely, it’s too impossible to even contemplate?

133
If it takes you years to make something that lasts 5 minutes, anything above 40 (this being
the official point, categorically, where a short film becomes a feature) will leave you forever
friendless and riddled with every kind of thrombosis your veins can throw at you.*
Well, in some respects, sure. It’s farcical to entertain the idea that going about creating
an independent feature won’t carry with it some significant sacrifices to time, social life,
and (worst-case scenario) emotional and physical health. I hope I’m not overselling the
prospect here.
All that being said, while it is certainly a taxing and full-on commitment, today’s
resources have made it considerably more feasible and less intimidating than one might
initially think. But first of all, there are some realities worth chewing on.
The cold, hard, and most obvious consideration to take on board would be that your
indie feature will never look like a major studio production. It should go without say-
ing that the high-performing merchandise machines put out there by the likes of Disney,
Pixar, and DreamWorks are not going to remotely resemble what you come up with on
your lonesome. That needn’t be a bad thing, as fortunately, we’ve learned from several
major films that, when it comes to features, strength of story and idea can conquer all.
Adam Elliot’s Mary and Max, true to the established style of his earlier independent work,
is stop-motion of the purposefully nonslick variety, yet I defy anyone to claim that it is
neither moving nor hilarious. Ari Folman’s Waltz With Bashir, rendered in a distinctly
nonmainstream animation style by Yoni Goodman, is an undeniably gripping and haunt-
ing account of the Lebanon War that bowled over critics and audiences alike.
The same applies to those operating outside of a studio system altogether, where key-
stone crews and even solitary individuals have proved that the seemingly impossible can
be achieved with enough passion, dedication, and clear thinking. One such filmmaker is
Signe Baumane, who, after a respectable career as a director of shorts, made the transi-
tion to an indie feature. Over the course of 4 years, she successfully wrote, directed, and
animated the full-length film Rocks in my Pockets, largely from her chilly Manhattan loft
(Figure 8.1).
Following on from the success of her Teat Beat of Sex series brought up in the previous
chapter, for her first feature, Signe instead turned her attention toward an altogether more
heavy-going subject: hereditary mental illness, including, but not limited to, observations
of her own bloodline’s propensity toward depression, anxiety, and, on occasion, suicide.
Created ultimately as an exercise in learning to better understand and live with her own
suicidal thoughts, through her wit and intuition for visual interpretation, the end result is
funny and thoughtful and has been met with critical acclaim.
A main motivating factor for Signe to take on such a large-scale endeavor can be attrib-
uted to many years spent as a protégé of Bill Plympton once she moved from Latvia to
New York. Bill’s much-documented history as an artist and filmmaker stands out as being
one of the most prolific, with over 40 short films and 8 features produced independently
over the course of his 30-odd-year career. Once his work as a newspaper cartoonist and

* This happens, people. I once heard tell of an animator who nearly did himself in when he developed auxiliary
vein thrombosis in his shoulder after cramming in too much track reading in one go. So, if you’re planning
on an all-nighter or several, treat it like a long-haul flight and try to throw in the odd break.

134 8. Going Long

Figure 8.1
Rocks in my Pockets poster. (Courtesy of Signe Baumane/Zeitgeist Films.)

illustrator evolved into a fondness for short-form animation, the rate of his initial output
was the first sign that his own independent feature was not out of the realm of possibility.
“I started making animated short films in 1985. I did a film called Boom Town; then I
did a film called Your Face (1987), which was a huge hit; it got an Oscar nomination and
made a lot of money, so I gave up illustration and started to make animated shorts. I did
a whole bunch of them: How to Kiss (1989), One of Those Days (1988), 25 Ways to Quit
Smoking (1989), and Plymptoons (1990). I put them all together on a videocassette—they
didn’t have DVDs back then—with some of my earlier shorts that I did in college, and I
realized that I had an hour’s worth of animation!
“It occurred to me that I’d almost made a feature film in the last 3 or 4 years without
even trying. Of course, it had always been my dream to work at Disney on some big feature
film, but then the thought occurred to me—I can make my own film; who needs Disney?
The films were making money, plus I was doing a few commercials, so I had the finances to
spend on a feature film. I did a storyboard with a friend of mine, Maureen McElheron; we
did the script together, she did the music, and I just started drawing. It took about a year
and a half to make the film.”
This hard work resulted in The Tune, a musical comedy released in 1992. Steeped in hal-
lucinatory visual motifs and incorporating elements from short films produced concur-
rently, it served as a crucial first long-form outing, one that wears its naïveté on its sleeve.

Independent Animation 135

“I was really sort of ignorant about the history of independent filmmaking. I had of
course heard of Lotte Reiniger’s The Adventures of Prince Achmed (a German masterwork
released in 1926, animated in silhouette with many qualifiers to be considered the first
known independent animated feature), but I didn’t know that it was such a breakthrough,
that it was so unique for one person to animate an entire feature film. I just thought it’d be
kind of fun to do, an adventure, and a challenge to see if I could. Then when I finished, we
entered the film into Sundance, and it was a big hit there. We got huge audiences and lots
of applause—and the film got distribution. It was just such a high, such a thrill, to actually
make a feature film, that I decided to do it again!
“So since then, I’ve made seven more animated feature films. What’s really interesting
now is that anybody can make an animated feature film; it’s not nearly so far-fetched as
when I did it. Back then, it was kind of stupid; it was absurd. Now it’s as though all my
friends are making animated feature films. I applaud that! I think it’s great. Plus it’s so
democratic now; you don’t have to go to Hollywood and get a $50 million budget to make
your film; you can do it at home on your computer. I think that’s really exciting.
“A lot of people look to me and the film The Tune as a sort of breakthrough, something
that shows it is possible for one person to make an animated feature film and anybody can
do it. I’m proud of that fact, and I’m happy to have started this whole revolution.”
The original feature-length films produced alongside Bill’s subsequent shorts and
commissions display an increasing level of comfort and ambition, all embracing the
freedoms of content such independence allows. His self-penned features to date (2015’s
Revengeance being a collaboration with writer Jim Lujan) are I Married a Strange Person!
(1997), Mutant Aliens (2001), Hair High (2004), Idiots and Angels (2008), and Cheatin’
(2014). It is 2014’s Cheatin’ that presents the most harmonious mix of what are considered
to be staples of his work: ribald adult themes, perfectly timed slapstick, cartoon hypervi-
olence, deftly interwoven musical numbers, and impeccable draftsmanship (Figure 8.2).
The film also benefits from elements of emotional pathos introduced in its predecessor
Idiots and Angels, which see themselves further developed in this instance, chiefly, the

Figure 8.2
Still from Cheatin’ (Dir. Bill Plympton). (Courtesy of Plymptoons, ©2014.)

136 8. Going Long

absence of dialogue, which allows for greater appreciation of the characters’ animation
and subtleties of performance.
“An interesting thing about Cheatin’ is it features better storytelling, I believe, than my
other films. It’s not so much just a lot of gags, sex, and violence; it has a little more emo-
tional impact, especially for women; a lot of the women really love it, they love the story,
they love the characters, they love Ella, the lead character. This is rare for me, that a lot of
women really would be moved by my storytelling and characters.”
Another artist to successfully take on a feature film project more or less entirely on her
own is animation freelancer Nina Paley. Her own desire to loosely adapt The Ramayana,
a classic of ancient Hindu literature, developed during a period of her life when she found
herself drawing parallels between the text and her own marital circumstances. Nina’s
affinity with the poem and a recently discovered fondness for the music of Annette
Hanshaw led to an animated interpretation of the 1929 recording Mean to Me, featuring
The Ramayana’s protagonist, Rama, being appealed to in song by his estranged wife, Sita
(Figure 8.3).
“I was a syndicated cartoonist at the time, and I had made a bunch of festival shorts.
Sita started because nothing made me want to get out of bed; I was so uninspired. I had
just burned out on everything except animating this one thing. I was reaching a crisis
professionally, because I did not want to work on my comic strip, but I did want to work on
this animation thing, so I just sort of let it happen. I did manage to fulfill my obligations to
the comic strip—barely—and then I quit as soon as my contract allowed me to.”

Figure 8.3
Sita Sings the Blues (Dir. Nina Paley) poster. (Courtesy of Nina Paley, ©2008.)

Independent Animation 137

The following winter, finding herself experiencing the same creative ennui as before,
Nina devoted her time to another musical episode, marrying Hanshaw’s music to a sec-
tion of The Ramayana. Identifying that an incremental production process could lead to
a movie-length passion project, she threw herself into producing more. The final result was
Sita Sings the Blues, a feature created almost entirely in Flash and eventually released in 2008.
The aforementioned films are all examples of how perseverance and commitment can
achieve the seemingly impossible. Realistically, of course, this only scratches the surface
as far as the practicalities go. It is important for us to further explore some of the critical
areas that led to the success of each of these films.

Harsh Realities
Realizing one’s own limitations is vitally important during such a huge undertaking as
an animated feature. In the case of Rocks in my Pockets, the success of the film depended
in many respects on the skills of others. For Signe Baumane, film has always been a col-
laborative enterprise (Figure 8.4):
“For a long time, people were asking me, ‘You make your own short films; why do you
need a sound designer when you can do sound yourself?’ Or ‘You work digitally; why do
you need a cameraman?’ The reason is because I like collaboration; I like when I get given
a hard time.”
Collaboration provides new perspectives, ways of working, and practical solutions that
would otherwise never be brought to the table. The Rocks in my Pockets crew consisted
of Signe’s friends, colleagues, and enthusiastic interns, whose specialist expertise proved
crucial to the final film’s overall watchability.
“We had the voiceover director, my boyfriend, Sturgis Warner, who directed the film’s
narration. He is also a theater director and, because he works with new playwrights, was
able to give me opinions and feedback on the script to get it in shape while I was writing it.
“Wendy Zhao was one of the first people who came on to work on the film. She started with
coloring, but she also composited and edited the film and did a lot of other things. Our color
designer was Rashida Nasir. As I didn’t have time for all of the micromanagement, I would
approve the colors, but Rashida would choose them. She had an interesting and very different
sense of color than myself, so it took a while for us to get on the same page, but I liked working
with her because I liked how she tried to sneak her color sense in with my own sensibilities.
Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t, but I liked that challenge, that other point of view.
“Then after that there’s a collaboration with a sound designer, Weston Fonger, followed
by one of the most amazing collaborations, with the film’s composer, Kristian Sensini.
He brought so much to the project that I, to this day, am thankful. I had told him to use
the spoken voiceover as a soprano in a music piece. Not only did he do that, treating the
voiceover as the main lead of a melody, but he also at times harmonized his instruments
with the voice! It was just mind-blowing.”
Sita Sings the Blues was, by contrast, a more solitary endeavor, Nina Paley eschewing
many of the established protocols of film production for gut instinct.
“It was absolutely not traditional filmmaking. There was no storyboard. I didn’t know how
to make a feature, and so I got books about screenwriting and asked people I knew who had
worked on features. They suggested I should write a treatment, which I tried, but I eventually
realized that it really just wasn’t good for the film, so I abandoned all of what I had written.”

138 8. Going Long

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Figure 8.4
Rocks in my Pockets script excerpt with notes on timing. (Courtesy of Signe Baumane.)

Instead, Nina built the film in increments, matching lyrically germane Annette Hanshaw
songs to sequences from The Ramayana as before, until she finally had 11 completely ani-
mated musical numbers to craft a film around. These vignettes all share the same relatively
simple digital cut out style, the characters constructed in segments attached by animatable
pivot points.
“I never pictured the whole thing at one time; I pictured little pieces of it at a time
and would execute what I saw. It starts with cycles—I really like Macromedia Flash, not

Independent Animation 139

Adobe Flash, and I began making little cycles in it. I wouldn’t know necessarily what the
whole scene was going to look like, but I’d know, let’s say, Okay, it’s got to have dancing
monkeys; I’m going to animate this monkey dance. Once I had done that, I could copy it as
many times as I wanted, to create whole groups of them moving together. Seeing what they
would look like, I could then make more or fewer of them and arrange them. It was really
fun, like making toys and then playing with them (Figure 8.5).
“I’ve found that the hardest part for me is designing the characters; I have the most men-
tal blocks with that; I procrastinate the most and get the most tense as I do them. I also spend
a long time—more time than I would like—on designing props and backgrounds and stuff,
but once they’re done and I have all these pieces, then I get to start doing cycles again.”
Accompanying this recurring visual style were several others, attributed to separate
running strands of the film. As the viewer accompanies Sita and Rama on their marital
journey, the looseness of the Western interpretation of the source material is explained
and celebrated through a variety of alternate visual approaches.
“Basically, I started with the songs. Once I had all of them animated, it was like a skel-
eton that I would then start making connective tissue between. I wanted to use as many
different styles as I could, partly because I’m interested in different styles but also because
The Ramayana has so many different tellings and such variety of art associated with it—
it’s also a way to maintain a little bit more viewer interest, because it can get so boring to
watch the same style for so long.”
The main story arc is told through character animation that, while rigged in a manner
not wholly dissimilar to the musical sequences, adopts an entirely different look, evocative
of traditional South Asian Mughal paintings. The quality of movement, in homage to prior,
more straight-faced Ramayana adaptations, is purposefully stilted—as are the performances
of the voice actors. By contrast, peppered throughout the film are a series of ad-libbed, exposi-
tional segments in which traditionally designed shadow puppet figures discuss their conflict-
ing accounts and interpretations of the source text as well as the motivations of its characters.
“Initially, I had tried to get photographs of the narrators and was going to animate in
a cutout style with them, but they were too busy to send me them. That’s when I thought
of the shadow puppets, which was much better!” Starkly juxtaposed against the stilted,
somber Mughal sequences, the fluidity of these moments brings the film effectively down
to earth and serves as an important counterbalance.
Tying the film together are the autobiographical retellings of Nina’s own personal crises,
wherein the homologous circumstances of her dissolving marriage and the increasingly terse
relationship between The Ramayana’s Sita and Rama are made clear. These scenes adopt an
entirely separate approach to the movement, design, and layout, making use of full anima-
tion and character design truer to Nina’s established comics style, albeit looser and sketchier.
“It’s my least favorite part of the film, but I felt it was important to put that in to show
very explicitly that this is a personal film, from a personal point of view, from somebody
with a particular history. I didn’t want to make any pretentions that I was telling any kind
of ‘official’ Ramayana.”

The Commitment Factor

The use of multiple styles, as detailed, also proved to be vital to the aesthetic richness
of Signe’s Rocks in my Pockets (Figure 8.6). The character animation for her film is, for

140 8. Going Long

Figure 8.5
Still from Sita Sings the Blues (Dir. Nina Paley) demonstrating the variety of design and ani-
mation styles. (Courtesy of Nina Paley, ©2008.)

Independent Animation 141

Figure 8.6
Signe photographs background elements for Rocks in my Pockets. (Courtesy of Signe
Baumane.)

the most part, hugely limited, in some instances taking a backseat to the narration and
story. While this is mainly to serve the long running time and ensure the completion of
the project itself, the film remains charming and watchable throughout for several rea-
sons. Consistent with Signe’s approach to prior short films, the action is a mix of literal
interpretation of the stories being told intercut with abstract, metaphorical concepts to
help elucidate each character’s state of mind. Adding real depth to the action is the atypi-
cal approach to layout, for which the 2-D character animation is composited onto pho-
tographed (and occasionally animated, using stop-motion) physical sets sculpted out of
paper-mache (Figure 8.7). While this approach blesses the film with a unique visual per-
sonality all of its own, it represented one of the more intimidating aspects of production.
“The areas that I had no expertise in whatsoever, where I didn’t even know where to
start, were the most nerve-wracking. The first was the lighting of the sets—I can cre-
ate paper-mache sets, and I can draw, but the skill of lighting or the talent and knack to
understand it, I don’t have at all. As a camerawoman, I knew what looked good, and I
could make pretty decent pictures, but I couldn’t even begin to set up the lights. So Sturgis,
because he had a better sense of lighting, was able to help me to light the set. Otherwise, I
don’t know how that would have happened.
“The other part was creating the voiceover, which was very intimidating. I did Teat Beat
of Sex with my voice, so you would think, Oh, just go ahead and read it, right? But Rocks in
my Pockets is a 90-minute narrative, it has to have an arc and consistency and drive because
people have to stay with you for that length of time (Figure 8.8). So again, I asked Sturgis to
direct the voice. We worked on it for 7 weeks, 5 hours a day, and then we read it in front of a
small audience of 30 people. It was really nerve-wracking. I never ordinarily have stage fright,
but I had stage fright for a week before the presentation, which lasted until it was over. I was
so nervous, almost to a point where I felt that I would faint, because I am not an actress. After
all, you can’t cram in 7 weeks and think you’ll be as good as Meryl Streep; that’s ridiculous.”
Aside from working through hurdles of production that seem daunting, the realistic
completion of a long-form independent feature hinges on a particular level of dedication

142 8. Going Long

Figure 8.7
Photographs of Rocks in my Pockets backgrounds for character animation reference.
(Courtesy of Signe Baumane.)

one may not be prepared for. In the case of Sita Sings the Blues, Nina’s symbolic commitment
to the film gave her a vital psychological push to stick with it, with unanticipated benefits.
“It took 3 years of work spread over 5 years of time, starting in 2003. So when I worked
on it in earnest, it took a little under 3 years, but I had already made the first short and the
character designs and things like that. I learned a very important lesson by committing
to Sita Sings the Blues: I bought a ring, I ‘married’ the film, and I just decided, for richer
or poorer, that the film would be my priority. I wasn’t going to worry about money so
much—I had enough savings at the time from freelancing to last me about 8 months—but
what happened from making that commitment was I no longer took low-paying jobs that
took a lot of time. It emboldened me to charge more money when those jobs came in. If

Independent Animation 143

Figure 8.8
Still from Rocks in my Pockets (Dir. Signe Baumane) demonstrating 2D character animation
against constructed backgrounds. (Courtesy of Signe Baumane, ©2014.)

somebody said ‘no deal,’ that was fine, I would use the time to make my movie, and the
result of that was I got some really great high-paid gigs! By having that attitude, that was
the first time in my life I got really good gigs; I was kind of amazed by that.”
As someone who has worked on features since before the digital revolution, Bill
Plympton’s perspective on just how much more achievable such projects are today holds
particular weight (Figure 8.9).

Figure 8.9
Bill Plympton animates “Thug” from Cheatin’. (Courtesy of Plymptoons, ©2013.)

144 8. Going Long

“I think the big help is the digital technology. The cost of making a film has come way
down; when I shot my first film, I had to use a big rostrum camera, 35 mm film, and paint
on cels. The editing was done on a Steenbeck flatbed, and the sound mix was really expen-
sive; you had to do it in a big lab and pay between fifty to a hundred dollars an hour. The
technology was so old-fashioned that it was very expensive, whereas you can now make a
feature film on your home computer, and it will probably be better than the one I made. I
think that’s the real key, even more so than funding; it’s all down to new technology—and
new distribution. Now you can distribute it online without worrying about getting some-
one to distribute the film.”
Even bearing such technological progression in mind, the fundamental sacrifices of
time and resources remain just as taxing and need to be considered when planning such a
large-scale project around other work and life commitments (Figure 8.10).
“Generally speaking, I do a feature film about every two to two and a half years, and I’ll
do maybe two or three shorts a year. In between, I might do a couple of commercial jobs,
an ad or part of a documentary or compilation film; that’s the kind of work pattern I like.
The storyboard and writing process will ordinarily take about a year—though not full-
time; it’s sort of part-time in between other projects. Then I will do animation for roughly
a year (Cheatin’ took a little bit longer—it took a year and a half because it was a lot more
drawings), and then postproduction takes about 6 months, so it’s about two and a half
years to make the film. While I’m doing the storyboards and the writing, my studio will
be working on the postproduction and editing for the previous film, so it kind of balances
out; there’s always a different part of the production going on all the time.”

Story Development’s Greatest Ally: Feedback

With such an extensive filmography under his belt, Bill Plympton’s sense of his audience’s
wants and needs is doubtless more attuned than most, although this doesn’t get in the way
of what, to him, is prerequisite to the development of his story ideas.
“One of the important things that I do—and I think other filmmakers should do—
is test it at almost every stage of the production. I do this for my shorts, too. I’ll show
the storyboards to really close friends in animation, because most animators understand
storyboards better than the man on the street. Then I’ll do a rough cut of the film, maybe
even a pencil test with sound, and I’ll show that to a test audience of mostly strangers, not
necessarily friends, so I get a hopefully unbiased opinion. Then when the film is close to
being done, when it’s all colored with rough sound and rough music, I’ll show it again to
get some feedback as this is my final chance to perfect the film.
“A lot of people think that since I produce, finance, and draw the films myself, that
there’s no censorship. There is; I really censor myself a lot because I want the film to be
popular, so if there’s a scene in there that I don’t think works very well or will be offensive
or turn people off, I will cut that scene because I really want this film to be a success. Now
I will try to put in ideas that I think are kind of crazy and wacky and bizarre, that aren’t
necessarily ‘normal’ ideas, and I will fight to keep those in, but if the test audience doesn’t
like them, I will cut them out and put them on the shelf.
“I think an important quality to have is considering the audience as the master I’m
working for. I’m not working for myself; I’m not working for good reviews or winning lots
of prizes; I’m working for the audience, and that’s the way it should be.”

Independent Animation 145

Figure 8.10
Compositing pencil art and digital color layers for Cheatin’ in After Effects. (Courtesy of
Plymptoons, ©2013.)

146 8. Going Long

Signe Baumane similarly doesn’t make films for herself: “It’s not like I’m going to make
the film and lock myself in a room with it and watch it for a year (Figure 8.11). You make a
film to communicate ideas, and before you release the film into the world, you want to know
if you have somehow succeeded. At the very least, I want my points to come across, I want the
story to be clear, but there is a line of how much you give in to the audience or to the demands
of people who are not used to seeing something so utterly different. Very early on, when I
presented the first 5 minutes in screenings and online, the feedback was very strong and very
consistent that the voiceover was horrible and that I would have to hire some decent actress or
get rid of the voiceover altogether. So for me, early on, I had to consider, Do I do that?
“They way I conceived the film was like an acorn that I’d planted in the ground, and I
had to wait and work on it. The people were saying to me that they wanted to have wheat
or barley, or a rose, but the seed that I had put into the ground was for an oak tree, so what
can I do? Dig it out and find a seed of a rose, or wait and see how my oak tree grows, how
this will turn out, and what my options are? So it was very hard for me with this early

Figure 8.11
Rocks in my Pockets thumbnail boards to final stills comparison. (Courtesy of Signe Baumane,
©2014.)

Independent Animation 147

negative feedback to stay loyal to the acorn that I had put in the ground. I was full of doubt
and insecurity, but I decided that even if I failed, even if this oak tree came out crippled, I
wanted to see it. So I stayed loyal to that idea.
“I didn’t just rerecord my voiceover; we had a test reading where I read the script in front
of a small audience of 30 people who gave feedback. They said which parts were interesting,
which parts they liked, and where they felt it dragged. So we cut out some stuff, I stayed
loyal to my acorn, and I worked and worked. Then towards the end, in December 2012
when we had most of the film animated but only half-colored, I had two test screenings.
One was at Bill Plympton’s studio, where we had about 10 people crammed around a TV set
who we took feedback from afterward. Another took place a week later at a small art-house
café in Sunset Park in Brooklyn. That had roughly 70 people, and we had a very intense
feedback session. Out of 70 people who saw the film in these two feedback sessions, 50 said
they loved the voiceover, seven said they absolutely hated it, and then the rest of them said
they could go either way. For me, that was interesting, that people still hated the voiceover,
but only 10% of them. So if you were to bring it to 10,000 people, then 1,000 people would
hate it, but the bigger percentage loves it. This was at a time when the film didn’t have music
and was barely colored, when the voiceover was really right in your face. In that instance,
because way more people loved it than hated it, I decided to keep the voiceover.
“Then there’s a certain type of feedback where people say, ‘Oh, I think that you shouldn’t
do this’ or ‘If I were you, I would do that,’ where it’s them trying to make my film. That
feedback is hard to take, because it’s not really helping the film.”
This degree of awareness to pick and choose which feedback is applicable speaks for
one’s self-assuredness as a filmmaker, though as Signe herself concedes, the more consis-
tent feedback is usually consistent for a reason: “People were confused in the beginning
as to who was the main character, because she doesn’t kick in until around 14 minutes
into the film. That was important feedback that I was scratching my head about for a good
6 months, until in June 2013, I was ready to do something about it. It took me 6 months to
understand what had to be done, which was to create an opening sequence that wasn’t there
before, of the small woman pushing a big rock up the mountain so that you knew she is the
main character; when she reappears in the film, you know that it’s her story (Figure 8.12).
“I cut out the first 5 minutes of the film, which was very hard because they were fully
colored and they were kind of funny, but they had to go because they were prolonging the
time where you didn’t know what was happening, or why. Then we cut out some parts that
we felt could be tightened up, parts I was really attached to but ultimately felt were unnec-
essary. Then we had the final test screening in the Fall of 2013, after which I did small
adjustments for moments where people were confused about how the characters related
to each other. Then of course, we added the music and sound design, and that was it. So
overall, there were four testing events.”
Nina Paley’s process for soliciting feedback during the production of Sita Sings the
Blues was more focused on her potential audience, taking what, at the time, was a progres-
sive approach to engage with the rest of the world.
“With Sita Sings the Blues, I was posting little QuickTime clips of it—before YouTube
existed. I would finish a bit and post it on my blog. Nobody read my blog back then until
some people found these clips, when other websites wrote about them. Then my site just
kept getting shut down because there was too much traffic, and I had to pay all these cover-
age charges because I was hosting the video myself. That was totally worth it, it was a really

148 8. Going Long

Figure 8.12
Still from Rocks in my Pockets (Dir. Signe Baumane). (Courtesy of Signe Baumane, ©2014.)

good thing, so I learned early on that yes, sharing the work while it’s in progress is a really
good thing in terms of building interest for it.
“I like to share things as I finish them. Occasionally, I’ll seek feedback for a particular
design, and I’ll just post it on my blog or on Facebook or Google+ and ask people what they
think of something. I don’t want feedback on everything, and the great thing about using
the Internet is I can only ask for feedback on specific things. Of course, what this means is
that people will be offering me unsolicited feedback, but I’ve gotten better at ignoring infor-
mation that’s of no use to me while gleaning information that is useful to me. It’s great hav-
ing a bunch of people that are following my work as fans, and when I want feedback, I can
get it; it’s a luxury. Otherwise, it’s like I’m totally in isolation, in a vacuum, because I work
all by myself. If I worked in a studio, I would have studio colleagues to show it to; I’d be
part of a team; and even if it was a secret from the rest of the world, there would be enough
encouragement, probably, to keep me going. But for a number of reasons, I don’t work that
way; I work alone; I pretty much need to work alone. So my studio is the Internet!”

Staying Visible, Keeping Afloat

Both Cheatin’ and Rocks in my Pockets benefited from coming together at a time when
social media and blog culture had firmly taken hold. Signe Baumane’s production blog,*
which began with a cryptic first post in September 2010, would venture into all sorts of
territory beyond being a strict breakdown of the making of film. As in the movie itself,
her gift for anecdotal storytelling is frequently on display, the site serving a repository for

* http://rocksinmypocketsthemovie.wordpress.com/

Independent Animation 149

childhood recollections, memoirs of early adulthood, and accounts of shambolic relation-
ships that serve as well-articulated companion reading to the eventual movie. Though
plenty of the posts do explore her process and detail the successes, pitfalls, and challenges
faced during and after production, it is Signe’s unabashedly idiosyncratic personality and
the heart of who she is as a filmmaker that shines through and grants the film’s potential
audience an avenue to communicate with her.
“I had no idea what I was doing with social media when I was making the film, but it
was very important to me to connect with people. One interesting thing that happened
was, after one screening of the film at DOK Leipzig in Germany, a man came up to me and
said that he’d followed my blog and the Facebook page for the 4 years I had worked on the
film. He had stumbled across my blog by accident, without any interest in animation at all,
but every update that I posted helped him to understand and connect with the project bet-
ter, and at the end, he was a complete fan of the project. When it came time for him to be
able to see the film in Leipzig at a screening, he was just beside himself; he was so thrilled.
That was something interesting that I’d never considered, and probably, if I had known
about it earlier, I would have done a better job, maybe, or consciously written things about
connecting people to the project. I was just writing random stuff; I’m not really a very
well-organized person, so I’d just do random posts. There’s no real strategy for me, but I
guess my personality comes through. Who I am, my passion, the simple pleasures I under-
went to make this project happen, and my sense of humor also comes through. The tagline
‘A funny film about depression’ could be many things, but if you followed my blog and
Facebook page for 4 years, you would know exactly what to expect—or you would hope
that it would be what you think it is going to be.”
Supplementing her blog is a short series of video entries, a means of documenting the
process further, also embraced by Bill Plympton throughout Cheatin’. The extensive produc-
tion blog* put together by Bill and his Plymptoons studio crew painstakingly covers the key
processes and technicalities, offering fans and enthusiasts a look at his unique approach and
the ways it differentiates from a traditional feature pipeline. While very different films, these
windows into the more or less simultaneous production of Rocks in my Pockets and Cheatin’
(coupled with Signe and Bill’s prior working relationship) offer their fan base an insight into
their solidarity as independent creatives and mutual encouragement (Figure 8.13).
Such support is integral to staying motivated while in the thick of production, especially
at points where the light at the end of the tunnel is so hard to see. For Signe, the sacrifices
that might otherwise have stood in the way of perseverance were tempered with some good
fortune in the sense that collaboration maintained an important personal relationship.
“One thing that, in my case, was extremely lucky was that my boyfriend Sturgis real-
ized early on that I was embarking on a project he could not stop me from, so he integrated
himself into it as the voiceover director and the lighting designer. In Q & As when we are
together, sometimes people ask the question, ‘So why did a theater director decide to be part
of this animated feature project?’ And he says, ‘I had to do it if I wanted to see my girlfriend!’
In the last year, he became coproducer, and we raised money together for the last batch of
distribution and marketing; we formed our own LLC, did research, and prepared marketing
materials together. We work quite a lot, and we communicate all the time about business. If
I was communicating so intensely with somebody else, I wouldn’t have time for a boyfriend!

* https://vimeo.com/plymptoons

150 8. Going Long

Figure 8.13
Rocks in my Pockets exposure sheet. (Courtesy of Signe Baumane.)

Independent Animation 151

“As for the personal sacrifices, they are obvious: I lived very frugally, I lived on the edge
of being insanely poor, and all the money I had went towards the project. I barely had time
for friends—I believe I had friends, but I hardly saw them. There are people in our lives
who come in and expect a certain level of friendship, a certain level of communication that
I couldn’t give them, and they would get very upset and walk away mad at me. So I can
only be friends with people who understand what I do, and why, people who would not
try to barge in and take big chunk of my time, that have respect for this thing that I try to
do. ‘Be prepared to work long hours, and be prepared to become a family with your team.’
The other thing I would say is that one has to foster good relationships with people who
are wealthy! When people put down wealthy people, I don’t agree; I think that they’re fun,
and when you need to raise money for your film, a person who believes in you as an artist,
who believes in your project, and who is able to support you with a little more contribution
that just $10, that is also very handy.”
Bill Plympton’s own resolve is predicated more on having found a working rhythm that
feeds his personal contentment (Figure 8.14). “Well, first of all, just to let you know, I get
up every morning around 5 a.m. and go to my drawing board and start drawing—and

Figure 8.14
Cheatin’ (Dir. Bill Plympton) drawn animation to final film comparison. (Courtesy of
Plymptoons, ©2014.)

152 8. Going Long

sometimes I’ll draw until 9 p.m. or 10 p.m. at night, so it’s a long day! Certainly, during
the day, I have to do phone calls or business or write checks or have meetings, but it is a
long day of animation, and, I’ll be honest with you, it’s really fun. If you’re doing it right,
if you really have an interesting story with interesting characters, then it’s a really exciting
process; it’s a joy and a pleasure. That, I think, is the number one reason why I do it, but
also, at the back of my mind, I have this fantasy—and sometimes it’s a reality—of Oh, this
one will win the Oscar; this’ll win the Nobel Peace Prize; this will get a standing ovation; this
will get lines around the block waiting to see the film…
“And you have to believe that; you have to believe that this is the best film ever made,
better than Snow White and the Seven Dwarves and Citizen Kane, because if you don’t,
then you’ll lose your passion, you’ll lose your excitement for the project, and it will turn
out pretty bad. So I always have a very optimistic attitude about my films; I always fanta-
size about winning all these prizes and going to all these wonderful festivals. That’s the
other part, getting a huge response and nice ovation from the audience; that’s really what
drives me. For some of the films, I’ve gotten that, and I must say, it’s very gratifying after
all the work to know that the audience likes what I have produced” (Figure 8.15).
To filmmakers who would follow in the footsteps of herself, Bill, Nina, and others
who’ve run the animated feature production gauntlet, Signe Baumane recommends a
soupçon of denial. “When I started Rocks in my Pockets, I thought it could be done for
$100,000. Well, it was not; in the end, when we had finished everything including market-
ing and distribution, it was three times that. That number is huge, I will never hold that
much money in my hands, so I think that I protected myself from knowing exactly what
was going to happen; if I had known how much the film would have cost from the start, I
might have never begun. So you have to be delusional to start any project, and you have to
say it’s going to be easy, which is how I started. The hardest thing for me was that, once I

Figure 8.15
Still from Cheatin’ (Dir. Bill Plympton). (Courtesy of Plymptoons, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 153

had been animating for half a year with an assistant who was coloring for 4 months as fast
as she could as I had these drawings piling up, in 4 months, we had only colored around
3 minutes! That feeling of despair, that I had a 90-minute project to accomplish and in
4 months, two of us had accomplished so little, that feeling of that long tunnel ahead, I felt
like I have to walk across the Earth! But then everybody got faster; it was the beginning,
the early stages. We got more help, and so things moved along, and it went ahead.”
For Nina Paley, the “marriage” of her and her film proved to be a vital exercise in
catharsis. On top of it being an outlet for an emotionally tumultuous period of her life, the
sheer amount of time making Sita Sings the Blues demanded of her had the added healing
value of putting distance between her and the events as they had transpired. “I did think
it was a pretty transformative experience, that I took this horrible event, and by making
a feature film out of it, I changed my life in a really dramatic way. So by the time I was
done, I was really grateful for this event, because the film just totally changed my life and
brought me all these gifts that I never would have had if these things had never occurred.”

154 8. Going Long

9
Funding

In an ideal world, the landscape of funding would be so evergreen as to be able to pro-

vide you with a list of relevant organizations, schemes, and networks to reach out to for
financial support of your independent work. In the cold light of day, however, these cir-
cumstances are constantly shifting, with a multitude of political factors determining the
perceived relevance of the arts throughout the world. Consequently, any list of resources
I could present at the time of writing would be quickly outdated, so you as the filmmaker
or producer will need to put in the legwork when it comes to just what opportunities to
bolster your budget will be available at any given time, wherever it is you reside. In a huge
number of instances, filmmakers have managed to make fantastic work with no official
budget at all, save for their time and, when handled respectfully, the time of others who
pitch in (more on this in the next chapter). Through carefully saving money or even pro-
ducing a film alongside a day job, it is not out of the realm of possibility for certain film
ideas to come together unfunded. Of course, you may very well have a film idea where that
approach simply is not viable, so here, we will look at a number of other funding options
to contemplate.
Going into one’s own pockets may be a grim inevitability, but the perceivable value of
your film—whether it has an educational purpose, for example, or examines a major social
issue—can help bring in supplemental funds. When seeking support for their animated
Louis Spohr tribute Virtuos Virtuell, directors Thomas Stellmach and Maja Oschmann

155
Figure 9.1
Still from Virtuos Virtuell (Dir. Thomas Stellmach/Maja Oschmann). (Courtesy of Thomas
Stellmach, ©2013.)

were well aware that the high quality standard they hoped for the film would be far easier
to achieve with more than self-funding alone (Figure 9.1).
“I had to produce a film which could go to festivals; that was why it was necessary to get
this high quality,” Thomas assures. “The film had to go to cinemas; that was the only way
could I get funding. On the other side, we had some patrons from the city, because the idea
was to also produce this film for the exhibition of Kassel’s Louis Spohr Museum. At the
end of the day, we managed to get roughly half of the production budget, from companies,
banks, and the mayor, for example.”
Funds were gathered from a variety of sources, patrons including the Federal Govern-
ment Commissioner for Culture and Media, the Hessian Film Fund, companies, banks,
stores, and individuals, not to mention the Louis Spohr Museum itself. Thomas and Maja’s
own financial contributions came not through dipping into existing funds as much as
countless unpaid hours working to finish it. This was made possible by limiting the film’s
crew to just themselves. While it might seem that bringing on board a larger crew would
have reduced the overall production time down from 3-plus years, it’s worth remember-
ing that the entire aesthetic and emotion of the film hinged on a very personal system of
communication and idea generation—an artistic folie à deux, almost—that, if extended
to salaried outsiders, may have both cost money and protracted the length of production.

The Snowball Effect

In the case of Amsterdam-based artist Rosto, whose prolific output we will explore in
greater depth later in the book, geographical circumstances have also proved fortuitous
when it comes to securing funds for new projects, even if he has to look further afield
than his home country of the Netherlands: “We are very lucky that we are European, and
although things can go rapidly in the wrong direction—it’s always easy to break stuff down
that took a long time to build up—we still have good government funding systems. In my

156 9. Funding
case, I often collaborate with other European countries, especially France, who have been
very good to me—they are a cinephile country, and there are a lot of people there sitting
on money, so to speak, who really appreciate what I do. So a film like Lonely Bones (2013),
for example, was only financed by French money; I didn’t get any financing from my own
country, but France was there. But for a film like Splintertime (2015), there were three coun-
tries involved—Belgium, France, and Holland—and some television money. That’s basi-
cally how we’d gather all the little bits and pieces of funding together” (Figure 9.2).
The additional streams of funding are again owed to the snowball effect of each Rosto
project being more visible and aesthetically polished than the last, a mutually beneficial
arrangement for both artist and production company that sees him more than happy to
continue a professional association with Autour de Minuit for the foreseeable future.
“While I’m often being told that I’m one of their ‘trophy’ authors, I’m always being
reminded how lucky I am to be with a distribution/production company that has become
synonymous for quality work out there. So I think we both not only enjoy each other’s
company; we also benefit a lot from it.”
It is something of a rare case, however, for outside funding to not contribute significantly
to the creative side of the process. In the world of mainstream cinema—or any form of
marketable art, for that matter—there is an inevitable correlation between the level of out-
side financial assistance and the amount of creative control a filmmaker has to relinquish.
Sometimes, this is a good thing (think of all the director’s cuts of films you might have seen
that only serve to belabor or convolute the story, paling in comparison to its tighter theatri-
cal release), though the idea of having your vision as a filmmaker curbed is, in principle,
an idea that most people will not be especially fond of. This is especially true in the case
of independent films, where the potential to profit from and market your finished film is
significantly less. One example of an independent project that became a different beast over
time through its changing funding circumstances would be the series of StoryCorps films

Figure 9.2
Still from Splintertime (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D./Author de Minuit/S.O.I.L.,
©2015.)

Independent Animation 157

produced by brothers Mike and Tim Rauch. Though StoryCorps and Rauch Bros. had a
largely clement relationship with a fantastic body of work to show for it, there is a notable
disparity between the project’s origins and what it would eventually become.
“We were producing the shorts without funding for the first 3 years,” says Tim. “It’s
always true that once there’s money involved, then more people—especially the people
providing the money—are going to have input. So it does change things.”
In the beginning, the brothers’ higher level of creative control over the various aspects
of the project, such as art style and overall tone, was a major contributor to the enthusiasm
and energy that surrounded each film. As the funding circumstances evolved over time,
so did StoryCorps’ creative vision and input, incrementally shifting further away from
Rauch Bros.’ ideal scenario.
“Over time, I think you just get to a point where you’ve done a project long enough and
it’s time to move on,” reasons Tim, “but also where, creatively speaking, you realize that if
you were to keep doing it on your own, you would be doing it differently.”
“There were things we would have loved to have explored over the years, with that
series,” adds Mike. “I think we were always interested in the possibility of experiment-
ing with sound design and the use of music to set different moods. I think from a point
of view of budget as well as just a creative direction that they wanted to go with, that was
something StoryCorps never wanted to do, which was fine. We made it work with their
approach, and it was an amazing opportunity on so many levels to make all those shorts.
We’re so thankful to have done it, but there are new vistas we wanted to be able to explore
creatively. We knew that if we were to keep doing the same thing, we would not necessarily
have had that chance” (Figure 9.3).

Figure 9.3
Sketches for unproduced StoryCorps film Ralph Donald by Rauch Bros. Animation. (Courtesy of
Rauch Bros. Animation.)

158 9. Funding
On reflection, Mike and Tim have a keen sense of the benefits of self-funding and its
inherent freedoms, though in comparing the two situations, they acknowledge that with
the development of the series came a number of undeniable perks. The most advanta-
geous of these was being able to bring on board serious talent in the form of animated
television industry veterans, such as background designer Bill Wray and storyboard art-
ist Stephen DeStefano, whose combined TV credits include such projects as The Ren &
Stimpy Show, Samurai Jack, The Venture Bros, The Mighty B!, and The Avengers: Earth’s
Mightiest Heroes.
Bringing on board these artists was an unexpected outcome of initially pursuing recent
graduates to work on the show. When scheduling conflicts arose that saw Rauch Bros.
without a crew right before production began on the first group of StoryCorps shorts to
receive funding, panic soon gave way to ambitious logic, as Mike recalls.
“What we would have done when we hired our background artist would be to then
specifically show him lots of Bill Wray’s work, to put across what we wanted to carry over
into the series. So I thought, What do I have to lose at this point? I’ve got nobody else on
deck; I might as well shoot for the seemingly impossible—which was to get Bill onto this
production.”
Fortuitously, Mike happened to live in the same building as animation historian, Amid
Amidi, who was able to put Rauch Bros. in contact with Bill Wray. With some resource-
fulness, they also managed to reach out to fellow Spümcø alumnus Jim Smith, who would
contribute to several StoryCorps shorts as a layout artist.
“I e-mailed both of them, and they called me back within an hour agreeing to come
onto the project! That was a pretty huge surprise to me; I remember just literally pacing in
circles in my apartment, almost running and jumping up and down. That was a lesson in
not selling yourself short when it comes to your creative vision of what you want to do and
who you want on your team. You might as well just go for it instead of telling yourself that
it’s not going to work out.”
Even without outside funding, this lesson is one that should be taken on board and
can apply to other areas of production as well, such as casting for your film (as we will see
in Chapter 12). As well as guaranteeing a more authentic end result than simply having
someone replicate these artists’ style, in many respects, their experience and advanced
artistry would not just be confined to their respective roles but bleed into the production
as a whole.
“Even the quality of our character design vastly improved once we did have money
and a team to be able to produce these things,” Mike acknowledges. “Stephen DeStefano,
for instance, was never hired as a character designer, but the quality of design in his
storyboards—sometimes before we had even established certain design concepts—was so
strong that it heavily influenced the look of many StoryCorps shorts.”
As Tim describes, this ripple effect was also the case with the background art that
Bill Wray would produce for the films. “Over the years, I feel like I’ve learned so much
just through observing Bill’s work, seeing how he handles simplicity and creating focus
and tension and using color, so it’s been invaluable to have had funding. People complain
about having less creative control, which is true, but you also learn and grow as an artist.
There are always advantages to every experience you have if you embrace it fully.”
There remain, from Mike’s standpoint, clear benefits in taking on film projects com-
pletely independently, with an unfettered approach to direction and animation style,

Independent Animation 159

though he is quick to concede that it is a far more solitary experience that is not always
preferable to what can be accomplished with a larger team and all of its associated
benefits.
“The way that first group of shorts started was independently, made on our own time,
on our own dime. We had an agreement with StoryCorps where we jointly owned the
shorts that were produced in that time period. I think that the fact that we had something
established about an approach for these, even though it evolved after that, put us in a dif-
ferent place than we would’ve been otherwise. First of all, I don’t think it would have hap-
pened as a series of shorts without having done those independent ones first; I don’t think
we could have walked in a room, pitched that idea, and have them say, ‘That’s great, let’s
get money and make this as a series!’ I also think that we did have a certain level of creative
freedom in producing them that we would not have had if it had come to life through just
a pitch to StoryCorps. I think that we had proven something about our vision and our
approach, previous to becoming a funded series, that generated this certain amount of
trust and freedom for us in producing them. It’s always a give-and-take.”
Another example of how the presence of corporate funding can affect the indepen-
dent spirit of a project refers back to an earlier case study in the book. The viral vis-
ibility of Story from North America, the auteur song-based project by Garrett Michael
Davis in collaboration with Kirsten Lepore, ultimately led to a sequel film, Story from
South America, commissioned by the Fox network’s Animation Domination High-Def
(Figure 9.4). Though Kirsten was not involved, Garrett once again took up the roles of

Figure 9.4
The raw edge of 2007’s Story from North America (Dir. Garrett Michael Davis/Kirsten Lepore)
did not prove to be as present in its 2013 successor. (Courtesy of Garrett Davis/Kirsten
Lepore, ©2007.)

160 9. Funding
writer, composer, performer, designer, and animator with the hope of ensuring a film that,
although a more “produced” affair with higher production values, would maintain the
outré spirit of the original. Ultimately, Garrett would wind up approaching the process of
this follow-up in an entirely different way.
“I made a full-on animatic for it, in contrast to Story from North America, and then the
whole thing was animated in 2 weeks, compared to the 6 or so months we spent on the
original. It was also animated in Flash as opposed to on paper, but (collaborator) Ben Jones
had the idea to do all the backgrounds on paper. They were then painted in Photoshop, and
the result was amazing.
“Mostly, I learned what I already knew, that you don’t need a studio to make some-
thing good. And it’s probably easier to make something good without a studio, if you have
vision.”
In the absence of former collaborator Kirsten Lepore, Story from South America fea-
tures a larger team of animators and designers: “Working with any kind of crew was
totally new for me. It was fun, and I really enjoyed what the background designers did
especially. They were all really young kids who just got out of CalArts, and everyone was
scared of being fired.”
Though it proved somewhat difficult to maintain the tone of the piece (“I didn’t even
really know what the tone was”), the final result was not entirely satisfactory to Garrett,
but with a fairly tight production window available, compromises had to be made.
“I allowed individual people to contribute their own ideas, and I didn’t shoot anything
down. Ultimately, I just wanted everyone to have fun working on it. There is always a
degree of letting go that has to happen on any collaborative project, but I much prefer
working alone or with one other person. The more people, the more diluted the vision
gets, unless you are a tyrannical director—which I may become someday, but I wasn’t at
that point.”
Despite the lo-fi approach to its predecessor, the time restraints on the development
and production of Story from South America ultimately outweighed the benefits of the
additional funding and manpower available for it. Embarking on a piece of music that
was more of a “skeleton of a song,” one not “totally resolved, lyrically or musically,”
as opposed to the sturdier “Spider Song,” on which the first film was built around was
another major drawback. The newer song also suffered due to unforeseen schedul-
ing issues conflicting with Garrett’s personal process when it came to performing the
piece.
“I had been growing the fingernails on my right hand out pretty long because the song
used this specific finger style that I came up with. The producer kept telling me, ‘Tomorrow
we’re going to record; be ready.’ So I kept my fingernails. It kept not happening, so after a
couple of months of that, I figured it was never going to happen, so I cut my nails, because
they were annoying me. The next day, we were recording, and we were rushed because we
only had 20 minutes in the booth. I got gigantic blisters on my fingertips because I had no
nails and couldn’t even play the song properly.”
In Garrett’s mind, it remains clear which of the two works best as a film: “Story from
North America is far better in every way. The sequel for me is more about an experience
of becoming a part of the larger animation world. Through ADHD, it’s been aired on
American television; my friend told me once that it came on the TV while he was eating in
an Ethiopian restaurant. That gave me a really nice feeling.”

Independent Animation 161

Digging Deep
When it came to diving into his fifth short, Ernie Biscuit, Melbourne-based director Adam
Elliot eventually had to concede that the funding options that had been in place to enable
the completion of such films as his Oscar-winning 2003 short Harvie Krumpet and 2009
feature film Mary and Max simply did not exist anymore (Figure 9.5). With the Australian
film industry having taken a knock, there were significant compromises to be made should
his new short ever be realized. One telling consideration is that Ernie Biscuit had not origi-
nally been intended as a short film at all, but a second feature.
Self-funding the film was certainly not the plan from the start, especially with the script
in its longer-form state. With Adam working alongside executive producer Brian Rosen,
whose prior credits included Henry Selick’s stop-motion adaptation of James and the Giant
Peach (1996), the journey to get Ernie Biscuit off the ground began shortly after the release
of Mary and Max. Despite Brian’s former position as chief executive of the Australian
Film Finance Corporation, this journey proved to be an uphill one.
“I was very lucky to have him on board,” Adam recalls with admiration. “He’s very pro-
active, energetic, and enthusiastic. He never throws in the towel, he never gives up a battle,
and he was determined that Ernie Biscuit as a feature would one day get fully financed.”
Conviction and perseverance are both vital in getting a passion project off the ground,
but it’s important to have enough of a grounded sense of what is and isn’t attainable. While
it’s never the desired outcome to settle for an alternative, knowing when to compromise
can save a lot of unnecessary hassle and heartbreak.

Figure 9.5
Adam Elliot with Ernie Biscuit puppet. (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

162 9. Funding
Figure 9.6
Still from Ernie Biscuit (Dir. Adam Elliot). (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

“I’ve always been aware of filmmakers who’ve been ‘developed to death,’ and I didn’t
want to be one of those. So I think after about the third year, when we had started to raise
some of the money, we had sales agents and distributors all interested and enjoying the
script, but they all said it wasn’t family-friendly enough. We were very lucky to make Mary
and Max; if we tried to make that film today in Australia, there would be no way we’d even
get half of the budget, because the average Australian budget has now gone from eight mil-
lion to one and a half million, and that’s just tragic.”
As Adam and Brian persevered with the pursuit of feature film funding, the writ-
ing incrementally etched itself onto the wall as the proposed budget would continu-
ally diminish. Having started at AU$40 million, considered a modest sum to strive for
in the world of features, the hypothetical funds eventually dropped to a tenth of that
amount. With no viable way to create a film that would remotely resemble Adam’s vision
as scripted (the final act as written hinged on a dynamic and elaborately animated chase
scene) for $4 million, a rethink was in order. So as not to severely compromise the aes-
thetic and tone of the film, Ernie Biscuit was reinvented as a companion film to Harvie
Krumpet (Figure 9.6).
“I said to my executive producer that I was throwing in the towel, that I was going to
reinvent the script. I was determined it would get made, but I thought it would probably
work as a short if I could get the script to under half an hour.”
Observing the changing tide of independent film, it occurred to Adam that other film-
makers were beginning to take matters into their own hands in a way they hadn’t before.
Proactivity and entrepreneurial ingenuity served as an inspiration to Adam, especially
when coupled with the realization that concessions need not be a negative thing. In truth,
the absence of funds and resources, and by association, being beholden to the demands of
those who provide either, can be a major positive.

Independent Animation 163

“I thought, It’s about time I should stop being one of those filmmakers who just expect
government grants. I should start to be a little bit more entrepreneurial and clever, work out
other ways of getting a film made. So Ernie Biscuit was an experiment not just in technique
but also in financing as well. All my films up until then had been government grants. I
don’t own Harvie Krumpet; I don’t own Mary and Max; all the royalties from those films go
to the government. I only just got the right to Uncle, Cousin, and Brother a few years ago;
I thought it would be great if I owned one of my own films so if I sell it to a broadcaster or
an airline, I get 100% of the royalties. So that’s what’s happened. I own Ernie Biscuit 100%,
and it’s great. I don’t have to answer to anyone, there’s very little paperwork, and it’s nice
to own something that I made!”

A Collective Effort
Depending on the circumstances, crowdfunding can be something of a dirty word. To
many, it can be an empowering process to seek out something that excites us and be able
to seize the opportunity to play a part in getting it made. It provides a platform to commu-
nicate directly with artists on a personal level, and it humanizes the production process.
With public and general film funds so dishearteningly depleted, it has frequently been a
boon to not just independent animation but the animation industry as a whole. So why is
there a stigma attached to it nowadays?
As with anything that has been around for more than a handful of years, crowdfund-
ing is just as susceptible to mishandling and misinterpretation as any other form of online
transaction. It really should not be underestimated just how much of an undertaking a
crowdfunding campaign really is. Even animation studios have been known to struggle
with the influx of customer relations if they aren’t appropriately prepared.
In this section, I want to take a look at five successfully crowdfunded projects showcas-
ing a range of funding goals. These are as follows:

Project: Armikrog
Creator: Pencil Test Studios, Inc.
Goal amount: $900,000
Amount raised: $974,578
Year: 2013
Platform: Kickstarter

Project: Simon’s Cat in Off to the Vet

Creator: Simon’s Cat
Goal amount: £275,850
Amount raised: £310,734
Year: 2014
Platform: Indiegogo

Project: Mister Plastimime

Creator: Tandem Films
Goal amount: £33,450
Amount raised: £34,500

164 9. Funding
Year: 2013
Platform: Kickstarter

Project: Submarine Sandwich

Creator: PES
Goal amount: $30,000
Amount raised: $48,922
Year: 2014
Platform: Kickstarter

Project: The Patsy

Creator: Sam Morrison
Goal amount: £1500
Amount raised: £2340
Year: 2012
Platform: Kickstarter

One of the primary benefits of crowdfunding is the ability it affords the creatives at the
helm of a project to retain complete creative control. When external funding or investors
are brought in, inevitably, there will be a proportionate obligation to allow their input on
the project itself. Certainly, this can be advantageous if these contributions come from a
place of experience or, at the very least, a set of fresh eyes, but that is never a guarantee. On
the flip side, it can be a process that carries with it the risk of tarnishing an original vision,
if not destroying it completely. The desire to eschew this reliance is, as touched upon previ-
ously, one of the main lures of independent animation in and of itself.
Later on in the book, we will explore the origins and development of Armikrog, an
independent, interactive stop-motion animated adventure game by Doug TenNapel
(Figure 9.7). In a similar vein to his cult success The Neverhood, which was one of the

Figure 9.7
Still from Armikrog. (Courtesy of Armikrog, ©2015.)

Independent Animation 165

first examples of a game to effectively incorporate traditional stop-motion into its sprite
animation, the universe of Armikrog is richly detailed and elaborately constructed with
all the creative freedoms an independent project allows. The premise sees intergalactic
explorer Tommynaut (voiced by Michael J. Nelson) stranded in a strange land with his
blind, doglike companion Beak Beak (Rob Paulsen). After being captured, the player
guides the characters through the story so that they might escape Armikrog, the elaborate
fortress in which they are being held captive.
With its creative development to be examined further in Chapter 17, the project also
bears consideration here as it also owes its existence to a successful crowdfunding cam-
paign. Though it shares the element of visibility with the Simon’s Cat campaign, the
established fan base in this instance was called upon to fund an entirely new intellectual
property. With Doug teaming up with Mike Dietz and Ed Schofield of Pencil Test Studios,
crowdfunding a large-scale animated project presented itself as a viable option following
Doug’s own prior success in that arena. In 2012, Doug had successfully financed a limited
print run of Sketchbook Archives, a hardback collection of sketches and concept art from
his various projects over the years. The following year, he achieved similar success with the
funding of Sketchbook Archives: Volume 2, both campaigns achieving their funding goals
several times over, bolstering Doug’s resolve.
“I went to them and said, ‘Guys, what if we did an animated feature?’ I had written a
story of a book I was working on, and I sent the character designs to them. When we started
looking at the numbers of what features got, we realized you can’t raise millions on an
unknown comic book when what you’re known for is video games. After probably a week
or two of plunking around with the movie idea, they came up with the idea of a video game.
It made perfect sense as soon as he said it, and we all said at the time, ‘Puppet animation?
Puppet animation!’ Because the other thing is we’ve gotten so much better, especially Mike
and Ed, at that. On Neverhood, we were just kind of figuring it out. Now what you’ll see is
amazing, feature quality, beyond what we ever did before. It just doesn’t even compare.”
Sinking every penny the team had at their disposal into the creation of the campaign
video, a compelling animated microshort in itself, was a major risk. Despite the hand-crafted,
Claymation aesthetic, the puppets themselves were professionally molded and cast. Cost-
cutting measures—such as recording the dialogue in Mike’s home rather than a professional
studio environment—were necessary to keep the risk potential as minimal as possible.
Something the entire team were aware of was that there had to be a distinct cutoff
point where funds would not be sufficient to ensure production of the game. Dubbed as
the “walkaway” amount, they needed to come up with a budget that, if not reached by as
little as a single dollar, would be the deciding factor as to whether or not to go ahead. This
principle is certainly a fit for the Kickstarter model—should a project make anything less
than the amount set at the outset, none of those who committed to donating in the event
of success are charged, and the creators get nothing.
“We were always asking how much were we going to ask for. It was so hard because
we knew the game would cost more than what we were going to get, and that was just
something that we never really addressed in our own minds. In a way, the worst thing that
could happen to us is to just barely make that amount.”
For smaller-scale crowdfunded projects, some creators have doubtless come up with
the workaround of, in the event of very nearly reaching a goal, footing the remainder by
donating themselves. As Doug and his team had set their Kickstarter goal as the same as

166 9. Funding
their walkaway amount (which, after much research, was determined to be $900,000), this
was not a feasible option; it was, literally, all or nothing. Fortuitously enough, the even-
tual funds raised came to $974,578, exceeding Doug, Mike, and Ed’s walkaway figure by
enough to commit the team to the project, though without much buffer or wiggle room.
“At $975,000 it was probably the most difficult way to make Armikrog that you could do
(Figure 9.8). We had to get very creative with financing and free work. That story is never
told because, to the public, how amazingly and easily we did it is all supposed to be some
big magic trick. It’s not. It’s very difficult, it’s very grueling, it costs the team everything,
and they’re doing it because we believe in what we’re doing. We love it!”
On a basic level, the fans who are contributing to the production costs are essentially
treating the exchange as a preorder. Based on Doug’s successful track record in the video
game world with the 16-bit classic Earthworm Jim and The Neverhood franchise having
developed a dedicated fan base on PC and PlayStation, fans who had grown up on his work
were now financially solvent and eager to affordably support a project such as Armikrog
that would scratch their nostalgia itch.
“We didn’t know if the fans would show up or not. They really surprised us with how
many of them did. You’re getting $25 at a time for the most part; there are very few big
spenders in there. That there were people donating from across the world who just didn’t
have a dime, yet were scraping it together to buy a copy of the game, that part of it was
amazing. When it went on sale, our fear was that maybe our fan base was exactly 18,000
people, that we had tapped all of them and no one else would buy it! If 18,000 people
already have their game, our top, most rabid fans would be satiated by just delivering them
what we said we’d deliver. So it did have to sell.”
Simon’s Cat, as explored earlier in the book, is something of an animation phenom-
enon, whose independent roots have led to unforeseeable mass adoration. Following her

Figure 9.8
Still from Armikrog. (Courtesy of Armikrog, ©2015.)

Independent Animation 167

association with Tandem Films, producer Emma Burch (whose own work we’ll explore
in the next chapter) subsequently went on to work on Simon’s Cat for the production and
campaign management of their crowdfunded short Off to the Vet. Her first experience of
crowdfunding took place during her tenure at Tandem, overseeing the fundraising of Mister
Plastimime, a mixed-media animated short from Oscar-winning director Daniel Greaves
(Figure 9.9).
“Dan had gotten so far down the line with the film but had run out of funds. It was frus-
trating, as we were looking at various public completion or funding schemes, but there were
very little in the UK. I had had my eye on crowdfunding for ages, as when Kickstarter was
launched in the United States, I was researching it for my own film, Being Bradford Dillman,
but they had not launched in the UK at that point. So I suggested Kickstarter to Dan, who
was a little reluctant as he didn’t want to be asking people for money. After talking about it
further, we felt that there was more to lose by Mr. Plastimime being shelved half-finished

Figure 9.9
Mr. Plastimine crowdfunding backer poster. (Courtesy of Daniel Greaves, ©2014.)

168 9. Funding
than if we took the plunge and tried crowdfunding. Going with Kickstarter’s all-or-nothing
model also meant that if we didn’t raise the funds, we didn’t owe anything to anyone.”
Although Simon’s Cat found success on Indiegogo, a crowdfunding alternative to
Kickstarter, from Emma’s perspective, their more flexible model—in which all money
raised goes to the creator regardless of whether a goal is met, and therefore, all obligations
to the funders should also be fulfilled—can be more useful for campaigns offering presales
of new products.
“If you’re trying to make a film and you need a certain amount of money, you might
only get £500 out of £25,000. You have to plan how you will honor your promises to the
people who did support your campaign, by fulfilling the perks or rewards offered, despite
not having the funds to complete the project you set out to do. I don’t feel that it’s worth
the risk or the potential stress and work involved.”
The risk element was present in both campaigns, even when considering how much
more visible and topical Simon’s Cat is as a franchise. As the audience for Daniel Greaves’
Mr. Plastimime was less defined; there was more allowance within the campaign itself to
be tongue-in-cheek and appeal to a broad range of potential backers. Courting an existing
and comparatively voluminous fan base with the Simon’s Cat campaign called for a more
specific approach (Figure 9.10).
“Simon’s Cat was a lot easier because I was better prepared after the Mr. Plastimime
campaign. We also have a highly engaged audience and a large social reach with 1.5 mil-
lion likes on Facebook, et cetera, so in that respect, it was a lot easier to put our focus on
existing fans. When it came to Mr. Plastimime, Dan didn’t have an online following when

Figure 9.10
Simon’s Cat plush reward for Off to the Vet backers. (Courtesy of Simon’s Cat Ltd, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 169

we launched the campaign, so I had to leave no stone unturned to reach people. I was even
contacting people I went to school with to help spread the word!
“There were often 10-, 11-hour days of constant e-mailing and trying to think on your
feet as to how to reach new people. Then we were really lucky that Kickstarter got behind
it and featured it in their newsletter and as one of their Projects of the Day. You cannot
guarantee that happening, obviously, and without it, I do wonder whether or not we would
have made our goal. There was quite a learning curve in terms of what goes into the plan-
ning and fulfilling rewards, because you end up setting yourself up as a shop where you
manage orders and handle customers. The work that goes into the rewards really shouldn’t
be underestimated.”
Even when factoring in a subscriber base of more than 3 million, reaching their target
proved trickier than anticipated.
“We were expecting far higher numbers of individuals contributing smaller amounts,
whereas in fact, we had these real diehard fans that just kept putting their hands in their
pockets, so in the end, our average pledge was higher than Indiegogo’s overall average.”
Although the final amount raised exceeded the goal amount by over £30,000, the fact
that the full tally of contributors came to 10,155 from just 7500 individuals, roughly 0.3%
of their prospective audience of 3 million, should prove sobering.
“Obviously, once the campaign’s over, there’s still a lot of administration to be done; the
larger the campaign, obviously, the more funders you have to keep happy. Coordinating
the many combinations of perks has been a bit of a logistical nightmare. Luckily, our part-
ners, Portico Designs, have a warehouse and a production team, so at least they’re taking
care of all of that, but we’re the first point of contact for the funders themselves. So it’s
a matter of making sure that communication is very clear between Simon’s Cat and the
funders as well as between Simon’s Cat and Portico.”

Customer Etiquette
One of the hardest things to get a handle on for most new to crowdfunding is precisely
how you go about directly soliciting funds. For Emma, the answer is the most obvious, yet
also the most laborious and time-consuming, approach:
“Social media is a fantastic tool, but direct e-mail communication gets a far higher
response. Be personal and make your e-mails individual and specific to each person, so it
takes ages. You can send out automated, e-mails but I do think that when you’re asking for
money, especially if it is people that you have never contacted before or you only know to
a certain extent, you need to be personal about it; it’s just that it takes so long. Even if you
have a template e-mail, you still have to personalize each one, even if it’s simply adding
their first name at the beginning, so just be mindful that there’s no mass-mailing every-
one. You should think about who you’re talking to and how to speak to them. That’s why
you can’t always necessarily have blanket communication across all your target audience;
you should tailor it to the different types of people you’re trying to reach, categorizing
groups if you can. It’s about putting in the preparation and planning before you launch,
which takes time but improves results.”
The human race, delightfully idiosyncratic though we are, is not always the most
understanding bunch. Higher-profile campaigns always run the risk of facing criticism,
constructive or otherwise, especially if an audience has their own preconceived notions.

170 9. Funding
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Figure 9.11
Pie-chart from the Off to the Vet campaign to clearly communicate to backers how funds
would be distributed. (Courtesy of Simon’s Cat Ltd, ©2014.)

The visibility of Simon’s Cat inevitably carries with it an assumption that it has access to
funds that would render crowdfunding redundant (Figure 9.11).
“There was definitely a backlash to the campaign’s target amount. First of all, there’s a
complete misunderstanding of how much work goes into Simon’s Cat, because it looks so
simple. People don’t realize that it is traditionally hand-drawn animation, from roughs to
cleanup, so there wasn’t much of a public understanding of how much production costs.
We don’t believe in paying people a pittance just because they should feel like they’re get-
ting something out of working on a project that’s popular; we think people should be paid
a fair wage to reflect their skills, so that obviously bumped up our budget. We also believe
in delivering quality perks, so a great deal of the money we were trying to raise went to
the items that people were then going to receive, including UK postage costs—it’s amazing
how quickly some things can actually add up.”
These cost accumulations boil down to the fact that Simon’s Cat operates on a business
model that puts the public first, insomuch as it produces new content on a semiregu-
lar basis to an exceptional standard of animation rarely seen on broadcast television and
puts it out into the world for free. Granted, advertising revenue does exist, but not to the
extent that would facilitate any project more ambitious than the company’s standard fare.
A YouTube film produced for somewhere between £10,000 and £20,000 carries with it its
own cash flow risks and takes considerable time to break even on.
Another significant oversight often made by those whose crowdfunding campaigns failed
is that the obligations to the public don’t end when a campaign draws to a close. Some back-
ers may very well have no interest in the film being funded and simply gave their money in
exchange for the incentive, as they would any online store. So, while some of your audience

Independent Animation 171

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Simon’s Cat decals perks for Off to the Vet backers. (Courtesy of Simon’s Cat Ltd, ©2014.)

may happily accommodate delays in the knowledge that it’s for the benefit of an animated
masterwork they want to see turn out as good as possible, others may be simply disgruntled
that the perk they paid for is not wending its way to them on time. As this stage of the pro-
cess goes hand in hand with the production of the funded film itself, having a campaign
manager in place to help deal with such warring stresses is hugely important (Figure 9.12).
“We always try and respond to e-mails as quickly as possible, treating it as typical cus-
tomer service. At peak times, we have been sent 300 e-mails or more in 1 week, that all
need to be replied to. You can’t take people’s money and ignore them. The main frustration
for me at the time was when we had criticism from fellow animators, very talented anima-
tors who were saying that they could do it far, far cheaper. These individuals, I feel, are
undermining themselves, their own talent, and also the animation industry as a whole by
saying how little they are prepared to work for and pay others to collaborate.
“It’s really important not to launch until you really feel that you are ready and your
diary is clear for the campaign duration. You end up living and breathing crowdfund-
ing when the campaign is live—it probably sounds a bit dramatic, but it took me about
2 months to recover from the Simon’s Cat campaign because there was so much riding on
it. So much work goes into it that it becomes immensely stressful and immensely personal
as well because you feel like you’re exposing yourself. It’s been extremely important to
me that the fans that chose to support us have a positive experience from it, which I hope
people have done from both of the campaigns I’ve managed.”

Combined Resources
PES, an animator whose creative process will be scrutinized in Chapter 13, also used crowd-
funding to successfully guarantee the completion of his 2014 film Submarine Sandwich
(Figure 9.13). The film, in which athletic equipment substitutes deli meat in the construction

172 9. Funding
of the titular sub, is the third of what has been dubbed his “Food Trilogy,” following Western
Spaghetti (2008) and Fresh Guacamole (2012). The film drew funding from several sources,
firstly himself in the gathering of props and set pieces that were essential to the aesthetic he
hoped to achieve.
“The big purchase I had made up to that point was the deli case; I had bought that
because I had been watching the eBay space for over a year. I thought it was gonna be easy
to find an old piece of deli equipment that had a bit of personality, that matched my notion
of what this cool deli could look like. I always loved the old scales, all that white porcelain
and enamel equipment, that real old-school, New York deli feel, and I thought I could go
to a junkyard of delis and have my pick of the litter.”
It transpired that the deli junkyard of his dreams proved somewhat elusive, and pro-
curing the exact type of deli case required for the film, eventually came down to over a
year spent scouring eBay listings. When one that conformed precisely to his style demands
finally appeared, he bought it instantly, the expense and space it took up in his living room
more or less committing him to following through on the film itself.
“I was starting to collect the boxing gloves and the athletic equipment that would go in
the case, but that process is also one that extended over months. It’s not like you can go to
one shop and say, ‘I’d like 30 old boxing bags, all off-white.’ I had to shop for those one by
one and find specific vendors. So that sort of hand-picking was going on, which made me
confident to approach Nikon for support.”
With PES’s strong track record of high-quality viral hits under his belt, the camera
company became a film sponsor, which offset the budgetary concerns associated with pur-
chasing new technical equipment. By timing the proposed launch of the film with a new

Figure 9.13
Submarine Sandwich crowdfunding promo image. (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 173

product release, the final film acts not as product placement but a rather effective demon-
stration of the technical specs.
“It was fun; like a kid in a candy shop, I had all these lenses that I was now able to
experiment with.”
Although a boon in terms of hardware costs, ultimately, Nikon’s involvement didn’t
finance the labor and on-screen materials of the film itself. At this stage, with a great deal
in readiness, crowdfunding held the most appeal as a viable option.
“Crowdfunding was something that we had been tossing around for a long time,”
explains Sarah Phelps, PES’s wife and manager. “There was more money available else-
where, but all that money usually comes with strings. We had both gotten to the point
where we were tired of that, and PES wanted zero creative compromise, including when it
came to the release.
“We agreed that crowdfunding would be an interesting publicity opportunity as well
as a different way of working for me.” PES says, “In the past, I would just take money from
clients or whoever was financing my films, and I would just sort of work away at it for
months until one day, I would post the film online. So the whole idea of having to explain
my vision up-front to people, to get them excited and raise the money for it, was a major
step for me.”
Consistent with other crowdfunding case studies, preparing to solicit funds from fans
required a considerable amount of research and forethought. As Sarah recalls, “Going into
it, we had done a lot of research and knew a lot of the challenges we were going to face.
Some of the challenges we ended up facing were unanticipated, so on top of what we knew
about was a whole new basket of challenges.
“Figuring out how much to ask for was also a really big deal. Right off the bat, I felt like
the biggest decision I made was that we couldn’t ask for what we actually needed. I feel
like with crowdfunding, there’s this understanding that people are willing to fund your
project but they are not willing to fund your life, and that what you get in return is your
art project, but you have to figure out how to support yourself. So I decided right there off
the bat that we were going to do that.
“The second decision I made was we can’t ask for how much this film actually costs,
because while people who understand stop motion and production know how much these
things cost and how long they take, when it came to anyone else, there was a line I didn’t
want to cross. Beyond that line, people would have thought, There’s kids starving out there
and you need how much money to make a one-and-a-half-minute film? So it was just trying
to balance that.”
Another issue in PES’s mind was the idea that the film’s premise and twist would have
to be revealed months before anyone might see the final film, which ran the risk of dimin-
ishing its impact. “In the past, I think I would normally say, ‘Well, it won’t be a surprise
anymore! Why would I want to tell anyone about it?’ I’m also very suspicious about cre-
ating expectations, and with crowdfunding, once you start telling people your idea, you
open yourself up to people’s expectations.”
What makes PES’s take on crowdfunding notable is that his experience of it is one of
a number of completely separate funding scenarios that have brought his “Food Trilogy”
into being. The first entry, 2008’s Western Spaghetti, received financial aid from Mike
Judge, known to many as the creator of MTV’s Beavis and Butt-Head, in exchange for
an exclusive launch as part of The Animation Show, a touring program he curated with

174 9. Funding
fellow independent animator Don Hertzfeldt. In 2012, the second film, Fresh Guacamole,
was commissioned by the cable network Showtime as part of their “Short Stories” series,
a scheme that also commissioned original work from animation directors Bill Plympton
and Cyriak.
“All three of these situations have allowed me to make films without making any cre-
ative compromises, so there’s no real difference in that respect. Crowdfunding was a
head-scratcher because it was a really positive experience and it is wonderful to be a little
bit more connected to the fans, but it’s so much more work than just making a film! You
really have to take into consideration that it exponentially creates work. I try really hard
to focus on the quality of the film, but it really is like running a pop-up business for 6
months.”
Another perceivable advantage of the crowdfunding process is the ways in which incen-
tivizing can be another creative outlet, rather than a chore. When it came to the rewards
for the Submarine Sandwich campaign, PES used it as an opportunity to indulge a desire
to experiment with building a merchandise element around the project (Figures 9.14
and 9.15).
“It doesn’t really just come from the idea of wanting to make money; it’s more that I
studied printmaking for 4 years, I love making prints and shirts, so crowdfunding was an
outlet for some of my other creative interests.”
What makes Submarine Sandwich especially noteworthy as a crowdfunding case study
is its near-immediate success, reaching its target well within the first week of the cam-
paign. While this would seem, on the surface, to be a dream come true, pragmatism on
Sarah’s part was necessary to keep their obligations from spiraling out of control.
“It just burst out of the gate, got picked up by a lot of blogs, was a Kickstarter Project
of the Day, then after we hit our goal, it just ticked up slowly for the last 3 weeks of the

Figure 9.14
Still from Submarine Sandwich (Dir. PES). (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 175

Figure 9.15
Submarine Sandwich model—one of the available backer rewards. (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

campaign. I very quickly saw certain reward categories were more lucrative than others,
percentage-wise. Plus you have to subtract the cost of taxes and shipping rewards. The
most popular were the T-shirts and screen prints, which were the most expensive for us,
so if we’d have gotten another $10,000–$30,000 in backing, we’d have almost directly rela-
tive, costs yet it would look like we had more money. So after we reached our goal, one of
the decisions that I made was to back off.”
This means of accompanying the release of his film with an array of products that, to
those who missed out during the campaign itself, would still be purchasable online, was
a bonus unique to the crowdfunding process, as merchandising options are rarely, if ever,
available to creators if corporate funding has much of a role to play. Indeed, when the
same idea was floated to the network during the production of Fresh Guacamole, it didn’t
bear much fruit. Logically, it stands to reason that if a channel has paid for content, they
would rather audiences click through to other such content rather than to an independent
merchandiser. Beyond the excuse to flex his product-making bent, the positives of his
relatively low-key campaign have opened PES to more direct interaction with his fan base
(Figure 9.16).
“Obviously, having people talk about your film for 4–6 months before it comes out is
really cool and, frankly, something I didn’t do too well in the past. When I got the money
for my films, I’d work in the dark and put them online; there wasn’t much of being in
touch with the people who really care about the work and getting to know them a little,
so that was a nice addition of that relationship. So all three situations worked out; they
seemed to be a bit of the evolution of how things are moving.”
Chances are that your means and resources are not equatable with those of the Simon’s
Cat empire, nor as long established in the indie world as PES. So what makes crowdfund-
ing a reasonable option to the less visible, or those just starting out?
Ultimately, it comes down to perspective and a healthy, realistic sense of self. What do
you think your film, and by extension, your talent, is worth?
Be honest. Take the time to systematically break down what your production costs will
be, subtract that amount from what you first came up with, and evaluate again based on

176 9. Funding
Figure 9.16
Still from Submarine Sandwich (Dir. PES). (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

what’s left. Now think hard about what you’ve read so far in this section and ask yourself
if it’s really within your capabilities. If you have a crewed studio, or a devoted fan base, or
a team of hardworking friends who think the world of you, then certainly, your options
are going to be more open. But if you’re going solo, which is far from uncommon in the
independent animation world, it may be practical to bring your level of ambition a little
closer to the ground.
Sam Morrison, whose approach to the story we looked at earlier in the book, managed to
round out his Rocket Science trilogy through crowdfunding. Above all, the Jack Hersey films
are personal, auteur film projects whose primary function (alongside being entertaining)
has been to further establish Sam as a writer and director. While his short film work has
been successful, it does not share the same built-in audience factor as PES or Simon’s Cat, nor
is it made more visible by an Oscar-win association, as with Daniel Greaves. The crowdfund-
ing option was therefore approached from a place of relative anonymity.
“We’ve used crowdfunding a couple of times and found it helpful, but set our sights
reasonably low without doing any big promotional stuff.” Naturally, as Sam reasons, a
lower goal amount necessitates lower demands and far less pressure that would needlessly
distract from the end goal of getting the film itself made. “We just sent out little reminders
through social media to people for the duration of the Kickstarter campaign, sending out
little reminders on Facebook and Twitter and that sort of thing, and just managed to get a
couple thousand together for The Patsy.”
Even considering this low-key approach, your accountability to your audience isn’t
ruled out entirely.
“We realized that it’s quite a lot of work when you’ve finished your film and sent your
pledges. There is a whole new wave of stuff, which you should have anticipated, really,
because you wrote them yourself, but it costs money and takes a lot of time. We did them
all, even though I think we’ve been late some of the time, but we do get them done, and
because of the people we’ve got money off tend to be friends, family, or friends of friends,
then nobody, thankfully, has been too angry about us being a little bit late.

Independent Animation 177

Figure 9.17
Stills from The Patsy (Dir. Sam Morrison)—one available incentive to backers was the option
of having their names incorporated into the film. (Courtesy of Evil Genius Ltd, ©2013.)

“I knew it would be a sort of realistic way to raise a couple of grand, and because we
were putting in some of our own money, basically funding the film, crowdfunding sort
of topped it up and made it viable for Ian and myself to work on it for a long time. We
would have been below the minimum wage or something ridiculous, so crowdfunding
just bumped the overall budget to the point where it became more workable for us, just
because we couldn’t work that long for that amount of money and survive” (Figure 9.17).
To wrap up, here are some important campaign page essentials as outlined by Emma
Burch:

• “Images always go a long way. I do actually feel that we didn’t have enough devel-
opment material on the site. When it comes to film or anything creative, people
want to see the product that they’re actually backing.”

178 9. Funding
• “Certainly, showing where the money’s going to be spent in a pie chart is quite
sobering for the fans.”
• “You have to be short, sharp, but informative—make sure that you don’t repeat
yourself by going over the same facts.”
• “In terms of the tone of the writing, it can be very tricky to get right. Sometimes,
you need to step back from it and return to it later, reread and see how you would
feel if you were reading it for the first time.”

Independent Animation 179

10
Keeping It Real

Getting a project off the ground is a wonderful feeling. With a script or concept in place,
officially being able to categorize a project as “in production” is the first step of a complex,
rewarding, exciting—and long—journey. A very long journey, in fact. Long, long road
ahead. Good grief, it’s long. Why did nobody say how long it would be?
This is the point where any lingering romantic notions you may have about an ani-
mated production just being able to come together are cruelly extinguished. When you’re
in it, you’re in deep—and possibly with funders and a crew to answer to. In this chapter
and the next, we’ll look at how some of independent animation’s best and brightest have
soldiered through, whether going it alone, dealing with creative concessions, managing
teams, or being literally separated from their codirector by the ocean. Yes, depending on
the type of project you have set yourself, it can be a long road ahead, but everyone has to
go down it.
Having had to strip down the ambition of his feature-cum-short film Ernie Biscuit,
Adam Elliot was insistent on being directly involved in virtually all areas of production,
not just going back to the auteur roots of his original trilogy, Uncle, Cousin, and Brother,
but delving into entirely unexplored independent territory (Figure 10.1). This approach to
the film was a stark contrast to his previous project, the 2009 feature film Mary and Max,
going from overseeing a large crew to essentially a one-man operation.
“I wanted to do everything, not because I am a megalomaniac but because I felt
that there were certain parts of the process with my previous films I didn’t have a full

181
Figure 10.1
Adam Elliot on the set for Ernie Biscuit. (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

understanding of. I wanted to learn more about producing a digital film and strengthen
the areas of the filmmaking process I’d always felt were weak points for me—editing and
sound were areas where I felt very inadequate—so by the end of the film, I’d have a better
understanding. Now I certainly know a lot more about editing, things like 5.1 digital sur-
round sound, DCPs, digital cameras, megapixels.”
Though the familiar funding avenues that had allowed his five films prior to be made
had dried up, corporate sponsorship did assist the production in some measure. Making
a deal with Apple to produce the film entirely using their products—Final Cut Pro,
Aperture, and Motion, primarily—covered the hardware and software costs.
“I animated blind in many ways; I just had a Leica camera, one lens, three lights, some
Plasticine, wire, and paint. I had no fully-articulated armatures, I didn’t have any mold
making, there’s no airbrushing, just three paintbrushes, three jars of paint, and that was
it! I had a very limited palette if you want to call it that, which was great; it was very lib-
erating having less choices, just having the basics. It forced me to focus more on what was
important.”
Toward the end of the production, unforeseen personal issues reared their heads and
demanded Adam’s attention. As a consequence, the planned completion date was not met
on time, and while certain festivals were understanding enough—and appreciative of his
sterling track record—to extend their deadlines, the postproduction was not afforded the
time and care Adam wished it could have been (Figure 10.2).
“The biggest regret I have is that the postproduction was severely compromised and
rushed, and that hasn’t sat well with me. But that’s life, a lot of postproduction is rushed,
and you make mistakes. I would definitely get a sound designer in earlier and allocate
more money towards the sound mix—I also would like to have spent more time with
my actor; I just would’ve loved another couple of months of shooting time. I lost my

182 10. Keeping It Real

Figure 10.2
Still from Ernie Biscuit (Dir. Adam Elliot). (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

focus, and I had to make very quick decisions, such as having to finish off the editing
of the film in only 2 weeks instead of having a month. Some of these things were out of
my control, but some of them were in my control, so you learn a lot of lessons. Having
said that, in all of my films, there have been areas where we’ve had to compromise. With
every film I’ve made, I’ve had to think laterally and be a bit of a renegade in terms of
how to get the film completed. With every film, I’ve learned lessons and learned from
my mistakes.”
Moving forward while having the wisdom of hindsight (more on this later) is doubt-
less the best option for filmmakers eager to continue to produce new work. Sometimes,
a project executed badly is worth revisiting (as with Robert Grieves’ Sausage, discussed
in Chapter 3), but when it comes to a largely successful project with mere kinks, most
of which are only visible to the directors themselves, the best way to apply these lessons
learned is toward future works.

Manual Labor
Stop-motion itself is arguably the most difficult animation medium with which to achieve
independent success. Not to denigrate 2-D, computer-generated (CG) images or any other

Independent Animation 183

approach that requires similarly vast reserves of skill, patience, and effort, but the fact
remains that digital softwares have advanced so tremendously that the outright physical
labor of animation, not to mention material costs, has rapidly diminished. That being said,
stop-motion is certainly benefiting from recent technological advancements that make
it increasingly viable with each passing year. On top of this, its relevance as a storytell-
ing medium has barely diminished, flying in the face of prediction. During the making
of his student short Uncle in 1996, Adam was assured that by producing his film using
Plasticine, he was “pursuing a dying art form.” With the advent of Pixar features and the
rise of CG processes ousting stop-motion, animatronics, and similarly practical processes
from the world of visual effects around that time, it most likely seemed a reasonable theory
that within 5 years, the medium would have died off altogether. Cut to 20 years later, and
factoring in the peaks and valleys any filmmaking medium will experience, stop-motion
remains ever-present in the industry. Mainstream television shows and features are still
proving lucrative and critically successful, competing for Academy Awards alongside
their digitally animated brethren.
“I think stop-motion is alive and well,” insists Adam. “Digital cameras and digital
technology have liberated stop-motion animators; we can now see what we’re doing,
and we can predict what we are doing a lot better. There’s software out there that are
wonderful tools for stop-motion animators, who can go into their studios now with
a little bit more confidence. They know that they can make a stop-motion film for a
third of what it used to cost.* That’s mainly because of the ‘death’ of celluloid and that
processing costs have just vanished. So we can edit ourselves; not that that’s necessarily
a good thing—I still believe you need a good editor—but it’s far more egalitarian now
to make a film.”
For many younger animators presently working in the industry, an era in which digi-
tal processes take care of the areas of production that would have proved physically or
financially challenging is all they have ever known. There’s something to be said for inves-
tigating the production processes and materials of old that these digital shortcuts derived
from, especially as regards stop-motion. For filmmakers such as Adam Elliot, whose body
of work spanned the transitional period in which analog switched over to digital, the ben-
efits of having had feet in both camps are clear.
“The technology has absolutely been a wonderful, timely event, and I wonder whether
if I was graduating today, having not ever experienced an analog world or a celluloid
world, I would have had the same career path. I think I’m lucky in many ways that I was on
that crossover period of analog to digital; I got to edit my first two films with a Steinbeck;
I spliced the film; I sticky-taped it together; I got to mix my sound on magnetic tape, so I
learned the traditional techniques and also watched these new techniques come into the
workflows and the pipelines, and then watch stop-motion become popular. I mean, when
I started animating, I was considered an odd person and nerdish, geekish, whatever you
want to call it, but now, stop-motion is quite popular. It’s almost fashionable!”
One artist whose attitude toward stop-motion lines up with this observation is
Kirsten Lepore, director of Bottle and Move Mountain (Figure 10.3). Having produced
an impressive array of her own films using the medium, she’s especially grounded

* This is evidenced by the fact that Ernie Biscuit, a film with comparable production values to 2003’s Harvie
Krumpet, was produced at a third of the budget over 10 years later.

184 10. Keeping It Real

Figure 10.3
Kirsten Lepore working on the set of Move Mountain. (Courtesy of Kirsten Lepore, ©2013.)

regarding the production realities stop-motion animators must face: “You have to be
willing to work your butt off. Stop-motion takes tremendous patience, dedication, and
time, and if you’re one of the rare few that can take on a whole production alone or with
a small team, you need to be the type of person that can meet a deadline, be reliable,
and have a clear vision.”
In Kirsten’s view, the trickiest requirements when it comes to stop-motion production
(especially if one person is at the helm) are extensive knowledge of cameras; lighting; rig-
ging; fabricating; animating; cleanup post; and a locked-down, highly controlled space in
which to shoot. “I’ve worked most of my life on learning as much as I can in all these areas
and more. There have been many times someone has told me not to bother learning some
very technical thing—instead just to pay a professional to do it down the line—but that
attitude just made me want to learn it more. Almost all of those things I’d been discour-
aged from learning have popped up in random jobs and saved me tons of money since I
already knew how to do them myself.”
For the most part, Kirsten handles every area of her production process herself.
Though this ultimately saves time in having to communicate her ideas to other people,
she acknowledges that the limitations of her own skill set can be a significant downside.
“It can be both exhausting and rewarding. Lately, I have been much more interested
in collaborating and having a studio, since you are able to accomplish much more in a
shorter time span, as well as achieving a product of much higher production value.” Her
current setup is a far more preferable arrangement to the circumstances of her student
short Bottle. Though massively acclaimed, the shoot was far from smooth sailing and was
plagued by “major issues” throughout. “There were unforeseen obstacles at every step of
the way: the snow wasn’t packable, the sand would crumble past a half meter, my camera
remote broke, seagulls constantly stole my props, I was covered in shortening and lard

Independent Animation 185

(part of puppet construction), my car smelled like dead crab, I couldn’t take a pee break
for the full 8 hours of shooting, et al. To say making the film was challenging would be a
gross understatement, but somehow, it still got made.”
By contrast, Move Mountain, made in the far more reliable indoor environment of her
studio, allowed for more by way of experimentation with new materials and an easier
production time frame that afforded her 6 months in which to educate herself on the
mold-making and casting processes for silicones and urethanes (Figures 10.4 and 10.5).
“Constructing and rigging the flexible trees and the clear flexible waterfall pieces were the
biggest challenge. I have an entire binder where I would document my process and record
data about which castings worked and failed, slowing improving with each prototype.
“I mostly experiment as I go, sometimes to the detriment of the project, because I’m
usually too eager to jump into building and shooting to spend the amount of time I should
doing R & D beforehand. Move Mountain did require a fair amount of testing in the pre-
production phase to figure out how I would even construct certain things—but regardless
of how much you plan, there are always problems you will have to solve in the middle of
production.”

Figure 10.4
Armature building for Move Mountain (Dir. Kirsten Lepore). (Courtesy of Kirsten Lepore,
©2013.)

186 10. Keeping It Real

Figure 10.5
Casting and molding characters for Move Mountain (Dir. Kirsten Lepore). (Courtesy of
Kirsten Lepore, ©2013.)

Independent Animation 187

Garrett Michael Davis, with whom Kirsten collaborated on Story from North America
in 2007, has his own perspectives on how his methods of producing his auteur work differ
from more traditional production pipelines.

• “The real advantage of a studio pipeline is that it includes a step that deposits
funds into your bank account. And also, it allows you to focus on one aspect of
the process rather than having to wear all the hats yourself. It’s nice to only have
to think about storyboards, or only animation, or only design. Thinking about
all of those things is very challenging, but people everywhere are doing it all the
time.”
• “The present ease and accessibility of technology makes it very simple if you
use your ingenuity. You don’t need a studio. You really just need access to a
computer. You don’t need a fancy camera if you have a phone. You don’t have
to storyboard. Werner Herzog has some devastating things to say about story-
boards, and with a much more expanded view on filmmaking in general. If you
watch his films, you know he is involved in something that goes way beyond
filmmaking.”
• “That said, working in a studio pipeline is just like being in school, or boot
camp. You learn a lot, and you sharpen your skills to a very high degree. I’m
an example of the kind of artist I would never think could work happily at a
studio, yet I have, and I do. But to me, it’s more about taking everything you
learn there and then applying it in way more interesting ways in your own
projects.”
• “I throw off the illusory shackle that is ‘being on model.’ If you are doing frame-
by-frame animation, that means every frame is a different drawing, and a charac-
ter is going to morph and change and grow just like a living thing. I do try to place
limitations on that to some degree, but in my opinion, the only reason to ‘stay
on model’ is if someone is paying you to do so. Even then, I find it excruciatingly
painful, and my whole being rebels against it.”
• “Animation is tedious enough as it is. Japanese artists are masters of fearlessly
representing characters in wildly different ways even within the same scene, but
nobody says, ‘Wait, for a second there, I didn’t recognize that character; I’m lost:
shut it off!’ when that happens. This art is supreme illusion, illusion of movement,
illusion of change. People care so much about consistency, about reality, but per-
sonally, I can always tell when I’m watching an animation. I don’t confuse it with
real life, no matter how high-res the CG is.”
• “I’m interested in bringing in a much wider range of things to animation, to the
point where it becomes a kind of life philosophy. I get ideas from dreams. I use
collage in many different ways, a method which has been around since at least
Picasso but still seems untouchable to some people.”
• “I don’t feel guilty about rotoscoping something if I want to. I pack too much stuff
into a scene to even see; I include things that are ‘distracting’; I don’t want people
to ‘get it’ on the first watch. I want them to watch it a million times and see some-
thing new every time.”

188 10. Keeping It Real

Staying Balanced
When weighing up the funding circumstances and available resources, Matt Walker con-
siders the most categorically “independent” film of his back catalog to be 2007’s Little Face,
codirected with Benjamin Lole (Figure 10.6). The film is unique amongst his work as being
predominantly live-action with animation composited on top. Accommodating the 3-day
live-action shoot were funds from Southwest Screen and Calling the Shots, but the animation
itself was largely down to him to complete in his own time over a period of 6 laborious months.
“It’s good to be ambitious, but also to be realistic, and balancing ambition with what’s
realistically achievable. I found that Little Face in particular ended up being far more
ambitious than I was able to achieve on the budget. So I wasn’t really happy with the final

Figure 10.6
Production still from Little Face (Dir. Matthew Walker/Benjamin Lole). (Courtesy of Matthew
Walker. Little Face ©2008 UK Film Council/South West Screen.)

Independent Animation 189

film, just because it was so restrained by time, and also having to animate the character
completely on my own. I had someone helping with compositing, which I wouldn’t have
been able to do at all myself, but that was definitely a film that I think suffered from trying
to do more than was achievable on the budget.”
The premise had been significantly pared down from the original concept as pitched,
in which a man finds himself reunited with his childhood imaginary friend, who takes
the form of a large, lumbering robot. The final script sees the adult Nathan (played by
British comedian and presenter Adam Buxton) briefly stop by his hometown during a
changeover, bumping into Little Face (voiced by Chris Grimes), his childhood imaginary
friend, who, for economic reasons, is now a diminutive, yellow, Mr. Men-type figure. The
two reminisce and contemplate all that has changed before Nathan catches the train for
the next leg of his journey, seemingly leaving Little Face behind forever (Figure 10.7).
For Matt, there was more tumult associated with the production than there had been
with his animation-only films. Regarding the concessions made to the film’s premise (an
earlier version of the concept was a far lengthier, darker affair that involved man and
imaginary friend living together as roommates whose relationship grows increasingly
terse), he looks at it as a learning experience. Having not dipped his toe into these waters
previously, there are certainly areas he would approach differently if doing so again.
“The edit, I would have liked to have spent more time on, because I think it ended up
being a very slow film. It was always meant to be kind of slow, but I think it definitely
could have been a little bit more punchy. Part of the reason was because I needed to just
get on with the animation, and I was kind of doing that as we were editing, just like set-
ting things up, and I just couldn’t get my head around the edit at that point. So I think it
ended up being a bit rushed at the editing stage, and then the animation stage, which was
very drawn out. Also, the animation, I would have liked to have been able to do more with,

Figure 10.7
Costume designs for Little Face (Dir. Matthew Walker/Benjamin Lole). (Courtesy of Matthew
Walker.)

190 10. Keeping It Real

Figure 10.8
On location for Little Face (Dir. Matthew Walker/Benjamin Lole). (Courtesy of Matthew Walker.)

especially his face, because his eyes were just the dots. I would have preferred to do a bit
more expressive facial animation, but I just ended up running out of time. I ended up with
lots of little things that I had to compromise on, so overall, it could have been a lot stronger
film if I’d spent more time on the edit in particular. I think if it was just live action, I could
have spent a lot longer just playing around with things and trying different stuff, and not
having to worry about animating it afterwards” (Figure 10.8).

Outside Assistance
While Sam Morrison’s Rocket Science trilogy of films conformed to convention as far as
his and cowriter Andrew Endersby’s approach to scriptwriting, the animation process
itself proved to be an altogether different affair, relying on a small crew, with the bulk of
the animation taken on by Ian Hickman and Sam himself.
“Obviously, the actors contributed a good deal as well, but there certainly wasn’t a big
production team that moved into place. Basically I was producer, editor, director, and ani-
mator, but I don’t think I credited myself, as I don’t like those films where you see the same
name, over and over. I’m not averse to seeing my name, it’s good, but it felt like a two-man
band once we got past the voice record—essentially, it’s just myself and Ian from then on,
with Andrew periodically looking in to see how things are progressing.”
Other assistance did come in the form of students in search of work experience, thanks
largely to ties with local universities, though some made the approach of their own volition.
“I generally get people contacting me every year from the Bristol School of Animation
at the University of the West of England. I usually say ‘yes,’ as long as there’s something for
them to do. I don’t like people just to come in if there’s nothing happening in the studio,
because then it’s really boring for them, and I feel really self-conscious about it as well. So
if there’s a project they can work on, such as a commercial, then they can get involved, and
I can pay them as well. If it’s a short film, then there probably won’t be money in it, so they
have to decide if it’s good for work experience. I sort of like to feel like I’m helping people
out and not exploiting them; if there’s money in the production they work on, they’ll get
some of it, and if there isn’t, they’ll get some experience.”
Kirsten Lepore’s Move Mountain benefited greatly from artistic collaboration for one
of the film’s most elaborate and appealing sequences, in which the wounded protagonist

Independent Animation 191

hallucinates a mountainside dance party (Figure 10.9). The assortment of characters who
appear in this sequence were designed by fellow animators including Garrett Davis, David
O’Reilly, Mikey Please, and Julia Pott.
“Using friends’ characters for the dance scene in Move Mountain was part of the con-
cept from the conception of the idea and also one of the things I was most excited about
executing. All of the contributors are close friends who work in animation—many of
whom were attending CalArts alongside me. For those people who lived nearby, I threw a
puppet-making party where we all sat around, drank, and designed and built armatures
for our puppets. I finished the puppets from that point on, using their initial sketch as
reference. For the few people who were overseas, I either created the puppet for them or
borrowed their existing puppet. It was a fun challenge, but it also served a larger purpose
in the conceptual scheme of the film.”
The idea of international collaboration need not just be limited to the occasional contri-
bution to a film, especially in an era where networked production pipelines are common
and online transfers of entire project files or fully rendered footage files are the work of
minutes. Even a film whose entire visual production is based across the world from one of
its directors can be achieved, as was the case when it came to the majority of the produc-
tion of Melissa Johnson and Robertino Zambrano’s Love in the Time of March Madness.
Taking place with the two directors living on opposite sides of the Pacific Ocean, the ani-
mation itself was made entirely by the in-house team at Robertino’s KAPWA Studioworks
in Sydney, while Melissa contributed to its direction from Los Angeles.
“I feel like Skype almost deserves a credit in the film, in terms of how we actually
used it for communication—and as a digital media management tool—when you don’t
actually have the luxury of being in the same room with the other person for almost the
entire time,” says Melissa of the team’s unconventional setup. “I’ve been conditioned as an

Figure 10.9
Still from Move Mountain (Dir. Kirsten Lepore). (Courtesy of Kirsten Lepore, ©2013.)

192 10. Keeping It Real

athlete to be on teams my entire life, and a lot of the fun of that is getting to banter with
people, and go back and forth in real-time, in person. So it was a challenge. We definitely
surmounted it, but it was hard dealing at a greater distance, when you have to do a lot more
coordination.
“You have to figure out the time zones and when you can talk, so I think that the only
way to get a project like this done, with the kinds of challenges we have in terms of dis-
tance and no budget, was to be obsessed with doing it and getting it done. There’s just no
one behind you cracking a whip; you are your own whip! You have to just continue it and
finish it to that high degree, or the sacrifices you’ve made so far are for naught.”
While working on his segment for Scott Benson’s international, multiartist Ghost
Stories project, the origins of which we will expand on in Chapter 18, director Alex Grigg
was motivated to bring on other talents for certain areas of the film that he felt were not
his strengths, as well as a crew of animation generalists who would be able to expedite
the overall turnaround time of the film by taking on shots simultaneously. Despite the
fact that Phantom Limb was essentially an unfunded personal project, the strength of its
premise and that of the overall anthology proved to be an appealing enough incentive for
people to volunteer their time and skills (Figure 10.10).
“I think everyone had their own individual reasons for being excited about it. I think
that when I talked to people about it, I just treated them how I would want to be treated.
If I wanted to work with someone, I’d just e-mail a friend and say, ‘Hey, I’ve got this film
project; would you be interested in doing a couple of shots?’ While just really defining the
scope of their involvement and trying to make sure they have enough ownership that it
can be fun and they can really flex their muscles on the shot.”

Figure 10.10
Character designs for Phantom Limb. (Courtesy of Alex Grigg, ©2013.)

Independent Animation 193

Being candidly up front and respecting the time people are giving to your project are
both vital. Even though it is potentially an opportunity for people to refine certain skill
sets, try something new, embellish their showreel, and potentially get exposure, they are
still giving time and expending effort for your benefit in a way that, in any other circum-
stances, would have a monetary value. As such, it’s important that everybody who gets
involved with the project is on the same page and has a clear idea of exactly what they
might get out of it as well as what the plan of action is for the film once completed. As with
any creative collaborative effort, it is also important to have a clear idea of what precisely
the project will be and how it will come together. For Alex, Phantom Limb proved a far bet-
ter attempt than any that had come before, due to its forethought and focus (Figure 10.11).
“I think when I first started trying to collaborate with people ages ago, we’d come into
it all as equals, and we’d say, ‘Hey, let’s make something together!’ And we’d sort of ‘um’
and ‘ah’ while being really polite to each other, and no one would actually make anything.
So I found that in this situation, giving a really clearly defined role and giving it a defined
timeline saw me more committed to the project. I knew that I didn’t want to waste that
time, so there was no chance that I could not finish the film, because other people had put
their time into it for free, and that would do them a disservice.”
The end result was undoubtedly successful, and bringing on additional talent to help
realize the film was beneficial in many respects, but along the way, the value of just
how much contributors were actually helping the production along came into question.

Figure 10.11
Phantom Limb color boards by Colin Bigelow. (Courtesy of Alex Grigg.)

194 10. Keeping It Real

Although it could not have been predicted, during the latter stages, having a crew in place
would actually add unnecessary complications and slow things down.
“Eventually, I would be at a point where I could just largely do it myself, so in the end,
there were parts where it probably was more work to get someone else to do a couple of shots
than it would have been for me to just do it, just because I needed everything to be on style.”
In spite of this, the primary benefit—and the one that makes the entire endeavor worth
the effort—is the opportunity that collaboration creates to observe the working processes
of others whose skill sets lie in different production areas than our own and learn from
them.
“There was a bunch of stuff, like sound and backgrounds, that I really needed people
on, and I will continue to use people for that stuff. I worked with Colin Bigelow, who is
a phenomenal designer and helped with the backgrounds in the early stages. It’s hard to
learn from someone that good; you sit in awe of them. It did mean that future projects
were really easy to work together on as well; I just knew how to work with him. The process
that he uses, this iteration process, I have sort of transferred onto other designers that I’ve
worked with, as it’s a great way to work, and it’s how I now prefer to work. So I did learn a
lot from him for sure, but not how to do his designs; his are too good.”
One major detail that separates many independent animation productions from those
that have been funded or commissioned is the nature of the production management itself
(Figure 10.12). While in a larger sense, the Ghost Stories project was produced and man-
aged by Scott Benson, who frequently maintained contact with all filmmakers in order to
make sure each segment was on track, within the shorts themselves, it was largely down to
the director to take on the producer role as well.
“It didn’t feel too unnatural to me, in this case, because there isn’t a lot of money
involved. The only people who got paid were the cleanup artists, because there was noth-
ing to be gained creatively from that, so I wasn’t going to ask them to do that for free.
Basically, I offered the rate that I got paid when I was doing my first animation job, which
isn’t very much, but it’s something, I guess, for students who weren’t working at all. As far
as producing, it came down to making a big spreadsheet and keeping track of shots and
shot numbers, making sure I’ve got all the assets. In the end, it was taking up half my day
each day, working with artists and making sure they all had their stuff, which is a lot of
energy, to sink into that.”
The nature of small-scale auteur film production is often such that, when a larger team
is formed, it is actually beneficial for the director and producer roles to not be mutually
exclusive. While a competent producer is certainly capable of maintaining the artistic
vision of the director, when they are one and the same person, it’s automatically easier
to communicate precisely what is required of the visuals, style, and tone. Being able to
engage with each specialist team member firsthand with no buffer proved a boon to the
production.
“The actual process was fine; I would actually feel weird if someone else was dealing
with artists that were giving me help for free. I’d rather reach out to them myself and not
have them at arm’s length.
“We had some really strong design documents and animation guidelines for the pro-
cess, the feedback, stuff like that. I really like systems; I use them a lot in my commer-
cial directing, making sure everyone knows when feedback is and everyone knows what
they’re expected to show. I think that lets people relax and focus on what they need to

Independent Animation 195

196
Figure 10.12

10. Keeping It Real

Phantom Limb production spreadsheet. (Courtesy of Alex Grigg.)
Figure 10.13
Example of the notes animators (James Hatley in this instance) working on Phantom Limb
would be supplied with. (Courtesy of Alex Grigg.)

focus on. Generally, it was fine, sometimes Skyping, mostly e-mail, a lot of draw-overs. I
just let everyone have my Dropbox password, and we shared a Dropbox; it was cool.”
The end result of Phantom Limb is a film that feels like a singular vision, which, far from
being a slam on the contributing talents who brought it together, is a testament to their
ability to consistently maintain the directorial intent of the film (Figure 10.13). There is,
however, no delusion that a film so successful in its execution can, without funding, sim-
ply come together without massive sacrifice to time and spirit. Though it was a worthwhile
endeavor and an incredibly strong directorial debut, there will always be a personal toll.
“I kind of destroyed myself, sleep-wise, which is definitely one of the things that makes
it hard to dive into it again. It’s one of the reasons it would be nice to have funding; it’s just
that it takes a lot of pressure off that, having to be the bottleneck for everything.”

Work Ethic
The drive and self-determination that led to the successful completion of Robert Morgan’s
Bobby Yeah sans funding or a rigid deadline goes back to his filmmaking roots, when he
was working on his student short The Man in the Lower Left Hand Corner of the Photograph.
“In my last year of college, I just really put my head down. Something I just knew—and
I think this is good advice to students generally—is to spend your student years trying to
make a good film. It’s the most important currency you can have when you leave, to show
you can make a good film.”
This attitude certainly paid dividends. The film performed well at festivals, earning top
prizes, funding for subsequent shorts, and ultimately carving the path of Robert’s career.
This domino effect is the most recurring aspect of almost every notable filmmaker’s story:

Independent Animation 197

throwing themselves into a student project potential employers simply could not ignore.
“By the time I got to Bobby Yeah, which was totally self-funded on my own, I already had
a body of work; people already knew my work; and therefore, there was an audience for
it. It all comes down to that student film; if I hadn’t made that, if I hadn’t worked hard at
college, I really wouldn’t have made any other films.”
One of the by-products of Bobby Yeah’s improvised story development as discussed
previously was Robert’s ability to hand-build new characters on the fly whenever the
action or a new scenario called for them (Figure 10.14). This too is a skill retained from his
prior work, for which he has made a point of always sculpting his own puppets, “because
I don’t think anyone would be able to do it in the way I like it. I think that people would
probably be able to do it better, but it’s not about ‘better’; it’s about being right. I think for
me, I have to get my hands on them. For the imperfections in the look, it has to be a certain
way, so I will always sculpt the character myself.”
One notable quasi-exception to the overall look of Robert’s work would be The
Separation, arguably his least independent short, having been commissioned for a large

Figure 10.14
Bobby Yeah concept sketches. (Courtesy of Robert Morgan.)

198 10. Keeping It Real

budget by the Welsh cable channel S4C. Featuring additional design assistance from
production designer Stéphane Collonge and slick cinematography by Philip Cowan,
the film does stand apart as being more outwardly ‘produced,’ though at its heart, it
remains a Robert Morgan film through and through, with all the dedicated grotesquery
that comes with it. Robert happily concedes that collaboration brings with it rewards of
its own and that The Separation includes visual ideas he most likely would never have
thought of himself, had the opportunity not arisen. The puppets themselves, however,
remain purely his. “If I sculpt the puppets, then I can feel like I’ve made them; I feel
like they’re my characters then. I don’t think I could do those films if someone else had
sculpted them.”
Flashing forward to several years later, the production of Bobby Yeah, now acknowl-
edged as one of his best works, more than anything went back to his early days as a student
animator, working for the most part as a one-man crew.
“As far as the visuals of the film itself were concerned, it was basically me. I got a
little bit of assistance here and there, such as my partner being a photographer, who
helped me shoot the exterior sequence; I wanted to have a moment where he suddenly
goes outside. We’re used to seeing dark, gloomy interiors in my films, and being so
bright and open on a sunny day really made for an interesting contrast, I think. We
went to Dungeness because it’s technically the only classifiable desert in the UK, and
I wanted something primal and basic, but very open. I also have a cinematographer
friend, Marcus, who helped with the shots of the weird, psychedelic sky at the end of
the film, which was created using ink in a water tank. The bit when the octopus bursts
out of him, I got my friend Dominic Hailstone, a fellow director and a special-effects
genius, to help me spruce that up a little bit. So there are bits and bobs along the way
where friends where able to help out with particular bits, but essentially, it was just me
in a room.”
To Robert, the progression of story in this way is largely instinctual and, consequently,
a process that cannot truly be planned out or intellectualized (Figure 10.15). “I think it’s
great when somebody says that my films have achieved a sort of nightmarish quality,
because that’s definitely something I aspire to. I suppose I would say that I’d really like my
films to achieve that level of feverish delirium. But because nightmares are sort of irratio-
nal, you have to use an irrational part of your brain to do it, so in a way, that’s why I think
I tried to do Bobby Yeah in a kind of stream-of-consciousness kind of way.”
By going down this route, the story serves to tap into the irrational part of the audi-
ence’s brains, which makes the work divisive yet, to those on board with it, tremendously
appealing. Had Bobby Yeah been traditionally scripted, it undoubtedly would not have
carried nearly as much foreboding volatility, nor as much absurdist humor. “Very often,
when you try and write a script, there’s a certain amount of sense that has to take place, so
you’re juggling plot with these horrific visuals. The nightmarish sequences, or the feeling
you get, is very much to do with a certain escalation of images and, in particular, sound as
well, to create an ambiance that is both dreamlike or nightmarish.”
Also worth examining is the choice of medium itself. Save for the live-action Monsters
(2004) and the mixed-media films The Cat with Hands and Invocation (2013), Robert’s
entire short filmography has indulged his first choice of stop-motion. With the advances
of CG processes over the course of his active career, what are the elements of this medium
that so lend themselves to, for lack of a more fitting term, the horror genre?

Independent Animation 199

Figure 10.15
Out for a jaunt—Bobby Yeah (Dir. Robert Morgan) exterior sequence thumbnail board/
concept sketch to final film comparison. (Courtesy of Swartz Can Talk/blueLight, ©2011.)

200 10. Keeping It Real

Figure 10.16
Still from Bobby Yeah (Dir. Robert Morgan). (Courtesy of Swartz Can Talk/blueLight, ©2011.)

“To me, the great, untapped dimension of stop-motion animation, which very few
people have really truly harnessed, is the inherent uncanniness of it. Švankmajer’s done
it, as have the Quay Brothers and some others, but I’m surprised that not more people
have tapped into it. I think a lot of people somewhat miss the point of it as well; they will
try and be spooky, and they end up doing a cartoony version of it which is not properly
uncanny. I think the very nature of bringing inanimate objects to life and that kind of
weird automaton way in which things move in stop-motion animation just lends itself to
creepy or nightmarish filmmaking” (Figure 10.16).

Wisdom in Hindsight
Robert Grieves’ perspective of what one might do differently if returning to a project is of
particular note, having actually gone back and redone the film once before.
“A lot of the things that I would do again, I did wrong in the first place because I didn’t have
the knowledge, so I would say storyboard it better. Don’t rush in; take your time really getting
it right. I put a lot of time into the storyboard; I just didn’t know enough about film grammar.
“It depends on what’s important to you, but I really wanted to make a film where all the
storytelling was 100% visual. Obviously, the music feeds into that, without a doubt, but
maybe one of the reasons I didn’t put the soundtrack on initially was that I wanted a film
that, without the soundtrack, could 100% convey what was going on. I had got it to that
point, where I could sit with people I respected who’d never seen it before and didn’t know
anything about it, who could watch it without the soundtrack, and they fully followed it.
At that point, I knew that the soundtrack would only take it to the next place.”
Something to consider throughout production is to what extent it’s worth it to stay com-
mitted to our original vision if doing so impedes the production itself. In Robert’s case,
there is one area that he concedes would have made the whole process a lot less challenging.
“The easiest thing would have been, by far, to use voiceover and dialog. I think we
worry about dialog taking longer—or I do, anyway—because of having to lip-sync, but lip
sync is a whole lot easier to do than tell every bit of the emotional, narrative thrust through

Independent Animation 201

acting. I realized how hard that was, and so I would say to anyone (or if I could go back in
time and give myself advice when I was coming up with the idea for Sausage) would be to
use voiceover and dialog in it to at least some degree, because it just brings the audience
along” (Figure 10.17).
The use of narration in particular is something that independent filmmakers seem
hesitant about. As writers like Adam Elliot have clearly demonstrated, narration can be
far from lazy gimmickry if crafted well enough. Its success also hinges on the performer,
as we will see in Chapter 12. The only real instance where narration should be completely
avoided on principle is when it fails to add anything to the film itself. If the work speaks
for itself visually, as the final version of Sausage proved to, then the addition of a voiceover
or dialog would be arbitrary and redundant.

Figure 10.17
Sausage (Dir. Robert Grieves) backgrounds before and after coloring/texturing. (Courtesy
of Robert Grieves, ©2013.)

202 10. Keeping It Real

“I saw so many films that were just labored with voiceover, where all the picture is
doing is illustrating what is already in place; the narrative is there in the storytelling, in
the voiceover; and you make some pictures to go along with it. I thought my film would
be elevated above that for not using that ‘cheap trick’; but audiences don’t care about that!
It’s amazing; as much as I respect the sophisticated knowledge of the audience, that’s one
area people just don’t care about.”
The remaining constructive critique Robert has about the second, crowd-pleasing
incarnation of Sausage would be its length. While it was cut down to 6 minutes from the
original’s runtime of 8, in Robert’s view, a purely visual story might better be served by
something more succinct (between 2 and 4 minutes), if for no other reason than to make
the production process itself less of a hardship.
Looking back at Ernie Biscuit a mere handful of months after its completion, Adam
Elliot has mixed feelings that lean more toward the positive.
“It was a bizarre 5 years. I think out of all my films, it has been the rockiest, and it’s been
a very inconsistent process, but I think in some ways, it’s a bit serendipitous. I went through
a bad phase after Mary and Max where I really was disillusioned and I lost my enthusiasm.”
Although it came at the cost of his original vision for the film as an elaborate fea-
ture with significantly higher production values, his unexpected detour into the world of
independent animation seemed, ultimately, to be the shot in the arm required for him to
rekindle his enthusiasm for animation on the whole.
“I’m only just starting to use the word experiment, because with Ernie Biscuit, I really
wanted to go back to basics, not just in terms of aesthetics but also just the process and
the materials I used (Figure 10.18). I just wanted to try and go back to something a little
bit more raw and organic. I really was quite happy if the film didn’t get into any festivals
or no one ever saw it, because it was more about experimenting and having total creative

Figure 10.18
Still from Ernie Biscuit (Dir. Adam Elliot). (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

Independent Animation 203

freedom and total creative control, without any broadcasters or government investors or
distributors pressuring me. So probably, I enjoyed the process more than I’ve been enjoy-
ing the finished result. Ernie’s certainly not my strongest film—it’s very light, I think it’s
probably a little bit too long, some scenes are a little flat—but it’s an experimental film.
The audience probably don’t see it as experimental, but the way I made it was certainly
very loose.
“I realized if I wasn’t enjoying the process, particularly in animation, which is such a
slow shoot, and that if I didn’t get that love back, it would certainly show in the end result.”
Inevitably, there will be moments during a production where maintaining any kind
of enthusiasm for the process is more of a hard ask. Setbacks, delays, and disasters need
not even be the cause; sometimes there are stages of the production that are just outright
boring. Such is the case with any task we embark upon that demands hard work, concen-
tration, and, if the deadline dictates as much, grueling hours. With tenacity, however, that
impossible goal of making it to the other side with a finished film is reachable. In Chapter
19 of the book, we will hear from several filmmakers whose accounts of their own resolve
should prove motivational enough for you to do likewise. Before that, though, let’s look
at some of the inventive and unconventional independent approaches to other areas of
production.

204 10. Keeping It Real

11
Getting Comfortable

What is it that makes a film a comfortable watch? When considering the various disci-
plines of strong animated filmmaking, these should be simple enough to determine—an
engaging script, appealing characters, a capable sound mix, seamless editing, expertly
refined color palettes, a keen knowledge of dramaturgy and shot composition, and so on.
Technically speaking, the more well-versed a filmmaker is when it comes to the funda-
mentals, the easier a film will be to watch. In the world of independent animation, how-
ever, there are plenty of examples where films have taken an outsider approach, throwing
off the shackles of traditional filmmaking and pushing the envelope to the delight of audi-
ences worldwide. Sometimes, as we will see, films that are outright bizarre, challenging,
and seemingly horrific can, in a perverse way, elicit the same response.
Here, we will look at the ways in which films that are that extra step outside of convention
have been successfully realized. To begin with, it’s worth revisiting the world of abstract ani-
mation and one of its most successful offerings in recent years. Without telling a story or fea-
turing characters in any literal sense, our first case study, Virtuos Virtuell (2013), proved such
a hit on the festival circuit as to pick up over 40 awards during its astounding run (Figure 11.1).
Thomas Stellmach is a filmmaker and animator whose prior filmography includes the
Academy Award-winning animated short Quest (Dir. Tyron Montgomery, 1996), which
he wrote and produced, as well as an extensive portfolio of commercial projects taken on
during his time at the animation studio Lichthof, which he cofounded. Moving on from
Lichthof in 2009 to focus on personal, more artistically driven projects, Thomas would

205
Figure 11.1
Virtuos Virtuell concept sketch. (Courtesy of Thomas Stellmach.)

meet artist Maja Oschmann at an open day of Kassel’s ateliers. As they both studied at
the Art University Kassel, though not at the same time, Thomas was intrigued by Maja’s
abstract artistic approaches, in particular, her propensity toward music visualization,
something the two shared a mutual enthusiasm for. It was not long before a creative affinity
was realized, although there was some acclimation given their contrasting backgrounds—
Maja’s being solely fine art, with little by way of film production experience.
“It took time to understand our different interests and understanding of quality,” says
Thomas of the first handful of months of their collaboration. “That was an uneasy first step.
Then suddenly, we understood one another. I wanted to make a project that achieved a spe-
cial quality, so as to enter the international festivals. In my experience, I try to add more and
more, to get something that nobody has seen before. Initially, that was not easy to explain.”
Once the pair came to an understanding of the scope of this potential collaboration, its
focus needed to be determined. With the essential concept—to create an abstract piece that
would interpret music through a hybrid of fine art, experimental film, and animation—
pinned down, Thomas found inspiration for its source via Kassel’s Spohr Museum, the focus
of which being the life’s work and story of highly prolific German composer Louis Spohr.
“The purpose of the museum is to make him better known and push his name. He
lived in our city for a long time, and he did a lot of work, 170 different compositions; he
composed 10 operas (Faust, for example), a Requiem, a lot of violin concerti—really a wide
range of different kinds of music.
“Because I listen to it during my work, music inspires me very much. I was listening to all
of Spohr’s different compositions, looking for a special kind of style that would be good for
visualization, something which had a variety of dramatic aspects that change throughout.”
The piece that ultimately proved most inspiring was Spohr’s Der Alchymist (The
Alchemist), a three-act opera originally composed in 1829–1830. Shortening the overture
of The Alchemist to a seven-and-a-half-minute piece, Thomas wound up with a brief yet
musically complex basis on which the moving visuals could be constructed. The dynamic
range of the piece, with its wide variety of moods and rhythms, allowed for a film far more
abstract and visually arresting than originally planned.

206 11. Getting Comfortable

“The first idea was to make an animated documentary about him, but when I read
about his life, it didn’t seem especially engaging, so I decided to visualize some music. So
Virtuos Virtuell was my study about his life” (Figure 11.2).
The finished film, composited for stereoscopic projection as per the museum’s wishes, is a
tremendously engaging piece of work that has clearly benefited from the meticulous attention
to detail and time that has gone into every moment (more on this later). Presented as black ink
on a white backdrop, the film increases in complexity and grandeur in perfect synchronicity
with the music as it does likewise. Combining pure abstraction with the sensibilities of cho-
reography and performance, it is also peppered with moments of pareidolia where more tan-
gible forms can be glimpsed amongst the interplay between brushstrokes and random shapes.
“The idea began with a black ink stroke growing from an invisible brush. I did a lot of
black-and-white drawings and abstract images to find something in that. During this
step, I met Maja and saw her very abstract paintings. To begin with, we didn’t really know
exactly what we would do together, but we soon recognized that we could combine all of
our different ideas and experiences. Together, we developed a lot of the design for this film,
especially the storyline.”
Though an experimental piece largely open to interpretation, a storyline of sorts can
indeed be picked up on. As the overture progresses, the ink stroke evolves from a mere
visual throughline, eventually becoming a “character” in and of itself, noticeably respond-
ing to the shifts in tone and mood within the music. To successfully achieve this, Thomas
and Maja needed to determine the most appropriate style of movement for the ink, mainly
through testing, trial and error, and recording a great deal of footage of ink in motion.
“The whole composition is made up of a lot of separate material pieces that I put together
with masks and blending. I tried to get the same density of ink and maintain the speed of

Figure 11.2
Virtuos Virtuell concept sketch. (Courtesy of Thomas Stellmach.)

Independent Animation 207

the motion, sometimes adjusting it. In the end, the audience should feel that there is only
one graphic element, but in fact, there isn’t” (Figure 11.3).
The next step was to develop a language where the two artists could effectively com-
municate their ideas to one another. Oftentimes, their creative interplay would begin with
Thomas’s musical interpretations relayed through physical performance to Maja, who in
turn would endeavor to replicate these actions through the ink itself.

Figure 11.3
Virtuos Virtuell concept sketches. (Courtesy of Thomas Stellmach.)

208 11. Getting Comfortable

“When I listen to the music of Louis Spohr, I feel that someone is sad. That was the idea,
that this black ink stroke, the ‘protagonist,’ should be sad. The other ‘character’ would be its
surroundings, so when I hear in the music the implication of something dangerous, some-
thing disruptive or disturbing, that sadness can become fear, for example. Sometimes we
would split the instruments into two different characters. What inspired me to choose this
particular piece is that, when I listen to the first part, I can hear a dialogue between two dif-
ferent instruments. So the main character would be woodwind and violin, while the other
instruments that were deeper and darker—the contrabass, for example—might suddenly
join the others and express ‘danger.’ I would explain to Maja that it could be something like
that, where an outside force comes in and creates a sense of dread, from which our charac-
ter will try to escape. She would visualize this with the black ink stroke, moving in such a
way whenever there were interruptions or moments in the film that create panic.”
One crucial moment in the film depicting such an “escape” also marks the transition
from a flat plane to a three-dimensional environment, when the ink stroke seemingly
breaks free of whatever threat has been introduced. Even when not viewed stereoscop-
ically, the deftness of the film’s 3-D compositing (elaborated on in Chapter 16) clearly
translates this extra level of dimensionality (Figure 11.4).
“We also needed to find words that we could use, very abstract words to understand
which sequence we would talk about, for example. We separated every piece of the film
into different sections and gave them each names—for example, ‘puddle skimming,’
‘tulips growing,’ ‘dandelion sequence,’ ‘fire work’—this way, we could collect all these pic-
tures and recordings into special folders with those names, for easier reference. Over time,
we had developed a special language to understand each other and work together better.”

Figure 11.4
Still from Virtuos Virtuell (Dir. Thomas Stellmach/Maja Oschman). (Courtesy of Thomas
Stellmach, ©2013.)

Independent Animation 209

The overall production was entirely taken on by Thomas (who went into Virtuos Virtuell
with an already extensive career in film production under his belt) and Maja, developing
and testing out the first ideas over the course of roughly 6 months. These tests essentially
served as preproduction, with production (which consisted mainly of live-action filming
of real ink behaviors in a variety of environments alongside digital brushstroke animation
using a tablet) and postproduction (the compositing of both elements) occurring simul-
taneously over the course of 3 subsequent years. This extended production time can be
attributed to Thomas and Maja’s discerning judgment as to when each shot or progression
could be considered a success and, as such, usable in the final film.
“Every night, I composited all of the layers of pictures and footage together, and the
next day we had to look them over. In most cases, Maja would redesign every piece again,
and I would recomposite everything, usually three times (Figure 11.5)!
“It looks very simple, but we would have to create a great deal of material for each shot
to choose from. We weren’t looking the best footage necessarily but something which had
some mistakes; we wanted the ink to have a sense of human behavior to it, so to get the
ideal movement we were looking for, there was a lot of preselection. Initially, it wasn’t very
easy for us to get the right movement. We would redesign it and change it, trying to keep
the shape of the black ink stroke that Maja would have to draw again and again. Looking
back, it seems hard to believe, but for us, it was so ordinary to go about it this way, having
developed this feeling and language amongst ourselves.”
To achieve the desired interplay between the music and the physical ink, it fell to
Maja to breathe life into it, sometimes literally. Early experimentation involving breath-
ing through a straw to control the motion of the ink proved promising but not reliable
when dealing with longer musical notes that would last longer than breathing itself would

Figure 11.5
Thomas Stellmach retouches and edits thousands of ink film clips together with compositing
software. (Courtesy of Thomas Stellmach.)

210 11. Getting Comfortable

accommodate. A variant of this approach, and one that proved more successful, was to
“steer” the ink using an airbrush compressor, which also allowed for greater control over
its behavior (Figure 11.6).
Experimenting with different materials, temperatures, and surfaces also enabled a
wider range of behaviors. “We started on paper; we also drew on glass; we mixed oil with
black ink; we added some oil on glass—and the behavior of the ink would change. We also
turned the glass sheet vertically to get another result, for example. At one point, we used a
syringe that was full of black ink!”
The digital animation process was similarly labor-intensive, painting brushstrokes in
time with each music segment using a software that could realistically simulate drawing
inks, recorded “live” using a screen-capture program. Frequently, the capturing of the
perfect motion would prove just as elusive as when dealing with the unpredictability of
the real-life, physical ink. One particularly troublesome 2-second shot was so intangible
as to warrant an astounding 600 takes before a successful outcome was achieved. Another
major part of the compositing process was the removal (through masking in After Effects)

Figure 11.6
Maja Oschmann blows the ink with an airbrush tube. (Courtesy of Thomas Stellmach.)

Independent Animation 211

of all the extraneous visuals that would accompany each piece of ink footage, such as
hands, brushes, and shadows.
The finished film premiered as part of the 1100 Years of Kassel anniversary celebra-
tions in February 2013, projected to a live accompaniment of the soundtrack performed
by the State Orchestra of Kassel. As well as the film’s highly enthusiastic response from
festival audiences worldwide, its initial purpose—as a stereoscopic exhibit as part of the
Louis Spohr museum—also proved popular, extending to an exhibit at the German Film
Museum in Frankfurt, and even being used as an educational tool to familiarize children
with experimental film alongside works by such abstract pioneers as Len Lye, Norman
McLaren, and Oskar Fischinger.

The Comfort of Discomfort

Curiously, a quality of certain films that enhances their watchability is an element of
unease. The degree of this will vary, and it can be a tricky recipe to get right. A psy-
chological drama may be far better served by the power of what isn’t seen onscreen, so
that when some visual horror does present itself, it can be underplayed yet have maxi-
mum impact. By contrast, a film that is held together by shock value alone can indulge
onscreen violence, gratuitous sexual content, and strong language to far greater excess
and wind up boring the audience. As demonstrated in the previously discussed work of
Robert Morgan, independent animation can be a playground for the intense, the bizarre,
and the horrific just as much as it can be for the comedic or poignant, as long as it’s
in the right hands. Becky Sloan and Joseph Pelling’s phenomenally successfully series
Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared is, on its surface, a simple send-up of children’s programming,
combining live-action puppetry with animated vignettes, bold colors, boisterous per-
formances, catchy melodies, and simple topics such as the nature of love, creativity, and
time, amongst others. Its execution is so on point, evocative of such iconic fodder as
Sesame Street, Rainbow, and Yo Gabba Gabba, that little would be required to parody
or subvert the genre. The extra mile that Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared goes is the integra-
tion of not just dry one-liners or vaguely adult concepts (as with the broadly appealing
Avenue Q, for example) but also elements of twisted metaphysical storytelling, nonlinear
sequences of events, briefly glimpsed moments of loneliness and brutality, as well as a
somewhat purgatorial throughline that its online audience relish and latch onto in com-
ments and discussion threads. Despite its beginnings as a quirky, independent short tak-
ing a (genuinely creative) swipe at the irritating nature of “creative” types and seemingly
predicated on an absence of continuity, Becky and Joseph have, in essence, cultivated an
online fan base that have created their own rationales and mythologies for what precisely
the show is or means (Figure 11.7).
Shock value for its own sake, however, tends to fall flat. From my personal experience
gauging audience responses to my own work, if any such device is used arbitrarily or for a
cheap laugh, the audience won’t be fooled and will probably respond negatively—or worse,
with indifference. For no reason other than having the automatic writing style of a young
man raised on shows like South Park, my thesis film was riddled with crass language that
I wrongly assumed would enhance its humor. Though the original 17-minutes-plus edit
of the film did get some laughs at its various early screenings, the swearing came off as

212 11. Getting Comfortable

Figure 11.7
The rotting antagonist of House Guest. (Courtesy of Ben Mitchell, ©2008.)

neither amusing nor provocative, more often than not being met with silence. The reason
was relatively simple—that it was ultimately unnecessary. With the assurance that any-
thing over 15 minutes would severely limit the film’s festival exposure, one of the easiest
elements to trim out when excising 3 extraneous minutes was these moments of unneces-
sary swearing, as well as a number of similarly self-indulgent moments, such as shots that
were kept in simply because I liked how the animation looked, or had taken some pride
in sneaking in a visual innuendo. The difference in response from the under-15-minute
version compared to the original was palpable—festival acceptances and positive online
feedback surged, and it was a stark lesson that, despite its remaining flaws, at its heart,
there was a solid little film there that was being held back by needless attempts to milk the
gags and get a rise out of the audience.
I should hasten to add that this does not constitute an outright condemnation of bad
language or provocative ideas and concepts. If a certain visual tone matches up with a
script boasting a foul-mouthed ensemble cast or distinctly adult scenarios, it can be a
very entertaining watch indeed; one example that immediately springs to mind is Pierre
Mousquet and Jérôme Cauwe’s Wind of Share, an unrelentingly indulgent celebration

Independent Animation 213

of animated machismo, sex, and ultraviolence that has proved to be a universal crowd-
pleaser as far as international festival audiences are concerned.
Between making films and curating screenings, another psychological component that
I have also found muddies the waters of audience appreciation is best attributed to Poe’s
law—a term coined in 2005 that refers to the line where parody and/or satire becomes
undetectable from the genuine article, either through being expertly observed or from
said genuine article’s inherent ridiculousness. If somebody subscribes to a social or politi-
cal ideology that is uneducated and facile, for example, it is much harder for a commenta-
tor or humorist to parody that person’s outlook without coming off as simply sharing it.
Taking advantage of this lack of clarity purposefully has become one of the mainstays of
“trolling”: simply inciting a reaction by espousing disingenuous opinions on a subject to
watch the sparks and furor fly. Where this comes into play as far as independent filmmak-
ing is concerned can be down to numerous factors—a sharply satirical script needs to have
its tone appropriately matched by the film’s visual execution, or the audience will be left
scratching their heads.
An example that stands out in memory was a film that came onto my radar during a
festival preselection in 2015. This film had some virtues, mostly in the modeling of the
sets and props, but these fell prey to the weakness of the ego of the animator (who was
also the director). Any flow the film might have had was undermined by an insistence
on lingering shots of the capable modeling work, from multiple camera angles, without
any rhyme or reason. The animation itself was also hugely misjudged, being almost a
master class in what not to do to the extent that, in conversation afterward, the audience
struggled to determine whether this lack of skill was in fact deliberate. Where it primar-
ily misfired was regarding the premise itself, dealing with a subject that is still considered
a huge political hot potato in certain territories and hugely incongruous to the goofy,
cartoonish character design. What was this filmmaker trying to achieve? If it was a dark,
South Park-ian lampoon of social propaganda, it didn’t work, due to the misjudged style
choice and incompetent animation. If, on the other hand, its social message was an ear-
nest one (as turned out to be the case), it was equally a failure as there was no component
to the story or visuals that an audience could conceivably engage with or be moved by.
Put simply, the film in and of itself was a pointless exercise, undermined by the laziness
of its execution.
Such is the way different brains are wired; there will always be a certain subsection of
the masses who won’t grasp even an instance of obvious parody (there may be very well
be, for example, a miniscule percentage of an online audience who might stumble across
a Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared short and be outraged, genuinely believing it was created for
kids), but there is a limit to how accommodating we can be as filmmakers and story tellers.
The purpose of distancing oneself from the trap of Poe’s law isn’t to fetter our range of
expression but, rather, consider alternative ways of communicating ideas, so that they
might be clearer and perhaps even more impactful.

Odontophobia
Daniel Gray and Tom Brown began working together while studying animation in
Newport in 2003. “He was a young whippersnapper,” recalls Daniel of Tom, “And I was
a mature student there. We ended up working on a project in the second year in a group.

214 11. Getting Comfortable

Figure 11.8
Holbrooks portrait: Tom Brown and Daniel Gray. (Courtesy of Holbrooks.)

We found that we worked really well together, so we did our final film together and have
continued to work together from then on” (Figure 11.8).
The final film was t.o.m. (2006), a staggeringly successful short that picked up 25 awards
and over 50 official selections in the 2 years that followed. The film’s performance made a
name for the pair, who have since operated under the shared name Holbrooks.* Though both
initially working from a shared space in Wales, they’ve each since moved on to entirely differ-
ent continents—Tom in New York, Dan in Budapest, Hungary—yet have continued to work as
a creative pair successfully, represented by New York production company Blacklist.† The film
itself is a 3-minute, firsthand account of a young boy’s daily routine, beginning with predict-
ably mundane rituals and observations that grow steadily more uncomfortable as the audience
is informed that he methodically strips off various items of clothing at particular locations on
his route to school. Throughout the film, the audience is led to become increasingly suspicious
of the directorial neutrality and intent, until the final shot, when all ambiguity is jettisoned;
upon his arrival at school, the nude child is taunted with aggressive laughter from his con-
gregated classmates. As university students, Dan and Tom’s writing process when it came to
t.o.m. would be largely the same process they would go on to adopt on subsequent projects.
“The way that we tend to write is we’ll overwrite, mostly, and then make the story better
for just using the bits that we like,” explains Dan. “For t.o.m., we started off with this gross

* http://www.holbrooksfilms.com
† http://www.blacklist.tv

Independent Animation 215

picture of this little naked beast in a classroom, on a desk. We had loads of sketchbook pic-
tures that we’d make narratives around and made this overlong story about why he’s naked
in school. We’d write it all out, go through it and work out which parts seemed cheesy, or
didn’t work, focusing on what’s interesting—chiefly, how does he actually get to school?
The basic thing we were playing with was that we had a character delivering the narrative,
which, to the audience, means he is the ‘rule-setter’; what he tells you is what you believe.
“Animation is great because you can present your audience with anything and they
come to it with a massive sense of innocence—they’re ready to accept what you tell them.
So he’s giving you these rules, you’re following it along, and obviously it’s ‘normal,’ even
though it is in fact very weird, but everyone’s going along with it. Then at the end, we take
away the narration, we pull the camera right back, and we have this theatrical, almost
pre-Raphaelite composition of the kids behind the fence and him on his own, on the other
side. So ‘normality’ was actually on the other side of the fence, and the innocence the audi-
ence has gone along with is taken from them.”
That sense of being wrenched back down to earth almost serves as a wordless punch
line moment, where it is not necessarily clear whom the joke is on—the titular Tom of the
film or the audience itself. Dan also notes the effectiveness of protracting the final shot on
purpose, so as to compound the awkwardness of the moment. Reveling in manipulating
an audience’s emotions and expectations could be seen as malicious were it not such a
strangely satisfying—refreshing, even—viewing experience.
While t.o.m. could be seen as a test of to what extent an audience will go along with
the farcically ridiculous, Dan and Tom’s second film, Teeth (2015), could be seen as an
outright endurance exercise (Figure 11.9). The film shares certain similarities with their
student short, such as a rich, painterly style to the backgrounds against harsh-yet-sophis-
ticated foreground/character animation, as well as an introspective narration that guides
the audience through an increasingly unsettling series of rituals and memories. In this
latter film’s case, however, the unnamed and never-fully-visible narrator is an old man
reflecting on a lifetime of dental masochism, in which he had set out to create the per-
fect set of dentures, methodically extracting his own teeth over the years and researching
those of the animal kingdom for more optimal replacements. Perfectly delivered by vet-
eran British performer Richard E. Grant, the compelling monologue that describes this
inexplicable journey carries the viewer through an assortment of brutal visuals that tap
into a primal urge to look away while simultaneously being compelled to keep watching.
“There’s an interesting thing which I don’t think I’ve seen elsewhere,” observes Dan,
“where, during the moments of silence, you can feel the audience not breathing, almost.
It feels almost heavy, on the back of your neck, and I’ve heard some other people mention
that as well. We wanted to really affect the audience, obviously, and it was really nice see-
ing these unexpected ways that happened. The nervous laughing, as well—when people
laugh at the punch line, or the payoff, half the laugh is from dark humor, and the other
half is from them thinking, Well, this has got to be the end, which is interesting as well”
(Figure 11.10).
While uncompromising, there is a strange elegance and ethereal beauty to the film
that somehow validates the nonsense logic of the main character and keeps the audience
invested in the hope of some kind of resolution (will this elusive set of ideal teeth ever be
completed and, if so, what then?). The directors are also careful to show a certain degree of
restraint as to what is actually shown onscreen, never overstating the point by veering into

216 11. Getting Comfortable

Figure 11.9
Teeth (Dir. Tom Brown/Daniel Gray) poster art. (Courtesy of Holbrooks/Blacklist, ©2015.)

Figure 11.10
Still from Teeth (Dir. Tom Brown/Daniel Gray). (Courtesy of Holbrooks/Blacklist, ©2015.)

Independent Animation 217

Figure 11.11
Still from Teeth (Dir. Tom Brown/Daniel Gray). (Courtesy of Holbrooks/Blacklist, ©2015.)

outright gore but letting the audience’s imaginations fill in the gaps, for maximum impact.
This is best exemplified in one particular shot in which the obsessive lead scrapes a knife
across his teeth (Figure 11.11). The image, when paired with horrendously accurate Foley
work, creates an all-too-palpable sensation in the viewer.
“It almost threatens the audience. Normally, a film will escalate the gore and the dis-
gustingness, so we put that visual there as a false promise, that we’re going to really be this
gross. So there’s this tension, then, of people expecting us to keep ramping it up.
“As far as the development of the story goes, it’s basically an allegory for short-sighted
decisions. It was made around the same time as all the arts funding was being cut.
Animation and art degrees were all being belittled as ‘not necessary,’ so Teeth was origi-
nally about the consequences of making the easy choices of closing these things down.”
Without revealing the ending, consequences remain an important component of the
film’s resolution, though the denseness and heavy-handedness of the sociopolitical anal-
ogy ultimately turned out to not best serve the film. As with t.o.m., the refinement of
Teeth’s final script comes from being pared down from a broader concept, so that only the
strongest ideas at its core remain.
“We kept a lot of the symbolism but made it a little bit more vague, because the more
specific you get with what you’re trying to say, the less enjoyable a film can be. With both
films, we’ve used a pretty visual to hide this dark game we’re playing, so with Teeth…
well, everyone is squeamish with teeth. If someone were to hit their teeth with a knife
or a spoon, you’d say, ‘Can you not do that?’ So the film was a way of tapping into the
audience’s feelings of disgust. Plus, with the sort of message we were originally talking
about, we wanted the audience to be disgusted and angry about it, almost. In a way, it’s
subliminal, which is obviously not allowed in advertising and is frowned upon in general
society—but it’s what filmmakers do, isn’t it? We have to play with the subliminal so as to
be more aware of it.”

218 11. Getting Comfortable

12
Casting and Performance

Usually, before an animation production can properly begin, not only will the casting
need to have been sorted, but also, the basic dialog track should already be laid down.
This isn’t always the case—films with narration, for example, can get by with a placeholder
track until the postproduction phase—but either way, the process of actually finding the
right performers and getting the best performance out of them may very well fall on your
shoulders when doing things the independent way. In this chapter, you will be presented
with a variety of circumstances that have determined an independent project’s casting
success that should hopefully demystify the process somewhat.

Going It Alone
One obvious time-saver when it comes to casting and directing is to use ourselves in our
work. And why not? Who else will know exactly what kind of performance we want our
own characters to give better than us?
Well, slow down there. Of course, there’s something of a chasm between knowing
what’s best and being able to execute it on our own. Just as we need to know our limitations
throughout the visual side of an animated production, when it comes to the soundtrack,
we need to be equally vigilant—more so considering the increased likelihood that it will
be territory outside of our usual field of expertise.

219
I write from firsthand experience in this regard as circumstances have regularly dic-
tated I go this route for at least one character per each film of mine. At times, this has
proved effective enough, though there are definitely instances where I have regretted doing
so in hindsight. A stilted, horribly affected attempt at a British accent plagues my MA the-
sis film House Guest and is completely at odds with the characterization of the character I
voiced: a gruff, necessitous hunting enthusiast who lives on his own in the woods.
If you are playing more than one character, you may want to take the time to really con-
sider whether or not your vocal range is up to the task. The first independent short I pro-
duced that wound up being successful enough on the festival circuit to sell for broadcast was
The Naughty List, an animated sketch about dealing with higher-ups not pulling their weight
in the workplace, as depicted through an exchange between an anxious, beleaguered worker
elf and Santa Claus (Figure 12.1). Turnaround time was tight, and budget was nil (dueling
circumstances that will be familiar to many, I’m sure), so my workaround was to play both
characters for the animatic, with an eventual plan to redub before lip-sync began proper.
The performances as recorded did not land as two separate characters, instead result-
ing in a voice clearly identifiable as mine affecting a clipped, fatherly voice for Santa and a
Cod–New Jersey drawl for the elf. When it became clear that recasting/rerecording sim-
ply wasn’t an option, I experimented with various processing effects, eventually settling
on simply pitching up the Elf (to accentuate his stature and frantic state of mind) and
pitching down Santa (to accentuate his age and lethargic bulk) roughly 20% each way.
By keeping the adjustment fairly moderate, the cheat is not immediately obvious; pitch-
ing up a voice by a semioctave or higher, for example, will produce an identifiable Alvin
and the Chipmunks effect, while you don’t need to go too far when pitching any noise
down before things start to sound outright demonic. By contrast, adjusting the audio by a
smaller amount merely alters the tonality of the voice so that it becomes far less obvious as
having originated from the same person. This option is what I’ve dubbed “the South Park
cheat,” in reference to the show’s creators Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s use of the same
method in the preadolescent characterization of the main group of children they voice.

Figure 12.1
Still from The Naughty List (Dir. Ben Mitchell). (Courtesy of Ben Mitchell, ©2010.)

220 12. Casting and Performance

Figure 12.2
Boxhead and Roundhead creator Elliot Cowan. (Courtesy of the artist.)

Certainly, the more authentic approach is to use a performer with enough vocal capa-
bilities to not warrant any additional postproduction trickery, or to use different actors
per role altogether, but as a means to an end, this approach can be an effective compro-
mise. Even performers as gifted as the great Mel Blanc (the man who originated such
iconic voice performances as Barney Rubble and Private Snafu, not to mention Bugs
Bunny and the greater percentage of the entire Looney Tunes ensemble) made use of this
technique—his characterization of Daffy Duck, for example, does not amount to a great
deal more than a pitched-up version of his performance as Sylvester the Cat.
Taking the lead yourself can be achieved without the digital trickery of such a cheating
little cheater as I, provided you have the chops for it. Hailing from Melbourne, Australia,
animator Elliot Cowan* is another independent artist, on top of those discussed in
Chapter 8, to have created a feature-length independent animation project with minimal
resources. After having spent 11 years in Tasmania working on TV commercials, the call
to return to something more animation focused saw him move to the United Kingdom for
18 months working for Uli Meyer before winding up in New York, where he, too, caught
the bug to make his own animated feature (there must be something in the water).
Earlier in his career, Elliot had developed Boxhead and Roundhead, a concept for a book
package that failed to generate much by way of interest (Figure 12.2). As it turned out, there

* http://www.elliotelliotelliot.com

Independent Animation 221

proved to be some life and audience appeal in the characters when they were repurposed for
a series of independently animated shorts. Embracing a time- and cost-effective approach to
the animation, The Stressful Adventures of Boxhead and Roundhead would eventually gain
enough momentum to warrant its own longer-form outing (Figure 12.3).
This ultimately led to a slight reworking of the main characters, who had previously
been mute entities. Though the visual style of the shorts worked well enough without dia-
log, to carry anything longer than a few minutes, Boxhead and Roundhead would need
voices and more thoroughly defined characteristics.
“They didn’t speak originally, although in the later shorts, they do what I call ‘indie
speak,’” clarifies Elliot, referring to a nonsense language of murmurs and grunts. ‘They
actually spoke to each other in the books that I had written, but at the time, I had no facil-
ity to record dialog, so I abandoned it initially.
“Originally, they were two very frightened characters that lived in this world where
everybody hates them, but that also developed over time. One thing I was always try-
ing very hard to avoid is, when you have the bossy character and the simple character, it
resembles Ren and Stimpy. I tried very hard to make sure it was not that relationship, that
they were very close, that they needed each other, and that it was a genuine friendship.”
The initial plan when it came to the casting of the full-length film was to use place-
holder voices in anticipation of redubbing the dialog with bigger-name actors down the
line, something that ordinarily would not work given the specific timing traditional lip
sync requires. Though automated dialog replacement is not unheard of in animation, it

Figure 12.3
Still from The Stressful Adventures of Boxhead and Roundhead (Dir. Elliot Cowan). (Courtesy
of Elliot Cowan, ©2014.)

222 12. Casting and Performance

remains a laborious process ordinarily reserved for dubbing films and shows into foreign
languages. The nature of The Stressful Adventures of Boxhead and Roundhead’s uniquely
economic animation process did accommodate this, however, lip sync largely being gen-
erated by single assets, manipulated in rough synchronicity to the dialog of either main
character. The point becomes moot, however, with the fact that no such big-name actors
would come to fill the roles. Instead, Elliot took the reins himself while also taking the risk
of bringing on friends and colleagues:
“I’ve always done some voice-over work, so I knew it was going to be decent enough,
but the plan was always that someone else was going to come and do the work. When
that never happened, I did all the voices except for a few, so my friend Jeremy Beck played
Boxhead, while fellow animator Boris Hiestand and one of my students Carl Doonan also
did voices. In the end, I liked that, and I had lots of experience directing actors, so that
part was easy.”
The fully voiced incarnations of Boxhead and Roundhead serve to match the key
dynamic outlined previously. With Elliot’s performance as Roundhead being a nasal, New
York drawl (“It’s basically Bugs Bunny if you listen to it, actually”), Boxhead needed to
be the straight character that could be played against effectively. With his own particular
approach to voice directing, one that went hand in hand with his hopes for the overall tone
of the film, directing the others proved relatively straightforward.
“I don’t like ‘reads’; I don’t like feeling like the voice-over actors are in a booth, so it was
nice and casual.”
Making use of friends and acquaintances when it comes to your animated projects may
not even be considered a last resort. Not to sell the vastly impressive abilities and perfor-
mance ranges of professional voice-over actors short, but an independent production is sig-
nificantly less likely to require such extreme versatility, and it may very well be the case that
somebody in your life has the chops to bring a particular character of yours to life. As long as
you’re not arbitrarily throwing the part to a boyfriend or girlfriend who can’t act to save their
life out of some sense of obligation, then there’s no harm in canvassing the talent amongst
your friends and colleagues. An earlier case study this brings to mind would be the charac-
terization of Rumpus Animation’s Bertram Fiddle, who has been voiced by Louis Jones (a
fellow animator and creative director/cofounder of the Bristol animation production studio
Sun and Moon,* also known for providing the voice of baby sheep Timmy in the Aardman/
CBeebies preschool series Timmy Time) since the character’s first short film outing in 2007
(Figure 12.4).
“I’ve got quite a good idea of what I want the character to sound like” says creator Seb
Burnett, “but also, when someone starts recording, when they go off on a different tangent
and it feels right, then I just let them go with it. Louis especially will ad-lib a lot. Louis’ are
some of the funniest lines, actually. There are lines where you can sense the joy that he was
having recording it when you listen to it. I think that comes through in the game, the sense
of fun he was having.”
The Adventures of Bertram Fiddle also features a mix of friends, colleagues, and profes-
sional performers mixed together, yet as the acting style the game’s universe demands is
far from subtle or understated, the end result manages to remain consistent (Figure 12.5).

* http://sunandmoonstudios.co.uk

Independent Animation 223

Figure 12.4
Adventurous evolution—the original “Bertram” from The Films of Bertram Fiddle (Dir. Seb
Burnett) next to the character’s eventual Rumpus design. (Courtesy of Seb Burnett, ©2007/
Rumpus Animation, ©2014.)

Figure 12.5
The Adventures of Bertram Fiddle’s “Count Fulchmuckle” (voiced by your humble author).
(Courtesy of Rumpus Animation, ©2014.)

224 12. Casting and Performance

Going Pro
Although St Albans-based Slurpy Studios was still in the earlier phase of building up a
body of work and industry reputation, in the spirit of nothing ventured being nothing
gained, they aimed big when it came to the casting of their independent short film adapta-
tion of The Fearsome Beastie. While spitballing for who would be a fit for the titular role,
Brian Blessed—a staple of British character acting with a propensity toward unmatchable
loudness—came to mind almost immediately. With some persistence, they were able to
get the script to him and bring him on board (Figure 12.6).
Finding a fit for the narration itself proved less immediate and warranted more consid-
ered research. After some time, a short list of suitable female British actors was generated,
with Alison Steadman’s particular delivery style ultimately deemed the most appropriate.
“She did a really good job, in a slightly detached delivery, and that works really well for
us,” recalls creative director Katie Steed. “You can say, ‘He ate them up’ in a really scary
way or in more of a bedtime story way, and I think Alison has that slightly comforting tone
to her voice, and quite melodic as well; it really worked for the part.”
This was in part owed to a notable similarity to Helena Bonham-Carter’s successful
performance in the opening and closing sequences of Magic Light’s The Grufallo, one of
several children’s picture-book adaptations analyzed during the research process.
“The hard thing was finding the voice for the kids,” says the film’s producer Aaron
Wood, “because we’d used this scratch track with someone who worked at Farnham; she
had an alright tone, but it was only a scratch track, so we then had to find somebody who
could play four kids. Three of them are boys, one of them is a girl, so it had to be a female
voice, and looking around for that was quite difficult.”

Figure 12.6
Katie Steed and Aaron Wood of Slurpy Studios with The Fearsome Beastie voice performer
Brian Blessed. (Courtesy of Slurpy Studios.)

Independent Animation 225

After going through several different agencies, contacting individuals directly, and
paying close attention to voice work heard while watching television, they eventually set-
tled on voice-over performer Lizzie Watworth, whose work included multiple characters
for Horrible Henry and the Backyardigans. Her versatility proved such as to fill all the
children’s roles. As the greater percentage of the studio’s commissioned work leaned more
toward corporate and commercial commissions than narrative fiction, by and large, prior
working relationships with voice-over artists were limited to phone and e-mail contact.
The Fearsome Beastie would be the studio’s first instance of directing performances in
person. Certainly, firsthand directing offers numerous benefits, such as the ability to pro-
vide instant feedback and experiment with different approaches to the lines as written.
This proved to be especially the case with Alison, who had the vast majority of the lines.
“With a professional actor like her,” assures Katie, “if you ask for a different take, they
can find so many nuances of the line that you haven’t even thought of, and you can ask for
20 different takes, and they’ll all be completely different. It’s a real skill that you realize
when you work with the pros.”
In the previous chapter, we learned about Teeth from Holbrooks Films and how its
uncompromising and brutal visuals have proved strangely appealing to audiences world-
wide (Figure 12.7). Finding the right voice for the film’s challenging yet compelling story
of a man obsessed by the functionality of his teeth was crucial, and success was found
through English actor Richard E. Grant, known for such iconic roles in cinema as the titu-
lar Withnail of Withnail and I (Dir. Bruce Robinson, 1987). Securing such a high-profile
name for a relatively independent outfit such as Holbrooks was mainly attributed to taking
the direct approach, as codirector Daniel Gray recalls.
“We didn’t have any money, obviously, so we phoned his voice-over agent. Phones, by
the way, are very good if you want people to respond—e-mail is fine, but with a phone call,
you can ask them what you want directly, and they have to at least talk about it. A phone
call is worth about 10 e-mails; seriously, it’s just so much easier. So we phoned up, and we

Figure 12.7
Still from Teeth (Dir. Tom Brown/Daniel Gray). (Courtesy of Holbrooks/Blacklist, ©2015.)

226 12. Casting and Performance

explained the project, that we had no funding; can we at least just get it in front of Richard
E. Grant? That way, if he likes it, we can try to come to an agreement.”
Given the nature of the film’s dialog being all narration, without cause for any lip sync,
Holbrooks were able to complete the bulk of the production before making this approach.
As such, presenting a near-final version of Teeth, with finished picture, sound design, and
a scratch track for the eventual narration, clearly communicated the film’s intent and
value. As such, Grant was easily swayed to be involved and lend his voice to the project.
“We came to an agreement for a piecemeal amount of money, and he came and recorded
it. He was an absolute pro; we could have used the first take, really, but he did about four
or five in the end.”
Though he is a well-known actor on UK shores, Grant’s performance in the film is not
instantly identifiable. Far from a simple recitation of the script’s narration as written, the
unnamed protagonist (for lack of a more apropos term) is imbued with a husky melan-
cholia, the abstract logic of his obsession tinged with ambivalent emotions. It is a fully
charged performance, yet not remotely over the top. This is doubtless owed to Grant’s
long years of professional experience lending him an intuitive sense of character, despite
the shortness of the film’s length and the time available to record. Looking back, Daniel
remembers that it took minimal direction to bring this fullness of performance to the fore.
“The first time he read it through it was really nice; we could have used that easily. Then
we asked if he could sound a bit tired and a bit old, and then he suddenly was!”
The end result undeniably makes an already strong film stronger and further strength-
ens the case for reaching out to a performer if you instinctually feel they are right for a
film, no matter how unattainable they may seem. Generally speaking, for a lot of actors,
animation can hold a certain degree of appeal and has an edge over other forms of inde-
pendent film in a lot of respects. These include easier hours, no costume or makeup con-
cerns, and far less waiting around while technical issues are being ironed out, as would
be experienced on a live-action set. As such, the seemingly impossible “gets” of the acting
world may be a lot more within reach than expected.
A similar case study is that of Dutch animator, filmmaker, and storyteller Rosto, an
artist whose output spans multiple narrative strands that, by and large, are all ultimately
tied to the online graphic novel web series Mind My Gap. The extent of this elaborate,
mixed-media universe and its associated spinoff galaxies will be explored more fully in
Chapter 15, though one of its less direct extensions is the 2011 half-hour independent
short film project The Monster of Nix. The film, a story within a story of the mysterious
Langemanne and troubled youngster Willy, originates from earlier projects such as the
short films Beheaded (1999) and Jona/Tomberry (2005). It is also unique amongst Rosto’s
projects as being intended for a younger audience, primarily a dark fairy tale rather than
the intense and hallucinogenic work he is otherwise known for.
“I considered The Monster of Nix a children’s film because I did it for my son, who was
my biggest fan at the time. He wanted to know everything about the Langemanne: who the
forest creatures were who pop up in Mind My Gap and Jona/Tomberry. I had millions of
stories to tell about them, because these universes are real—not externally, but inside me,
all these stories exist. I often don’t use them in my films as narrative elements but more
as snippets from those universes, but in this case, I literally wanted to tell Max, my son, a
Langemanne story. So The Monster of Nix is related to Mind My Gap, but not part of the
canon, so to speak.”

Independent Animation 227

Afforded some visibility and legitimacy by the festival success of earlier projects such
as (The Rise and Fall of the Legendary) Anglobilly Feverson (2002) and No Place Like Home
(2009), The Monster of Nix also boasts an impressive roster of voice talents such as Tom
Waits, Terry Gilliam, and Olivia Merilahti of European indie band The Dø. Securing such
high-profile talent was more a matter of effective networking and mutual artistic apprecia-
tion than anything else, with Rosto having met Terry Gilliam in the States while touring
with Anglobilly Feverson (“which was very serendipitous, because I was actually looking for
him”). Enamored of the film, the two maintained a friendly correspondence that made a
voice role on The Monster of Nix a relatively easy sell when it came around, despite having
not provided voices for animation since his own animated contributions to Monty Python.
“I asked Gilliam because I thought his voice was made for this role.” Rosto elaborates on the
film’s official website, “He felt rather uncomfortable about the singing. And that’s exactly
how I wanted this character to sound: scared and insecure. The poor bastard suffered, but I
got exactly what I wanted.”
The notion of having Tom Waits supply the voice of Virgil S. Horn (Mind My Gap’s pri-
mary recurring antagonist) was an unexpected bonus, especially when considering that
the character’s grand and darkly theatrical nature was largely inspired by the performance
style of Waits himself.
“Virgil is both the God and the devil of this universe,” Rosto expounds. “He created it,
basically, which is why Virgil in the films has my face. I first create my characters, I then
create settings for them, and then I have awful things happen to them, because otherwise, it
wouldn’t be interesting. So Virgil is my alter ego, although in the films, he’s like an über ver-
sion of me. He has a bigger nose; he’s taller and lankier. However, the character’s voice in Mind
My Gap isn’t me; it’s actually another actor doing the voice, but we always had Tom Waits as
a reference, this sort of gravelly voice with a slight Romanian, Eastern European accent.”
With the premise of The Monster of Nix partially removed from the canonical events of
Mind My Gap, Virgil’s depiction as voiced by Waits is notably different, portrayed not as
a sinister, puppeteering deity but his spirit animal, “a giant swallow who hates being in a
children’s film, because he considers himself an artiste” (Figure 12.8).
“I didn’t originally want to write the music for Nix, so I was experimenting with several
other composers to see if they could write parts—or maybe all—of the soundtrack. For
Virgil, I actually originally got in touch with Tom to see if he could write the leitmotif for
that character, and maybe do the voice as well. For good reasons, I ended up writing the
music myself, but we stayed in touch regarding the voice, because I didn’t know at the time
when the production would begin.”
Once the film was green-lit, Waits readily agreed to lend his voice to the character.
Despite being facilitated by various streams of government funding, it remained a small-
scale production with actors’ fees generously waived so that the animators and artists
brought on would not have to have their wages further compromised.
“It’s amazing to see that so many people worked for free—or for not nearly enough.
Nobody actually got what they deserved on this project, so artists like Terry, Tom, and
Olivia—or The Residents, for that matter—all worked for free on the project. I wouldn’t
feel comfortable giving the actors a lot of money with some of my animators working
for practically nothing; that would be totally out of balance. Fortunately, this was never
actually a discussion; they actually proposed that I spend my money on people who really
needed it, rather than on those who have a career and money in the bank already.”

228 12. Casting and Performance

Figure 12.8
“Willy” meets “Virgil” (voiced by Tom Waits) in The Monster of Nix (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of
Studio Rosto A.D./Cinete/Autour de Minuit, ©2011.)

This generosity is not to suggest that the work and skill set of a voice performer is less
artistically valuable than others who work on a film of this nature, but circumstantially
speaking, it holds some water, especially when considering the actual time and labor
involved. There is an obvious disparity between a handful of days working on voice-over
(VO) for a project and the untold hours its crew of animators and artists will then spend
bringing the performance to life. One certainly shouldn’t approach a big name with the
intention of getting free work out of them, but, in a similar way to Holbrooks and Slurpy’s
respective arrangements, one might be pleasantly surprised by the level of compromise
that can be achieved by pitching a project idea with all of its budgetary limitations worn
on its sleeve.
How you go about sourcing your voice cast is going to depend largely on exactly what
type of production you are putting together—whether your film requires singing, narra-
tion, passion, high comedy, low comedy, understated nuance, or pantomime theatrics is
something to bear in mind when researching available options, as a performer who will
shine in one arena won’t necessarily be able to bring much to another. From their experi-
ence producing both commercial work and creative projects, Aaron and Katie of Slurpy
Studios can acknowledge a contrast between their experience directing the voices for The
Fearsome Beastie and a more corporate project:
“For corporate films, you get what you expect; they’re very quick at turning things
around, and they must audition for hundreds of jobs, because every time we put a job up,
we get 60–70 applications and have to pick one,” says Katie.
“The other thing is that we don’t make the decisions,” adds Aaron, “so we just
have to put the audition up, get a lot of voices, make a short list, and send them on
to the client, whereas I think if you’re casting for a short film, you’re living that film

Independent Animation 229

so much more. You’re in its head, and it’s in yours; you can hear the voices clearly, so
you know what you want with a short film. With commercial projects, it’s much more
client based.”
“Also, with The Fearsome Beastie, there was a slight element of wanting a name,”
explains Katie, “because our name obviously isn’t going to sell a film, and the book—
although it’s a great book, we think—might not either. But with Brian Blessed and Alison
Steadman’s names on the poster, that does help sell it.”
With this undeniable perk in mind, one should also not enter into this type of an
arrangement with the expectation that a recognizable name on a poster will automatically
increase the perception of the film’s audience appeal by association.
“I didn’t really want to exploit the fact that I had these amazing guys working on the
film,” says Rosto of his choice casting for—and subsequent promotion of—The Monster
of Nix. “It felt very cheap to me that I would put on a poster, ‘Look! There’s Tom Waits!
There’s Terry Gilliam!’ So I underplayed it a lot, as I had wanted to work with these guys
because of who they were and what they would bring. But to see how little people actually
noticed was slightly disappointing to me, at the time.”
Fortunately, in the case of the examples we’ve explored in this segment, these casting
choices were successful in so much as they manage to enhance the quality of the film from
an artistic standpoint, rather than arbitrarily or cynically slapping a weak performance
from a known celebrity onto a film’s press kit. The major trap to avoid is the assumption
that a film will automatically become more worthwhile through its voice cast (to hammer
this point home, go ahead and look up the trailer for the 2012 film Foodfight!).
Adam Elliot’s films have frequently boasted impressive casts, including Harvie Krumpet
narrator Geoffrey Rush, Mary and Max narrator Barry Humphries, not to mention Mary
and Max themselves, voiced by Toni Collette and the late Philip Seymour Hoffman,
respectively. While these are tremendously accomplished names, the motivations for their
use are miles away from the tendency in mainstream Hollywood features to cast which-
ever A-lister du jour is likely to have the most pulling power on a film’s poster. In Adam’s
case, the performers chosen are sought after not because of their marketing potential,
but because they are an ideal fit for the role.* Once one has seen the performances Philip
Seymour Hoffman and Toni Collette deliver in the finished film, it is impossible to imag-
ine the characters played by anyone else. By comparison, many other films with broader
subject matter and less developed characters tend to boast ensemble casts that are, for the
most part, interchangeable.
“Usually, by the second or third draft, I start to hear a voice in my head. It might be
because that particular actor is popular at the time. For Harvie Krumpet, at that particular
time, Geoffrey Rush was everywhere, so his voice stuck in my head. With Philip Seymour
Hoffman, he was not the narrator, but his voice was probably the strongest in the film”
(Figure 12.9).
Adam’s fondness for the Todd Solondz 1998 classic Happiness, coupled with Hoffman’s
recent Oscar-winning turn in Bennett Miller’s Capote (2005), firmly positioned the actor
as a frontrunner for Max. With a particular gift for playing the tortured, damaged, and
lovelorn, no other performer could hope to bring out the quiet, subdued tragedy of Max’s

* It’s especially fortuitous when a big name can both increase a film’s potential marketability and be an ideal fit
for the film, as with the earlier case study of Slurpy Studios’ Fearsome Beastie adaptation.

230 12. Casting and Performance

Figure 12.9
“Harvie” character sculpt for Adam Elliot’s Harvie Krumpet. (Courtesy of Adam Elliot, ©2015.)

perpetually lonesome existence, nor the glimmers of hope and depths of despair his episto-
lary relationship with his Australian pen pal Mary bring about. Whether a major feature or
student short, the principles behind Adam’s casting choices have always remained the same.
“With my earlier films, what I’ve always gone for with the narrators in particular are
people whose voices aren’t necessarily obvious or immediately recognizable, but have a
tone or a timbre to them that is immediately likable, not saccharine or overbearing. I really
like the narrators to be anonymous—which is what a narrator is, an anonymous voice—
but a comforting, authentic, believable voice, almost so that in the cinema, the narrator is
sitting just behind you, almost whispering into your ear as you’re watching a film, so that
you sort of forget that he or she is there, guiding you along.”
Narration is a device a lot of filmmakers use, and one that receives some criticism, as
touched upon in earlier chapters. More to the point, it’s a device that Adam as a writer
enjoys, and as he sees it, if it works, then why not use it? The narration used in Adam’s
films is far from a crutch, nor is it overbearing, only ever contributing to the emotion of a
scene rather than distracting from it.

Independent Animation 231

“My narrators have all been different people, and certainly, some of them have
started to ‘act’ in certain scenes—Geoffrey Rush became quite Shakespearian in one
rehearsal—where I’ve had to try and pull them back. I always have to say to them,
‘Look, I don’t want you to act; just pretend we’re in a bar at 3 a.m. and you’re telling me
about this uncle you have, or this pen pal you’ve got.’ I really want them to be believable
and authentic.”
One detail that critics of Adam’s work have picked up on is the absence of any strong
female leading roles, as well as his tendency to favor male narrators.
“I don’t know why all my protagonists have been men. Mary in Mary and Max is sort of
an exception, and the other women in my films tend to die or be tragic figures or be very
one-dimensional and superficial. I’ve been called a misogynist quite a few times, but it’s
not like I’m thinking of gender at all. This sounds pretentious, but I think the narrator is
actually my inner voice.”
Given the consideration that has gone into each film and their outright refusal to cod-
dle a broad audience by using safe subject matter, the gender issue seems more a semantic
argument. I wouldn’t make such a facile social statement as to claim that misogyny doesn’t
exist in any industry, but the label of “misogynist” as occasionally leveled against Adam
by his critics doesn’t quite compute. In truth, the answer is simply that as the narrators of
all his films are extensions of this inner voice, they’re more likely to share his own gender.
The door is certainly open for more female characters with extra dimensionality when it
comes to Adam’s forthcoming projects.* As it happens, had the original script for Ernie
Biscuit not wound up so heavily abridged, this would have already been the case.
“I certainly have got ideas of making films about female characters, whether or not
the narrator is male or female. In the feature film script for Ernie Biscuit, Angelina was
a much more dimensional character. She had a longer backstory; she really was far more
melodramatic and tragic and eccentric, so it’s a shame that with Ernie Biscuit the short, I
couldn’t really develop her character more. I think that she subconsciously will reappear
somewhere down the track, in another screenplay somewhere. I don’t know where she
came from, Angelina, but I think she will reappear.
“Actors do understand that directors know what’s best for their stories, as an auteur
filmmaker, and sometimes—most of the time—I think I make the right decision, and it’s
hard to tell some actors what to do, but so, far so good; they’ve all been, nearly all of them
have been well-behaved and trusting.”
What essentially set the tone, on one level or another, for all of Adam’s subsequent films
was the casting choice for the narrator of his very first outing, the 1996 student short film
Uncle.
“Originally, I was such a control freak and megalomaniac that I wanted to narrate my
very first film, my student film Uncle, but the lecturers said, ‘No, no, Adam; you can’t act,
you’ve got a squeaky voice, and you’ll ruin the film! You’ve got to get a real actor.’ ”
Adam was pointed in the direction of Queensland-born actor William McInnes, a
friend of the course lecturer then known primarily for portraying a senior constable on
the Australian drama series Blue Heelers.

* Though it cannot be denied that there is a skew toward male protagonists when it comes to film in general, as
highlighted by the Bechdel–Wallace test, for example, this oversaturation might be worth considering when
developing your own characters and story ideas.

232 12. Casting and Performance

“I thought, No, I don’t want a cop; that’s too macho. I want somebody who’s got a poetic,
tender tone to their voice. She twisted my arm, and he came in and, of course, was fantastic.
Then he ended up in the next two parts of the trilogy.
“I still feel that I don’t really direct the actors much; I give them a lot of freedom and
room for spontaneity and improvisation because, again, I don’t want them to ‘act.’ Often,
we’ll just get the actor in with very little rehearsal time, and we just let them talk. We
record everything—we record the rehearsals, outtakes, anything that comes out—and
then we piece it all together.
“I know most animators record the voices first, but I record them last; I let the anima-
tion sort of tell the narrator the tone of each shot and scene, unless it’s lip sync—but my
films don’t have much lip sync in them, so I have that luxury of showing the actors what
they have done and letting them gauge the tone of their own performance. So they sort of
self-direct, in many ways.”
More than anything, the goal should always be to try and achieve a result that is believ-
able and authentic, be it the unobtrusive, soft spoken narration of William McInnes evok-
ing Adam himself or Philip Seymour Hoffman’s gruff, at-times-distressed characterization
of New Yorker Max evoking the real-life pen pal on whom he was based. Suspension of
disbelief is a difficult enough proposition when working in live action, and an animated
film will carry with it the added battle of getting your audience to engage with “this blob
of Plasticine,” in Adam’s words. When your blob is victorious, the intention is for the audi-
ence to rejoice along with it; when it dies, you want your audience to be moved. The skill
of the animation itself can certainly cover some of the ground, but the competence of your
voice actor can either make or break your characters’ believability.

Independent Animation 233

13
Thinking Outside the Light Box

Still from Submarine Sandwich (Dir. PES). (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

At the risk of sounding like the type of haggard old bore who sits rocking on his porch while
nursing his inclement weather-detecting joint pains: the times, they are a-changing. As touched
upon in several prior chapters, independent animators are expected to perform to significantly

235
increased expectations as far as presentation, originality, and overall content of their work. If
your film will truly resonate, it will be down to one of two things:

1. The stars aligning in the most gloriously unpredictable way imaginable, where by
happenstance, every stage of production comes off without a hitch and the final
product communicates the genius of your work to a broad audience the moment
it’s put out into the world.
2. The comparatively less exciting prospect of heavily researching your proposed
audience needs beforehand and reconciling yourself with the often excruciating
and stressful juggling act of catering to the hypothetical masses while maintain-
ing your core ideas and creative integrity.

So if you’re confident the first will pan out for you (good luck with that), mazel tov in
advance, and you need read no further.
It’s not completely out of the realm of possibility, sure, but it might not be the most real-
istic outcome to depend on. As for the seemingly dull second option—well, there’s actually
quite a lot to get enthusiastic about, so buck up and get happy. To keep up with the folks
who are putting out work that jolt festival, online, and television audiences awake, the
main thing to try and stay aware of is how exactly audiences and consumers are relating to
new media, and how this directly informs the filmmaking process.
The main spirit of this book, above all else, is to help animation filmmakers real-
ize their full potential. Let’s take pause before I continue: The phrase “realize your full
potential” probably rings familiar, for good reason—it’s bandied about as something of a
catchall in the vast world of “motivational” literature, the kind of phrase that, in its vague-
ness, comes across as all the more accessible. It has many brothers designed to similarly
stir up the “get up and go” of its audience—“Be all you can be”; “Take control of your
destiny”; “MANIFEST”! It makes my fingers ache to even type this kind of thing. Yet,
fundamentally, the reason why these are so prevalent in literature is that they do yield vis-
ible, if largely superficial, results. Positive thinking, clearheadedness, and determination
do, generally speaking, assist tremendously in achieving certain life goals, and books on
the subject fly off the shelves, so I’m in no position to besmirch them. Obviously, if I did
have a book in me on the path to self-actualization, the road to spiritual fulfillment, or the
expressway to emotional empowerment, this wouldn’t be it.
So sticking to independent animation, what exactly do I mean by “full potential” when
it comes to your work?
Ultimately, it’s what differentiates two main attitudes about filmmaking—the “nailed
it!” attitude and the “that’ll do” attitude.

The “That’ll Do” Attitude

How many times have you seen a film—be it short, feature-length, independent, commer-
cial or otherwise—that just sort of happens by? It may raise a smile, it may even engage you
in the moment, but once it’s over, there’s nothing about it that lingers with you.
I’m not going to lie: as a freelancer, I’ve not only witnessed directors succumb to this
attitude in order to appease a client and meet a deadline; I’ve done it myself. As a director
of my own films, I can appreciate moments in hindsight where significant improvements

236 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

could have been made to a scene’s timing, a line record, layout, musical choices, and of
course, the animation itself (man alive, this last one can sting). Even the best animators
who would leave the likes of me in the dust would—and should—regard their previous
work with a critical eye. We learn best from our own shortcomings, and the biggest lam-
entation an animator will have about their own work is “Why didn’t I redo that bit?”
Therein lies the difference: in the moment, we may have just been so sick of the frame,
the shot—or the entire universe that the film itself takes place in—that we only had
the energy to get through it and move onto the next scene. Once we hit the “that’ll do”
moment, it can be the most tempting thing in the world to just move on.

The “Nailed It!” Attitude

This, predictably, is the hallmark of a filmmaker who doesn’t succumb to said temptation.
The filmmaker who takes a step back and acknowledges that more can be done to achieve
perfection, even if that only amounts to erasing a flaw that might otherwise haunt them.
Give this matter some thought. Mull over the animators, directors, writers et al. who
have had a lasting effect on you. Why can’t you get that scene, or line of dialog, or musical
cue out of your head? In the independent world, there are plenty of people who come to
mind who so epitomize the “nailed it!” approach, though naturally, their work will seem
flawed and riddled with inadequacies through their own eyes; such is the nature of this
particular beast. Certain filmmakers produce work of such across-the-board satisfaction
that pretty much everyone will take notice (Figure 13.1).
One such artist is Adam Pesapane, whose work put out under the moniker PES started
strong, from the early days of his 2001 film Roof Sex, which depicted little more than ani-
mated furniture rutting on a rooftop (Figure 13.2). The overriding silliness of the concept

Figure 13.1
Still from Submarine Sandwich (Dir. PES). (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 237

Figure 13.2
Still from Roof Sex (Dir. PES). (Courtesy of PES, ©2002.)

was made authentic, innocuous, and humorous in a way that endeared him instantly to
audiences of all types. There’s nothing perceivably dirty about the film, the attention to
detail of the movement relating the cavorting furniture to animals in the wild (on the
street, even) rather than any kind of threatening or debauched behavior. Yet so easily, an
idea of this kind could misfire if in the wrong hands, or executed with a more lacklus-
ter attitude. Comedic animation that relies on its subject matter alone oftentimes means
that the animation itself is rendered crudely or hurriedly; not so with Roof Sex. PES’s
animation style and, perhaps most importantly, beautifully observed timing elevate the
film as something noteworthy. The same applies to the greater part of his filmography,
which includes Game Over (2006), a montage of familiar retro video game scenarios rec-
reated using household objects; Kaboom! (2004), in which a military air strike is similarly
conveyed using trinkets and other found miscellany; and his “Food Trilogy” of Western
Spaghetti (2008), Fresh Guacamole (2012), and Submarine Sandwich (2014), whose fund-
ing circumstances we touched upon in Chapter 9.
As is often the case, PES first acknowledged a sense of the greater impact his film work
had on the world through their online viral success, especially when considering he was
not the source.
“At the time of Game Over, I was just releasing them as QuickTime files on my website,
and this amazing thing happened where people just came to the site, ripped the files, and
threw them up on YouTube. At any given moment, you could look on YouTube and see a
hundred different versions of Game Over.”
The film had amassed millions upon millions of hits spread out over its multiple post-
ings. Acknowledging that the online video craze was not about to die away any time soon,
PES made the executive decision to release his own work via his own channel, ideally as a
means to steer the public toward his other work, while at the very least guaranteeing they
would be of an ideal quality standard.

238 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

“Once I launched my channel, the very first film that got into that viral territory was
Western Spaghetti. I was going on vacation over the 4th of July 2008 and was scrambling
to get this thing online so I could go relax for a couple days; I must have posted it around
4 a.m. I was off onto my vacation the day after when all the e-mails started coming in, so I
was totally out of the house for the whole weekend, at the beach. My e-mail was completely
shut down because of how many people and how many messages were coming through for
that film; I had so many calls coming in on the phone, so much immediate response, that
it really became its own monster online.”
While it would be impossible to quantify precisely how many hits earlier shorts such
as Roof Sex or Kaboom! may have had, the decision to release work personally ensured a
means of determining each subsequent film’s level of popularity and audience engagement.
“I would say what’s fascinating about Western Spaghetti is that it actually got more hits
per year 6 years on than it did the first year. Obviously, the explosion of social media since
2008 is responsible for some of that, but it is nice to see that people are still finding value
to these films (Figure 13.3). I hope they continue to do that for a long time.
“The success of Western Spaghetti is more of a personal thing; I found that the substi-
tution of objects as something I like to do fit really snugly with the cooking film genre,
which is very ingredient focused by nature. I was really pleased with the way that it was
this nice little place for those ideas to live, as I had been sitting on a lot of the ideas seen
in Western Spaghetti—sticky notes as butter, rubber bands as spaghetti—for awhile, not
knowing what to do with them, so I gravitated towards the cooking show genre and went
from there.”
Though it was certainly helped by the encouraging response, the motivation to con-
tinue more crucially came from still more cooking-oriented film ideas. Taking inspiration
from all around him, the basic concept of the second “Food Trilogy” short came from a
pondering of the visual similarities between avocados and hand grenades while grocery
shopping. Having recently moved to California and feeling compelled to stray from his
Italian roots for a second culinary outing, PES traveled to Mexico to research recipes and
develop his next idea.

Figure 13.3
Still from Western Spaghetti (Dir. PES). (Courtesy of PES, ©2008.)

Independent Animation 239

“There’s something in my brain where I fall in love with these ideas so much that I need
to get them out into the world, so I set about making Fresh Guacamole coming from that
seed of avocados and grenades. Okay, what do you make with avocados? Guacamole!”
As with Western Spaghetti, and indeed all of his popular work, Fresh Guacamole makes
inspired use of household objects substituting ingredients, chosen for their visual resem-
blance and animated in such a way as to suspend disbelief entirely. The audience’s brain
knows on a literal level that they are seeing Christmas lights being chopped into an assort-
ment of Monopoly houses, but they understand on a contextual level that they are in fact
seeing peppers.
“I’ve almost thought of myself as a documentary filmmaker in some respects; it’s just
that I’m making these documentaries on the absurd. Even if it’s two chairs having sex,
you’ll notice all these films are shot very much as though I believe wholeheartedly that
they’re happening. I want my audience to take it as if I’m really cooking this (rubber band)
pasta. Kaboom! is basically like a history channel show, just with child’s objects, and it’s
the sort of believability that I approach ideas with that heightens the absurdity and per-
haps the response to it” (Figure 13.4).
Real life consistently plays a role in the authenticity and believability of his visuals. Just
as a character animator might study live performance or documentary footage for refer-
ence, so that their work can faithfully replicate a realistic style of movement, it’s the exam-
ination of how real-life objects look, sound, and interact with each other that makes his
work shine. Even when considering a film such as Game Over, which entirely references
video game sprite animation, anyone of a certain age who experienced playing the games
referenced firsthand will acknowledge a truly impressive fidelity to the timing, framing,
and even sense of mounting anxiety.
“Although there was really nothing to study in two chairs having sex, it really was just
a sort of rhythm thing—how many frames forward or how many frames back in order
to get that right. But with Game Over, I used an emulator on my computer to record

Figure 13.4
Still from Kaboom! (Dir. PES). (Courtesy of PES, ©2004.)

240 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

sequences of these famous arcade games and study them: how many frames does it take
Pac-Man to die at the end, or what’s the hold before the frog jumps each time? So I stud-
ied these things and broke them down to understand how many frames were used in the
real game, so it was dead-on accurate when it comes to movement. It wasn’t rotoscoped; I
really just sort of studied the games so much that I understood what had to happen, then
just recreated it.
“A film like Game Over is really built on my perception that what we remember most
about these games is not all the wins we had but that thing that just drove you crazy,
whether it was shooting centipedes down and then the spider just comes out of nowhere,
or in Space Invaders, how even if you kill all the aliens so that you only have one left, he
would come all the way down and get you. In stringing these famous death sequences
together, it was the notion that it was more memorable for how you died than how you
lived; that was really the concept there.”
To achieve the desired result is not just a matter of simply scooping up as many trinkets
and pieces of household debris as possible and moving them around, as many PES imita-
tors have demonstrated while effectively failing to grasp the central binding premise of
his work. Ultimately, the choice of props and items boils down to what he equates with
an elaborate casting session, one that can be held for months at a time, often branch-
ing off from one initial idea. As with the avocado/grenade epiphany that inspired Fresh
Guacamole, the third film of the “Food Trilogy,” eventually dubbed Submarine Sandwich,
similarly took shape around an initial visual concept PES had envisioned, of putting a
boxing glove inside a deli meat slicer (Figure 13.5).
“I thought that was a really tantalizing image; boxing gloves always seem like cold cuts
or fine Italian meats, so to speak, and putting them knuckle first toward the blade created
a certain sort of palpable feeling.” What followed was a series of musings on what could
come out the other side, the “meat slices,” effectively. This automatically narrowed down
the variety of suitable objects to the very small and thin, such as patches, doilies, and in
one particularly inspired instance, View-Master reels (produced when the “meat” being

Figure 13.5
Submarine Sandwich concept artwork. (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 241

sliced is a British soccer ball). The limitations of shape and size proved challenging, and
inevitably, some ideas come across stronger than others. “But at the end of the day, I have
to go with what I think is the best decision I can make at any given time. So there may
have been multiple ‘actors’ considered for the role of onion rings, but in the end, a slinky
gets the job.”
“I guess a lot of people don’t realize how much thought and how much work goes into
trying to decide or uncover those associations—sometimes, a great idea will strike you
like a lightning bolt. If you recall, in Western Spaghetti, I used dice as sugar cubes, but
the connection there really stopped at a look-alike level. Somewhere in between there and
Fresh Guacamole, I realized that a better idea would be to use dice for dicing—because
that’s what we say; we dice a tomato, and we dice an onion. Then it became a question of
whether or not, having used it as a sugar cube, could I use it again as something totally
different? Of course, the decision I made was, ‘Yes, I have to choose the best thing for
every film,’ so I chose that for that dicing sequence—literally the exact same dice to create
something totally different.”
This practice extends to all manner of objects, from the obscure to the instantly iden-
tifiable; flames, oftentimes, are represented as the iconic American candy corn, boiling
water as bubble wrap, while a sliced lime can be make up of Trivial Pursuit playing pieces
encased in a golf ball.
“I have a particular fascination for these strange objects that have so woven themselves
into our lives that we almost stop questioning them.”
The “Food Trilogy” also incorporates a pixilation component, in which PES’s own
hands are visibly part of the process, animated (with the assistance of Javan Ivey in Western
Spaghetti and Dillon Markey in Fresh Guacamole and Submarine Sandwich) alongside the
objects in the same stop-motion fashion (Figure 13.6).

Figure 13.6
Still from Submarine Sandwich (Dir. PES). (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

242 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

“There’s really two components to the animation in these films—one is the animation
of the hands, which is me, and all the subtleties there that are required to make it feel
believable and not ugly. Then of course, all the animation of objects that are based around
my hands requires a partner, a teammate in the production. It’s totally different to a film
like Game Over where you just have your objects and don’t need anybody else; this is more
like two people who have to get on the same wavelength for months. Dillon and I had
succeeded with Fresh Guacamole; he understands my tastes and things that I’m usually
seeking to achieve in my animation; he’s become a great partner in that respect.”
When closing out his trilogy with Submarine Sandwich, PES himself is seen fully
onscreen as the pixilated owner of a deli, a setting he had aspired to set the film in for
some time beforehand, as made clear in Chapter 9.
“This film really started with a simple idea of how old athletic equipment always
reminded me so much of cold cuts that I started envisioning a deli case full of these things,
a sort of ‘meat locker,’ so to speak, a cross between an athletic locker room and a deli,
which was just an idea that occurred to me. I then started working on not just making a
ham sandwich, but something bigger, a submarine sandwich.”
Having procured the deli case of his traditional Italian culture–steeped dreams, the
vision for the film expanded to logically set it inside a realistic deli environment. With the
notion of an on-location shoot rendered impossible by the production lengths and overall
demands of the animation itself, PES set about building an authentic backdrop himself,
choosing to favor authentic set dressing over generic Hollywood prop house fare.
“It’s just my nature to craft a space and make it personal, so I thought to myself, This
is gonna be the only time I’m making a deli in my life, as far as I know; why not make it
that place that feels like a home to me? If I were to have a deli, this is what it would look
like; it would have busts of the patron saints Dante and Beatrice and pictures of the
Pantheon in Rome. That was the fun of it, for me, was making the space with all these
old signs, which are all real. I sourced those objects from around the world, from flea
markets to Craigslist to eBay. It made for a much bigger build—Fresh Guacamole and
Western Spaghetti were purely tabletop films, and this one made use of a whole space. I
don’t think it makes the film any better for that reason; it was just what felt right for this
particular idea.”
There is certainly an element of the abstract in PES’s films, in spite of being very simple
to interpret and comprehend. As with other work we have discussed that could be labeled
“experimental,” without this structural foothold, the films could very easily fall apart.
PES’s filmography, and ultimately the reason why I feel he makes the most fitting case
study for this chapter, serves to hammer home the duality of style and substance; all too
often, they are looked upon as being mutually exclusive.
“All the things that people say you always need for a successful film—characters, a
story—I don’t really buy that. If you can create a system where viewers want to know
simply what happens next, if you can tap into that desire, then you have a short film, some-
thing equally viable in the world.
“I’m a big believer in traditional structures. I spend a lot of time working on trying
to find a structure for my film that feels like it has that beginning, middle, and end. I’m
always looking for that inevitable conclusion to a film that feels like it had to go there, yet
is not quite expected. With Submarine Sandwich, for instance, the big idea for me is in
hiding the submarine itself until the very end (Figure 13.7).

Independent Animation 243

Figure 13.7
Submarine Sandwich poster. (Courtesy of PES, ©2014.)

“Transitionally, I might say I would start the film by picking my bread out, cutting it,
and putting it down without revealing the submarine, as I had this notion that if I held it to
the end, it would be more of a satisfying conclusion. Almost all my films have that priority
on the ending, that sort of exclamation point at the end that makes watching the entire
thing essential, or you miss out. There’s all sorts of different examples of that, such as Fresh
Guacamole, with the chip being dipped and cracked at the end. I think when I animate
objects, people are used to looking at certain structures that are familiar in one way, and
then all of a sudden, I do something different with them; there’s a sort of unexpected qual-
ity that makes people want to know what happens next.”
While it is never fair to expect an artist to choose a favorite piece of work, when objec-
tively assessing his back catalog to date, PES is able to impartially acknowledge one film in
particular that fired on the most cylinders at once.
“I think Fresh Guacamole was one of those ideas that worked out particularly well; the
puzzle of it fell together in a ‘total’ way that I have a particular fondness for. I’m too close
to Submarine Sandwich to truly evaluate it fairly, but the nature of using a deli slicer was
the challenge, because with a knife—which Fresh Guacamole is really about, a knife—
there was a little bit more transformative magic. A deli slicer is more challenging in that

244 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

it’s almost like having two rooms separated by a wall, seeing what comes out on one side.
It’s magical but not maybe as magical as some of those instances in Fresh Guacamole
where the knife comes down and the objects become something different, but that’s just
me evaluating my own work. I think Fresh Guacamole just all worked out in the best pos-
sible way.”
A seemingly indefatigable mainstay of the independent scene has, for decades, been film
festivals, for fairly obvious reasons. The right festival can provide filmmakers with invalu-
able exposure, networking opportunities, and direct communication with a live audience
to get a true sense of their artistic worth. There’s no better context for a filmmaker to find
out whether they have succeeded in impacting their audience than in a packed cinema,
nor to determine precisely what form their audience will take. My own festival experience
has shone a spotlight on the incongruities between the reaction I’d imagine a film might
have and the realities of the matter; as someone who hopes his films will be funny, I can
attest that it’s a grounding experience to witness a moment you might assume had great
comedic mileage play to silence, only for a throwaway gag you had never thought twice
about beforehand to bring down the house. Naturally, as with everything, there are many
factors to be weighed against one another when it comes to festivals, something that will
be explored further in Chapter 21, but a general home truth in this industry is that mass
festival selection of a film is ordinarily a hallmark of its quality.
So how do you make a festival-worthy film? What do festival programmers look for in
shorts that make them stand out? The best way to determine the answers to these is to seek
insight from festival programmers themselves about what they look for and how they go
about it.

Standout Animation: Programmers’ Perspectives

Following an initial round where three key staff from a festival organization look over all
the short film submissions, hundreds—or even thousands—of entered films are whittled
down by eliminating films that don’t fit the criteria outlined in the festival regulations
or are downright unwatchable, at which point the festival’s artistic director(s)’ role in
the second round comes into play. In discussions between the director and preselection
committee, final decisions are made as to which films are eligible to screen, which are
eligible to compete, and what category of screening they belong to. Unfortunately for
filmmakers, uncontrollable issues such as timing and circumstances can be a major fac-
tor in whether a film is relevant or a fit for that year’s edition of the festival it has been
submitted to. In my experience, a handful of major festivals have included my auteur
work alongside major studio productions for thematically-grouped screenings, where the
tone or genre of my work happened to fit in with a festival’s mission statement. Other
factors include the prominence of certain stylistic or genre-centric trends in the anima-
tion industry.
Oftentimes, a festival has several screening categories for both shorts and features.
Panoramas are helpful for filmmakers who wish to get exposure on an international level
or the kudos of festival association, though it is inevitably the competition screenings that
are most coveted. Next, we will take a look at two festivals with their own distinct iden-
tities and approaches to animation curation to give an idea of what makes a film “pop”
during the selection process.

Independent Animation 245

The United Kingdom’s Encounters Festival has been a staple of Bristol since its begin-
nings in 1995, originally dubbed Brief Encounters. Over the years, it has taken several
approaches to the incorporation of animation into its lineup, at one point operating as two
separate festivals entirely taking place at different times of the year, one animation-based,
the other, live-action. It has since settled into one event with the two program strands
interwoven, the curation of its animation selection headed up by Kieran Argo. When it
comes to the final selection, Kieran’s bottom line when it comes to character-based, narra-
tive shorts is how well the story is told.
“If they can tell the story in a compelling and engaging way, it doesn’t have to be perfect
or technically excellent. It can be forgiving in technique and many other aspects of pro-
duction, but for me, if it fails to live up to the title, if it doesn’t convey a story, the narrative
thread is lost. There are certain basic levels of competence that need to be set, but the ones
that really stand out are the ones that excel, principally, in storytelling. Sometimes, the
often-overlooked importance of marrying sound and effects can tell a story better than
the visual aspects, but combining good visuals with good sound is absolutely critical. The
films that do that well, or have clearly put a lot of work and effort into that, are the ones
that go up the priority list. The curator’s role is not to be a gatekeeper in any way of refine-
ment or quality; they really just have to make the painful decisions. The number of good
films that have to be left out is always a bitter disappointment.”
It is this sobering thought that is of critical importance for filmmakers—that to truly
stand out is not to simply rise above mediocrity but to rise above the glut of exceptional
films curators are bombarded with every year.
“Advice to young filmmakers would be to look at the films that get into festivals, look
at the quality of the production, look at how well they’re put together, imagine what the
storyboard would look like, imagine how the film was conceived, look at the design. Are
the characters convincing? The technical aspect should always be scrutinized very closely,
as well as the fundamental storytelling ability of it. Break it down into its component parts
and scrutinize each aspect of the production as much as you can, from what you’re given:
you can read the credits; you can read the synopses and whatever other supporting info
you’re supplied with; you can use that to understand the film in its whole, as much as you
can.
“I think films that are brave, films that stand out, that go out on a limb in a particular
area—for example, design—they’re the ones that kind of jump the queue.”
For many, the validation and personal satisfaction of making it into a festival’s official
selection is the ultimate goal. Others may be more incentivized by the prospect of win-
ning awards, especially if they come in the form of financial assistance to support future
creative projects or are qualifiers for major accolades that would help ensure future career
stability. Encounters is one of a number of festivals where winning films automatically
become British Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA) eligible, a coup to any
independent filmmaker. The ultimate decision, however, is rarely up to one individual,
and on top of his programming duties, Kieran himself has also had firsthand experience
in adjudication.
“What I think filmmakers sometimes need to remind themselves of is it’s often the
case that juries are not all signed up to the same decision. Conflict within juries has been
known, as well as a few occasions where the best films sometimes didn’t get awarded when
they should have done. When juries are at loggerheads, they may end up having to make a

246 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

decision whereby the top prize goes to a compromise between the jury, rather than it being
a collective, unanimous decision.
“A lot of filmmakers see the Audience Award to be much more valuable because that
tells them that it’s a hit with the crowd. It might be good to have the peer-reviewed thumbs-
up from three or four well-respected professionals, but I think if I was a filmmaker, I’d
much prefer to have a thumbs-up from two or three hundred people in the audience. But
it is the awards that still confirm kudos and status on a film, which is very useful in pro-
gressing the film’s momentum around the festival circuit and how many awards it’ll go on
to achieve. If you pick up a top prize at Annecy—or other such benchmark festivals—and
you’re a filmmaker/animator, you’re going to have so many more festival doors open and
undoubtedly pick up more awards.
“You need to get the film out there; and don’t be disheartened, don’t just try it in five
festivals, then forget it if it doesn’t work. There are always subjective decisions for what
goes into a festival, so a festival that might be good for one film might be bad for another.
A film can be hugely successful and win a top prize at one festival and not be selected for
two dozen others, so any advice to filmmakers or whoever’s in charge of submissions to
festivals is don’t give up; keep at it.”
One of the newer events of the European festival circuit is Amsterdam’s KLIK!, which
grew out of a Belgian multimedia conference in the mid-2000s, taking shape as an anima-
tion festival from 2007 onward. The festival’s respect for the medium of animation and its
unique tone of voice sets it apart from other more somber events, with Head of Program
Tünde Vollenbroek a key figure in its approach to official selection:
“Every festival’s different, but for us, the core is just that the film has to communicate;
it can do this in an experimental way or just a really basic, funny, lighthearted way. After
that, of course, is whether the animation is well done and if the design is special com-
pared to other work out there. But it really comes down to quality of communication. Don
Hertzfeldt, for example—you cannot say that, because it’s not Disney quality, he doesn’t
animate well, because he does; he animates very well for what he wants to communicate.
“We have a few categories, of course; we have animated shorts and animated student
shorts, which are obvious, but then we also have a competition program for political
shorts that are more socially engaged. Animation For Hire is commissioned films; in this
category, if the films are really traditional and plain, then they won’t go through, whereas
an independent or student short might. This is because we really try to highlight the artis-
tic side of commissioned work.”
The preselection process for KLIK! differs from other festivals in some respects. The
programming is done in groups (professional films, student films, and so forth), each
headed up by a main programmer, with three additional colleagues brought in per group
to keep perspectives fresh (Figure 13.8).
“Yvonne (Van Ulden, KLIK! managing director) and I both have our own tastes, which
is important for the festival, but we don’t want that to be the main drive. You have festivals
where the taste of the festival director determines everything that plays at the festival, but
we try to avoid that because our festival is not just for people like us; it’s also for a very
wide audience. We aim to get a mix of that wide audience into our selection committees.”
When evaluating the films, a 1–5 grading system is used to more broadly survey the value
of the submissions to the committee members, with Yvonne and Tünde jointly overseeing
the final curation out of the films that ranked the highest.

Independent Animation 247

Figure 13.8
KLIK! mascot in action at the festival’s 2015 edition.

“For animated shorts, most of the films will, at this stage, be rated four and a half
or above; films rated five will be the absolute best we’ve seen, which will come to about
3 films out of 1500! For student shorts, generally, films with a four and above get into the
competition. Once we have those lists, then we evaluate whether or not we have enough
variety in the programs. We try to make great film programs that have different kinds

248 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

of stories and different kinds of styles, so if people think they’re not selected because we
don’t think their film is good enough, it’s not always the case. Sometimes we just have
too many funny films—or maybe not enough funny films—so it just depends on the
year. If we have too many of one type of film, then we will have to leave out a few that we
think were good enough to go into the competition but make the breadth of selection too
narrow.”
These three perspectives shed light on a number of different approaches to curation,
although in today’s world, the visibility a lot of independent filmmakers seek can be
gained through another avenue altogether.

Online: The Festival Alternative

The urge to share your film with the world the moment it is finished is no doubt especially
tempting in an era where doing so is a very literal possibility. Long behind us are the days
when the only evidence of your labors to share with the online community need be lo-res
QuickTime files or horribly compressed 240p YouTube conversions sharing the same aes-
thetic appeal as early-onset cataracts. Nowadays, of course, our full-high-definition (HD)
masterworks can be shared in all their glorious resolution, compressed by codecs sent
from the heavens themselves, whose dainty touch yields barely a trace of visual artifact
or blocky pixelation. I may be overromanticizing a tad, but the key fact remains that,
thanks to exponentially increasing Internet speeds and the capabilities of video streaming
services, there is clearly already a place for independent animation, with the road ahead
looking bright.
Filmmaker Jason Sondhi saw the writing on this particular wall back in 2007, along
with The Thomas Beale Cipher director Andrew S. Allen. The two founded Short of the
Week,* a website championing largely independent shorts of all genres and mediums.
“We thought it was a really strong opportunity for storytelling in the online space.
What was really getting passed around a lot were TV rips and viral videos; we didn’t
understand why all these short films we’d loved seeing at film festivals weren’t dominant.
The conclusion we came to was that festival shorts are a very small, insular world, and
there was no guide to point people in the right direction, to what was worth their time.
With Andrew being an animator and myself being animation-inclined, a lot of our early
curation really leaned in that direction, and we slowly became experts.”
Several years later, with Short of the Week having earned its reputation through awards
and impressive traffic, Jason began correspondence with Sam Morrell, a curator for the
video website Vimeo, who had Staff Picked (the process where videos uploaded to the site
are given a stamp of approval, so to speak, from the company itself) The Thomas Beale
Cipher. Using his existing platform as a guide, Jason began forwarding other exceptional
film suggestions to Vimeo and was eventually brought on board full time as part of their
curation team.
“A big part of our job on curation is to be a point of first contact for all the tremendous
talent that’s available in the community. They want to know that somebody knows their
work and respects what they do, so we get a lot of personal requests, a lot of questions; we

* http://www.shortoftheweek.com

Independent Animation 249

do a lot of networking and socializing at events and festivals to stay on top of the creative
community.”
Although Vimeo is a different beast altogether from animation festivals, the legitimiza-
tion of independent work a Staff Pick provides is often sought after and serves as an appro-
priate yardstick for others in the industry, especially as the site’s audience has continued
to grow. The immediate extra visibility—often guaranteeing a film tens (or even hundreds)
of thousands of views, serving as a launching pad to go viral and achieve views in the
millions—could reasonably be seen as something of a holy grail to independents. A par-
ticular incentive is just who may be watching.
“As a company, we don’t really prioritize views as our primary metric; it’s the under-
standing that people who are in the know—in production, in advertising, producers of
all stripes, agents—really do pay strong attention to Vimeo, to Staff Picks, and to Short
of the Week. It’s the quality of the views that’s really extraordinary; it’s an announce-
ment of your talent to the global creative community. People who work for some of the
commercial animation production houses will tell me that getting a Staff Pick is such a
life-changing experience for a young animator that they know they won’t have to worry
about booking gigs for another year, because there’s suddenly demand for their talent”
(Figure 13.9).
As with the festival route, naturally, there are caveats that need to be met when it comes
to sorting the wheat from the chaff. While it is an open forum for content creators to
upload anything they wish, this creates a similarly oversaturated landscape as that faced

Figure 13.9
Sausage (Dir. Robert Grieves) would go on to receive a Vimeo Staff Pick as well as Cartoon
Brew and Short of the Week Picks of the Day. (Courtesy of Robert Grieves, ©2013.)

250 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

by festival programmers. Jason’s parameters for quality filmmaking come with their own
ideologies:
“I think animators are let off easy a little bit, because people prioritize visual panache
and technical excellence over storytelling. I do find this a little bit unfortunate and try to
push back with my own curation where I can. As technology, tutorials, and overall levels
of expertise of young animators keep improving, I find myself looking to story more, look-
ing to scripts that are funny or well written and narrative structures that surprise, that
are unfamiliar. On the other hand, the visuals are obviously super important as well. I’ve
gotten to the point where, even though I’m not an animator, I have enough of a knowledge
through practical experience of watching to be able to discern technique, to discern when
someone is doing something new and what is it about what they are doing that is original.
So I prioritize originality as well, pushing the medium forward in fresher ways, technique-
wise. Also, I have to prioritize my own aesthetic tastes; I love things that are beautiful,
things that are bright, things that are fresh, things that take an idea such as abstraction or
Eoin Duffy’s minimalism and are able to execute it at such a sublime sort of level. Taking
that initial germ of an idea and being able to decipher that in the work, what it is they’re
going for, and then being able to judge aesthetically how they have been able to achieve or
not achieve it.”
Across the board, it’s fairly easy to identify the main recurring qualities of contempo-
rary filmmaking that curators and programmers are after. Possessing any or all of these
can still not be enough if your film makes a certain vital misstep. The pitfalls of a film
that might otherwise have had potential warrant special consideration, especially when it
comes to originality.
“Avoid cliché in any form, whether it’s visual clichés or writing clichés; there was a
point several years ago where the concept of every short seemed to revolve around a chase
of some sort, whether it would make sense or not. You don’t want a short that purely serves
as opportunities to flex your skill if you have the inability to think of the overall structure
and come up with a satisfying ending. I also look for polish—something that has great
design but has poor, blocky motion, those kinds of things I’ll judge as bothersome.
“As much as you want to try to intellectualize and create a consistent schema for your
own evaluation, you do end up falling back repeatedly on intuition and feel. When some-
thing is fresh, it hits you in an emotional place, and you know it when you see it. When
you don’t see it, sometimes you find yourself having to talk yourself into positive qualities
that may or may not be there, or making excuses, but then you have to take a step back and
realize, Oh, I’m trying to rationalize something that I am just not feeling.”
Returning to the festival side, the major stumbling blocks can be a mix of practical
limitations and overall work ethic, as Kieran Argo notes:
“Sometimes a film can tell a story well, but the sound mix—the effects or the dubbing—is
so bad that you just couldn’t contemplate adding it into the mix. Just because you think
you’ve cracked a certain technique or ability to do something, whether its visual or audio,
don’t be too indulgent with it; be parsimonious; be disciplined. Discipline is absolutely
critical. When a filmmaker cracks something, it’s obvious when they work it to death;
they’ll just bash it until there’s no life left in it. You’ve got to be very careful not to be
overindulgent in aspects of technique and ability. It’s the less-is-more approach; often, you
can make a point by putting in more breathing space, more pauses, the whole nonverbal

Independent Animation 251

ability to tell the story and to convince people to make it resonate emotionally; you can use
discipline to great effect in those aspects. So be disciplined. Self-flagellate!”

Seven Crucial Don’ts for Animation Filmmakers

as Observed by Tünde Vollenbroek
1. Pace.
“A very common mistake: the timing is too slow. Some films just go on and on
for way too long. In some cases, I’ve been tempted to call the filmmakers and ask,
“Could you please just speed up the film by about 50%? Then we’d really like to
select it!”
“Other examples are if there’s one joke that goes on for way too long, or if the
visual concept is really cool but there’s nothing more to it, it could have been
explored more, and thus it goes on for too long.
“Sometimes a concept/story just doesn’t have enough meat on it for the length
the film has—or for a film at all!
“A story/concept can be small; that’s absolutely fine. But if you have a small
story/concept, please don’t make the film a second longer than it needs to be to
convey that story/concept.
“When we’re selecting, longer films usually have a disadvantage to shorter films.
For one really great 30-minute film, we could program three really great 10-minute
films. This should be a good extra reason to keep your film as short as possible.”
2. Dialog.
“When there’s dialog, there’s often too much dialog. Other times, a film has no
dialog at all but could really use it. I’ve come across many films that have annoyed
me enormously with characters that either mumble too much or overact.”
3. Logic.
“Filmmakers need to communicate with their audience. The logic of the film,
and with that, the expectations of the viewer, is set up in the very first seconds/
shots of your film. If you break that logic, you’ll confuse the viewer. Sometimes,
that’s a good thing, but more often, it’s not; the viewer will lose interest and won’t
muster the effort to understand the rest of your story.
“Some films are so bizarre that they’re great; you can be fascinated by them.
Lesley the Pony Has an A+ Day! (Dir. Christian Larrave, 2014) is not at all logi-
cal, but because it never tries to be, it works. Also, it does have a fascinating story
underneath, whereas some films are so weird that the viewer simply stops caring.”
4. Be clear, but not too clear.
“Sometimes, a film is too vague and not clear enough; other times, it’s too lit-
eral, evident and predictable. It’s a tough balance to keep, and we see that in many
of our entries.”
5. The ending (credits).
“Some films feel like the start of a story, not a story in itself. Too often, film-
makers think it’s experimental (in a good way) to have an open ending. If a
good ending is too hard to think of, then they just “leave it up to the audience.”

252 13. Thinking Outside the Light Box

Understandable—endings are hard to come up with—but definitely a common
mistake.
“I could talk about credits for hours. Credits take too long, people! We’ve come
across many short films that spend half of their screen time on the credits. Only
if a 10-minute film is especially deep and you have to think about it after the story
is finished will anything longer than 30 seconds of credits be necessary. But
otherwise—just get them over with!
“Another issue concerning credits and endings: I like an extra joke after the
credits. But they keyword here is extra—it should be an extra. The start of the
credit sequence says to your audience, “This is the end of the film, guys!” So if you
save your real ending for after the credits, it will leave your audience totally unful-
filled and confused during the credits, the moment they think the film ended.
Sometimes that’s a good thing, to leave the audience unfulfilled and confused,
but 99% of the time, it’s not. Just don’t have your story ending take place after the
credits.
“Also, don’t spend 6 minutes of story only to twist it around after the credits.
You’ll just leave the audience confused again (and not in a good way).
“Films that leave you with questions/thoughts you want to explore are great.
Films that leave you with questions, and you don’t care enough to keep thinking
about it, those are not good.”
6. Imitation.
“This is not especially common but definitely a big mistake: trying too hard to
be something else—style mostly, or sense of humor—and failing at it. When this
happens, the film just feels like an empty shell. Make sure if you decide to attempt
cliché or imitation that you do it extremely well.”
7. Full-package deal.
“A lot of filmmakers focus too much on one aspect only. They have a really
awesome story or design or atmosphere or animation or audio (lots of filmmakers
think of the audio too late in the process) but not the combination. Animation is
a full-package deal.
“Sometimes, the concept is really great, but the execution/storytelling is bad.
Other times, the execution/storytelling is great, but the concept is bad. These
mediocre films make up the largest part of our 1500-plus entries.
“The worst is when a film has great promise in the beginning (a great story or
great visual concept, for example) but delivers nothing in the end and/or does not
fully use the concept’s potential.
“So I basically look at all the aspects: Good story, good design, good animation,
good audio, and so forth. Do all the aspects work, and do they work together?
“If the answer to that question is “yes,” then the next question is, Does the film
stand out? Does it have an unusual narrative, or a unique visual concept? The
answer to this question separates the great films from the merely acceptable ones.”

Independent Animation 253

14
Keeping Up

The number of platforms available to independent filmmakers of any medium and genre
is bigger than ever before, and growing exponentially. Certainly, the days of physical home
media could draw to a close soon, with dwindling retail outlets in keeping with consumer
demand. The many high-definition (HD) streaming or digital download resources avail-
able in their absence more than compensates, with the perks of supplemental features
intact and even improved upon.
The National Film Board of Canada (NFB), an institution who pride themselves
certainly as a hotbed of innovative auteur filmmaking (although the unique funding
circumstances afforded by an enviably arts friendly Canadian government sets their
work outside of the independent spectrum), have taken tremendous initiative in their
marriage of exciting new film ideas and how their audience experiences them. Parallel
to an inclination toward interactive experimentation (explored further in Chapter 17),
ground was broken with the development and release of NFB Films, a multiplatform
app archiving over 2500 of the film board’s titles, many of which represent their much-
admired animation output. Another groundbreaking app released in 2013 is McLaren’s
Workshop, which effectively repurposed the most compelling content of what had

255
Figure 14.1
Show Me The Animation app screengrab featuring Risehigh (Dir. Adam Wells). (Courtesy of
Show Me The Animation.)

previously existed as a large and costly—though nicely presented—DVD box set. The
translation of the content to an audiovisual celebration that audiences can experience
on their iPad (while boasting interactive elements, at its heart, it remains an anthol-
ogized celebration of pioneering experimental filmmaker Norman McLaren’s work)
serves as an early indicator of the direction home media is going and the shape it will
take.
The ripple effect of these innovations is already visible. The UK-based organization
Show Me the Animation,* which began life in 2006 as a semiregular series of informal
independent film screenings in the South West, has grown to provide a valuable means for
animators to showcase their work online. The organization is an offshoot of Wonky Films,
an award-winning animation, illustration, and digital studio, the latter practice serving as
an outlet for the Show Me the Animation app, a digital distribution platform for indepen-
dent animated shorts (Figure 14.1).
The app itself was helmed by interactive developer Jake Hobbs, whose involvement with
Wonky began as part of a doctoral project focusing on audience engagement and mon-
etization in digital environments. His work at the studio included the broadening of the

* http://showmetheanimation.com/

256 14. Keeping Up

Show Me the Animation community events into a consistent online presence with active
social media engagement reflective of the spirit of the events themselves.
“[The doctorate] was looking at how you can support creatives by building audiences
for their work and potentially earning revenue from their own intellectual properties in
competitive, digital environments. So it was looking at the work that I was doing within
Wonky itself and looking at how we can use that research knowledge to help the wider
community, so helping them find audiences for their work. The motivation is to aid a com-
munity that we’re involved in, who love what they do.”
The various options available to aid the independent animation community include a
number of platforms to showcase their work, such as collaborative Anijam sessions, the-
matic screenings both local and in association with nationwide festivals, and short-form
competitions such as Do It in Ten, which invites filmmakers to submit 10-second micro-
shorts with a monthly theme. With the development of the app, for which film submis-
sions are solicited on a rolling basis, this even extends to possible monetization through
a combination of ad revenue and direct purchase options, with an 85%–15% revenue split
offered in the filmmakers’ favor.
“Previously, we had done apps for our own short films at Wonky. I was looking at
ways in which we could deliver our own short films in new ways and extend those
through interactive experiences, such as games and delivering the behind-the-scenes
content as well. Around the time when we started doing that was when those platforms
were becoming bigger. We’ve used Flash iOS publication in order to potentially create
cross-platform apps as well, so there is potential to release all the apps we’ve created
on Android. Initially, we were just looking at what was out there already and who was
already doing this.”
While there are long-term developments in digital distribution ahead that are border-
line impossible to predict, in the current climate, these are vital avenues worth exploring,
if for no other reason than to get a clear idea of exactly what monetary worth the public
place on animated shorts when it comes to the online arena. YouTube and Vimeo both
have toes in the waters of paid distribution, yet the immeasurably greater percentage of
their content remains available for free.
“Through my research, it was just an idea that I came up with based on insight about
audience engagement, people’s willingness to pay for content, and understanding that
there’s a higher willingness to pay by people who are immediately or directly involved in
animation and that world, so an app that would target those people and bring independent
animation content to them would hopefully generate a kind of willingness to help support
their own scene.”
The licensing terms as outlined for the Show Me the Animation platform are not
restricted to premieres or demanding of exclusivity or ownership. For consistency’s sake,
there is a curation process in place to allow for a balanced selection of work.
“Initially, it’s quite subjective; it’s whether we enjoy it and think that it’s a good,
engaging story; that’s kind of the immediate crux of it. We’re not precious on quality
per se, so if there’s a good story and idea there and the quality isn’t necessary a high-
level, polished piece, we do look past that because the story is the most important
thing we look for. We have had a few student films in there that, if you’re looking on
a purely professional, polished level, have aspects that could be redone, or would have
been if the filmmakers had the resources to do so, but we will have chosen it because

Independent Animation 257

the story’s great. We’re not here to go after a Pixar scale of short film, because they
could find an audience anyway. We’re looking for people we can help out, as long as
it’s a strong story and as long as the person doing it is independent. I find that shorter
films do work better; it doesn’t eliminate choosing longer ones, but length is a criteria.
We tend to go for things that are over 3 minutes, but at the same time, stuff that is
longer than 10, people struggle to engage with, just generally, whether it’s an app or
online.
“Most of the stuff that we pick is very narrative driven. I think there’s one in there
which probably goes against that grain, but if it is obviously abstract and experimental, we
would probably avoid it only because audiences outside the realm of animation who are
discovering the app and discovering these films are less likely to engage.”
Another outcome that is hard to predict is whether or not audience engagement is
likely to permanently gravitate away from the traditional outlets such as film festivals
and short film anthologies toward mobile viewing. Indeed, as we’ll explore later on in
this chapter, the art of film in and of itself is becoming increasingly informed by how it
is most likely to be eventually displayed, through online or interactive mediums such
as this.
“There’s a large Internet animation scene that is successful because it is very cartoon-
humor focused, people can get it, and it’s quicker to produce as well. The most important
thing online, which is difficult for most animators, is being able to deliver with consis-
tency, which makes being able to distribute and build an audience alone difficult, and then
you become reliant on additional services.
“Say you’re reliant on using the in-built audience on Vimeo or the distribution audi-
ence that someone like Future Shorts could provide. Comparatively, the stuff that goes
up on YouTube lends itself to being quick to get, quick to produce, and—arguably, I
guess—sometimes shallow in their nature. So you can engage with it quickly and imme-
diately get it, and then maybe not think about it again, whereas other stuff that people
send out to festivals might be more deep and meaningful, and you would think about
it again.”
Certainly, there is definite potential in online distribution. In some respects, it can
be a more immediately effective means of garnering a reputation and visibility than the
comparatively expensive and slower-burn process of film festival submission. In Jake’s
estimation, if anything is going to happen to provide a viable and effective way for films to
be distributed, where the filmmaker gets true value out of it, it would need to be driven by
the larger players of online distribution.

Remodeling
Undoubtedly, there will be issues with ego, competition, pride, and the odd splash of
schadenfreude amongst any industry—we animators are sort of human beings, after all—
though independent film has generated a sense of online community and solidarity that
has helped to offset this. Certainly, thanks to the community spirit of platforms such as
Vimeo, the potential for open lines of discussion, feedback, and collaboration is particu-
larly great.
“It’s what I like about it,” enthuses curator Jason Sondhi. “Around 2009, it seemed
Vimeo had arrived, which caused me to look back at the previous 2 or 3 months’ worth

258 14. Keeping Up

of archives for Short of the Week. I realized it had gotten to the point where 14 of the
last 15 films that had been featured were on Vimeo, which was very much a sea change
from 2007, when the majority of our films were hosted on YouTube or, frankly, still on
QuickTime files hosted off of people’s individual websites. I think the way that Vimeo
achieved that strength is community and not just Staff Picks; we think of Staff Picks as
the pinnacle of a curation pyramid at Vimeo, whereas the community input is incred-
ibly important.
“I can’t do my job without the power users and channel moderators who discover
content that comes through my feed; I find things because I don’t have time to watch
things that I know nothing about. Aziz Kocanaogullari at Everything Animated* or Tim
McCourt at Pegbar and Grill,† these are people who have an immense capacity to consume
and are very dialed in to their communities. Getting featured on one of those big chan-
nels like Everything Animated is a very powerful platform for animation, regardless of
whether or not they make it as Staff Picks or not. I think it’s the dedication of curation at
every single level of the site; it’s not just the top-level curation of what goes onto the home
page. The site really functions through following this novel organization of groups and
channels.”
There is certainly evidence that festivals have been adapting to this philosophy. An
early embracer of the potential for web-based engagement, Encounters has incorporated
the supplemental online strand DepicT!‡ since its 1999 edition. As its own competitive sec-
tion within the larger festival, it challenges filmmakers to create exceptional work with a
running time no longer than 90 seconds, a caveat to which Kieran Argo attributes its huge
draw for international filmmakers.
“I think the length of 90 seconds for DepicT! is a good, doable length, especially for
live action. It’s a bit more of a challenge for animation, but again, it’s down to discipline;
to be able to do something that works in that maximum duration, to do that requires a lot
of work. To do it well requires skill, requires a vision, requires discipline, and it usually
requires an element of collaboration as well.”
Animators of note who have been short-listed for the competition include Trevor Hardy
(Oops), Felix Massie (Can, Can, Can’t), Paul Hill (Sun), Joseph Pierce (State of Nature, Big
On Love), and Nick Mackie (Flimsies), with prizewinning animators including Mole Hill
(The Fat Cat), Matthew Walker (Operator), and Aidan McAteer (The Gentleman’s Guide
to Villainy; Figure 14.2), all of whom have gone on to further achieve notable industry
success.
“A lot of people are motivated to rise to the challenge so they can set themselves the fea-
sible goal of an achievable kind of duration they can envisage completing in a decent space
of time. I don’t think you’d get that many people rising to a 5-minute challenge, because
it’s a different ball game. With anything longer than that, you need to more seriously
consider budget, how much you can realistically afford to do. Ingredients such as financial
commitment, money, and time have to be carefully considered before you embark on any
project.”

* http://everythinganimated.tv
† http://thepegbarandgrill.com/
‡ http://www.depict.org

Independent Animation 259

Figure 14.2
Still from The Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy (Dir. Aidan McAteer). (Courtesy of Aidan McAteer,
©2010.)

One filmmaker who certainly embraced the challenge and, in turn, reaped the rewards
of DepicT! is 2010 winner Aidan McAteer, who used the competition as an excuse to make
his first independent animated short since his college years.
It was also an opportunity to create something that would provide a refreshing change
from his day job, which, at the time, was as an animation revisionist on the hugely popular
My Little Pony reboot My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
“To be fair, it’s a really good show, but it wasn’t the most creatively fulfilling; I was tak-
ing other people’s scenes and tweaking them, so if there was something the directors didn’t
like in a shot, I would make changes. It was paying the bills, and I was happy to have it, but
there were a lot of sparkles and pink fluffy clouds involved, which wasn’t really my thing.”
When that year’s edition of DepicT! came across his radar, the feasibility of a 90-second
passion project without creative boundaries but a motivational deadline to work toward
held great appeal to Aidan. On top of that, the idea of taking his own personal measures
in broadening his filmmaking experience had long-term potential.
“People who are really good at stuff, who make strong first films, have inevitably been
making ‘short films’ all their lives. I know that if you look at any good feature film director
that you could name—Spielberg, del Toro, the Coen brothers, whoever—they’ve probably
all been making films since they were 10 or 11 with Super 8 cameras. So when the time
comes to direct a feature, it’s actually not the first film they’ll have made, which I think is
how they turn out so well. That was something else that I got in my head as well, so even
if it didn’t turn out to be the greatest thing in the world, I’d have made a film and built on
my experience, and when I would move on, the next one would be even better.”
Not only did this investment of Aidan’s time and creative energies prove worthwhile
when it came to winning the main DepicT! prize and subsequent exposure; it provided a

260 14. Keeping Up

track record that would serve to benefit his career years down the line. Funding for his sub-
sequent 2014 film Deadly was ultimately provided by the Irish Film Board’s Frameworks
scheme on the basis of his prior success.
Visually speaking, The Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy is poles apart from the sunny
climes and bright colors of the Friendship is Magic universe, and not by chance (Figure 14.3).
“The film is sort of a visual catharsis; it’s all angular, whereas there are no angles in My
Little Pony. The animation boils, and the backgrounds are really rough, charcoal textured,
and messy. It’s a black-and-white, ‘silent’ film, so I also put the old-timey iris around it.
That kind of stuff was a kind of antidote, in a way, to the very cute, pink style of the show.
“There’s something I really enjoy about supershort filmmaking, where you can just take
out all the unnecessary elements and leave just the kernel of the idea. If that’s only 1 or 2
minutes, then that’s fine; it’s still going to be a good film. I have that sensibility, I guess,
from having worked in commercials for quite a while.”
As it was produced over the 3 months that led up to that year’s DepicT! deadline, the
element of haste when it came to the film’s production certainly played its own part when
it came to the overall design style. On top of the grainy, silent-film aesthetic, the anima-
tion itself was simplified by having the characters appear entirely as cartoon modern-style
silhouettes, with no extraneous details or elaborate facial animation beyond rudimentary
mouth movements and dots for eyes. The sparseness of the film’s backgrounds proved
another labor-saving device, one that benefits the overall composition of each shot by not
cluttering it or distracting from the main action. All told, each time or budgetary conces-
sion serves to support and enhance the “period-piece” tone of the film. Concessions or no,
in Aidan’s mind, it is likely that the film would not have existed at all without the incentiv-
izing nature of the contest and its parameters.

Figure 14.3
Still from The Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy (Dir. Aidan McAteer). (Courtesy of Aidan McAteer,
©2010.)

Independent Animation 261

“There’s lots of argument about this, but I’m one of those people who believes that limi-
tations can create great art. I’m not saying The Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy is “great art,”
but I do like having limitations, because I think it forces you to just direct your mind and
focus. In animation, you can do anything, which is really daunting—“I can do anything?
Well…then what the hell am I supposed to do?” I find that almost too much, an overload.
It’s like entering something for an exhibition with no theme. In the case of my film, the
limitations were good in two ways—first that they did inform the story I wanted to tell,
knowing it had to be short, and second, that I felt like I could do it myself. So they defi-
nitely helped for me, I didn’t find them a hindrance at all.
“I think if that film had been 3 minutes long, then it wouldn’t have been as funny. It’s a
gag, basically, so I think I would have been laboring the point. I think it’s a stronger film
for being at 90 seconds.”
Since its initiation, the Internet has caught up to DepicT! and with the notion of online
film competitions no longer unique, the present festival model needs to adapt and embrace
the new opportunities available to filmmakers and audiences rather than combat it. While
some argue that festivals are a dying breed, Kieran’s view is firmly the antithesis.
“Festivals are an absolutely unique opportunity to see films in their proper envi-
ronment, which is up on a big screen with optimum visual and audio reproduction,
with an audience. A festival does give you quite a unique experience, but there is such
a wide variety of opportunity to see stuff. Those can be integrated with festivals; for
example, we open up for the Online Audience Award, and the DepicT! competition is
there to be seen online in advance of the actual festival. There are always opportuni-
ties to develop ways of expanding and developing those means of engagement, but as
with all things, there are only so many projects that a very small dedicated core team
of people can take on. I think DepicT! is a fantastic example of how it really has devel-
oped and gone from strength to strength; where in the first few years of running it,
we had a small handful of entries, it literally runs into several hundred submissions
now, a lot of those having been made specifically for the competition. You can never
sit still; you’ve got to keep on looking at new ideas, new opportunities, new ways of
doing things.”

Group Effort
There is constant scope for change, adaptation, and exploration in the world of anima-
tion. Films that might be considered conceptually avant-garde can remain fundamentally
entertaining. In the following case studies, we’ll examine prominent independent shorts
from out of left field that, in their inventiveness, have helped to revitalize short film as a
medium, beginning with the contemporization of an old, established technique.
Jeff Chiba Stearns equates the process of an Anijam to the collaborative “Exquisite
Corpse” games of the surrealists, in which words or imagery are contributed by multi-
ple artists without knowledge of the preceding contribution, to create an unusual final
result. Applying this approach to animated film for the first time of note was pioneering
Canadian animator Marv Newland, who brought 22 animators together to work on his
1984 short film concept Anijam, ultimately coining the term. The film features a single
character trapped in a hallucinatory world, each animator in turn granted reign over said
character’s plight in his/her own style, with no knowledge of the events of the film outside

262 14. Keeping Up

of their own section save for the final frame of animation of the sequence preceding theirs,
so the action carries on throughout with interruption. Jeff’s interest in taking his own
work to a new level following the success of Yellow Sticky Notes (see Chapter 7) took inspi-
ration from this endeavor in a way that brought the most significant names of modern
Canadian animation together, in some instances out of retirement (Figure 14.4).
“Marv is a legend in the animation field,” affirms Jeff, “especially independent
animation—in Vancouver, he’s really the reason why there’s such a great animation com-
munity that exists, because a lot of people who worked at his company International
Rocket Ship went off to start their own after it dissolved. I liked the idea of seeing how
other people approached using sticky notes the way I had in 2007, basically just picking a
day in their life and self-reflecting on it, through that documentary kind of process, docu-
menting that one day in their life, so I thought it was time for an Anijam.”
An extension of Yellow Sticky Notes, Jeff’s proposal for Yellow Sticky Notes: Canadian
Anijam was to invite the most prominent Canadian animators he could think of to con-
tribute an animated instance of self-reflection, executed in the same manner as his own in
the original 2007 short.
“Marv was the first guy who I sat down with, because his film brought that process of
collaborative animation into the fold. I think he respected that I came to him and said
it was what I wanted to do, and when I asked if he wanted to do a section of the film, he
agreed! I had a list of Canadian animators who I wanted to work with, and as soon as I
knew I had Marv, I knew I could get the majority of everyone else on board.
“At the beginning, I was hoping to have someone from every major country in the
world that are independent animation hotbeds, but what ended up happening was the
majority of our funding came from Bravo in Canada, which stated it had to have 100%
Canadian content. I figured it was a good starting point, to stay within Canada and go
international if I wanted to expand the concept later. He gave me the contacts for Paul
Driessen, and I knew Alison Snowden and David Fine through my producer, so it was kind
of easy to get them on board. Some people like Cordell Barker (director of the 1988 NFB
classic The Cat Came Back) were really busy, but I didn’t give anyone a time limit; nobody
had to do 10 or 20 seconds of animation. They could do as much as they felt like, 5 seconds,
30 seconds. There wasn’t any pressure to do a certain number of drawings. So I think a lot
of people came on board because they thought it sounded like a fun, collaborative project
(Figures 14.5 and 14.6).
“It wasn’t a typical Anijam where one animator’s last drawing becomes the first draw-
ing for the next animator as with Marv’s project; each section was bookended by a blank
sticky note; that way, everyone was working around the same time, so I gave everyone
about 3 months at some point to finish up their animation. When they were all sent back,
I basically set it all down and organized it in chronological order. When you look at the
upper-corner, there’s always a date, so it starts with Paul Driessen’s earliest reflection when
he was a kid, and Janet Perlman’s is in the future, so it makes sense that hers is the last
sequence. Organizing it that way created a flow where just by chance or coincidence, it
could be funny or serious. I just wanted to treat everybody equally, because even though
some have won Oscars, it’s more about each animator’s own style.”
The other animators brought on board were Jody Kramer, Chris Hinton, Howie Shia,
Malcolm Sutherland, Lillian Chan, Joel Mackenzie, as well as Jeff’s former One Big Hapa
Family collaborators Louise Johnson and Jonathan Ng.

Independent Animation 263

Figure 14.4
Yellow Sticky Notes: Canadian Anijam poster. (Courtesy of Jeff Chiba Stearns, ©2013.)

264 14. Keeping Up

Figure 14.5
Cordell Barker works on Yellow Sticky Notes: Canadian Anijam. (Courtesy of April Barker.)

Figure 14.6
David Fine and Alison Snowden work on Yellow Sticky Notes: Canadian Anijam. (Courtesy
of Lily Snowden-Fine.)

Independent Animation 265

“Everyone had the same materials; I basically gave them a kit of around 500 sticky notes,
a few black pens, and a LightPad to use. The only rule was there couldn’t be underlying
pencil sketches; it had to be straight-up ink. Some people might’ve done roughs first and
traced over the top, but for the most part, when I animate, it’s rough, it’s raw, it’s sketchy,
and that’s what I like, so I was trying to get them to open up and be free with that too.
“The funding was split up equally between the 15 animators, the composer, and the
sound designer, so everyone got paid exactly the same amount. Then everyone just went to
it. I think Paul was the first guy to send his in; it was amazing to hold and flip through his
drawings! A lot these animators were people who got me into animation, and the fact we
got Chris Hinton blows my mind because he’s retired and lives on a farm in rural Quebec
raising pigs now (Figure 14.7). Even though he had quit animation altogether, all I had to
say was ‘Marv Newland’ and ‘hand-drawn animation on paper’ for him to come on board.
It was really cool to get that caliber of animators together in one place, celebrating classical
animation, drawing on paper.”
As with the original Yellow Sticky Notes, the Canadian Anijam proved to be a hit at
animation and documentary festivals alike. While it shares a more or less identical pro-
duction approach, to Jeff, it plays more as a showcase film than a documentary, one that
captures an era of Canadian animation heritage.
A variant on the Anijam concept makes use of the swiftness of online collaboration and
how established artists can directly work with their audience. In 2010, Bill Plympton set
about the visual reinvention of one of his most popular shorts, 2004’s Academy Award-
nominated Guard Dog, using an international pool of animators amongst his fan base
(Figure 14.8). Following a call on his website and social media channels, response to the

Figure 14.7
Chris Hinton (with assistant) works on Yellow Sticky Notes: Canadian Anijam. (Courtesy of
Katherine Reed.)

266 14. Keeping Up

Figure 14.8
Shots from the original Guard Dog (Dir. Bill Plympton, left) and their re-imagined Guard Dog
Global Jam counterparts (right). (Courtesy of Plymptoons, ©2004–2011.)

Independent Animation 267

proposed idea (in which every shot of the film would be broken down and assigned to an
animator to reinterpret in the style of their choosing) was immediate and largely positive.
Initial criticism on online forums suggested that the project was exploitative crowdsourc-
ing, as the animators were giving their time for free. While it certainly isn’t unreasonable
to maintain a guarded attitude toward online solicitations of free labor from animators
at an early stage in their career, the fundamental differences were clear to most. In place
of remuneration was the legitimate kudos of association with a high-profile artist, a high-
profile project, and reasonable time demands, most assigned shots running for mere
seconds. On top of this, each contributing animator was rewarded with a hand-drawn
frame from the original version of the shot they were assigned, an honorarium not to be
sniffed at.
Following the success of the Guard Dog Global Jam, Bill has been keen to explore other
such progressive enterprises, including a similarly collaborative reworking of his breakout
hit Your Face and his own reinvention of a semilost classic (Figure 14.9).
“As I travel around the world, I’ll run into someone who was part of the Guard Dog
Global Jam, which is very exciting. I think it really does open up possibilities for new kinds
of art forms and new kinds of filmmaking that I love. I reworked Winsor McCay’s last
film—which was pretty obscure—called The Flying House (1921), and I took the original
film, cleaned up the footage, got all the dirt, dust, and scratches off, added color, removed
the intertitles and added voices by Matthew Modine and Patricia Clarkson. With sound
and music on there, it just revitalized the film; I feel if Winsor McCay were alive today, this
is the kind of film he would have liked to make. The purpose of it was not to make money

Figure 14.9
Original cel from Bill Plympton’s Guard Dog (2004)—one of the unexpected perks of involve-
ment in Guard Dog Global Jam was receiving a drawing from the original film. (Courtesy of
Plymptoons. From the author’s personal collection.)

268 14. Keeping Up

but to show a new, young audience the brilliance and talent of Winsor McCay and what a
genius he was. I like to do fun little crazy things with animation, like that.”

New Perspectives
Sam Taylor and Bjørn-Erik Aschim met while studying at Arts University Bournemouth.
Immediately following their graduation, they began work together on Sylvain Chomet’s
traditionally animated 2-D feature The Illusionist, which was being produced in Edinburgh.
After 7 years of experience working alongside each other, the desire to make a film of their
own began to take hold.
“Neither of us had actually done anything of our own,” Sam recalls. “I think we were
sick of asking permission. Getting funding sounded like it would take forever, and doing a
postgraduate course would have been expensive, so we just started. Not quite understand-
ing what we were taking on was probably helpful. It took 2 years and a massive amount of
help from some incredibly generous and talented people. We funded it ourselves through
sporadic periods of freelance work.”
The greatest enemy of an independent production’s success is hesitation. Considering
how many films exist only in the hypothetical limbo of would-be creators’ fantasies, very
little is lost in taking the first steps to begin a film before the certainties of funding or
production are set in stone. In the case of Sam and Bjørn’s short Everything I Can See
from Here, finished and released in 2013, taking such a plunge proved to be the right move
(Figure 14.10).
Though the end result is visually sophisticated and indicative of an elaborate produc-
tion pipeline, the duo’s approach was relatively simple from the outset, sharing the load
for the most part.
“Bjørn did all the painting and backgrounds in the film. Beyond that, I think we both
did a bit of everything, from character design through to animation, storyboarding, com-
positing, promotion, and so on. We might not have achieved a perfect state of collective
consciousness at all times—there were certainly disagreements—but I think the process
of talking this stuff through was beneficial for a number of reasons.
“First, it forced us to justify our creative decisions quite specifically in each case. It also
allowed us to get to know each other better and taught us about efficient methods of col-
laboration. I discovered, for example, that defining an illustrative style is something that
is very difficult to collaborate on; it’s so intuitive that it’s difficult to talk about and always
ends up coming back to questions of taste. In our recent work, we’ve generally assigned
character design to one person in the team, which results in more of a distinctive and per-
sonal flair. It’s our taste, but hopefully, it also engages people.”
As is often the case with the animation world, Sam’s primary education came more
from working on The Illusionist than from the university studies that preceded it. The pac-
ing of Everything I Can See from Here, which boasts a number of protracted, drawn-out
shots to build atmosphere, is particularly informed by Chomet’s film (Figure 14.11). For
Bjørn, additional sources of inspiration came from his prior work for Aardman and Sony
for the computer-generated (CG) animated feature Arthur Christmas.
“The presentation of ideas, the packaging of your drawing is something that becomes
very important when you work on larger-scale productions. Directors and heads of depart-
ments just don’t have time to react to something that isn’t clear or doesn’t read properly

Independent Animation 269

Figure 14.10
Everything I Can See from Here (Dir. Bjørn-Erik Aschim/Sam Taylor) character concept sketch
to final design comparison. (Courtesy of The Line, ©2013.)

at first glance; they have dozens of meetings, and tons of decisions need to be made every
day. Ideas need to be visualized quickly and efficiently; being ambiguous or unclear kills
your drawings instantly! It’s heartbreaking when you’ve got a lovely rendered painting to
show but nobody reacts to it because they don’t understand the idea behind it. It’s defi-
nitely something that I’m more conscious of now that I’m pitching ideas to my colleagues
or to clients. Also, making a film means you’ll have to talk about it for a long while after
its release. If the idea is in any way unclear to yourself when you make the film, you will be
constantly reminded of this whenever someone asks you a question about it.”
One unique quality of Everything I Can See from Here stands out to the audience imme-
diately, that the film’s aspect ratio has been purposefully subverted to 9:16 as opposed to
the standard uniformity of 16:9. While the filmmakers wryly acknowledge the prevalence
of many contemporary viral videos being filmed in this fashion (unknowingly, for the
most part) using smartphones, what might initially come off as gimmickry proves to be
an ingenious, contemporary spin on a viewing experience, which has been so adopted by
mobile devices (Figure 14.12).
“The film is very specifically made for an audience of people who watch things online
using their phones and tablets. This is reflected in the portrait aspect ratio and the fact we
released the film online immediately,” asserts Sam.

270 14. Keeping Up

Figure 14.11
Still from Everything I Can See from Here (Dir. Bjørn-Erik Aschim/Sam Taylor). (Courtesy of The
Line, ©2013.)

“We decided to make it portrait format halfway through the boarding of the film,”
Bjørn adds. “We were both reluctant to redo the boards, but it was too good of an idea, so
we went for it. It was a fairly straightforward process after that, actually, no major prob-
lems. Max James van der Merwe, our 3-D animator, flipped his monitor on the side and
did the alien animation that way, which worked pretty well!
“I had just gotten an iPad, and when we did our first test on the device, it felt right.
It was a different experience than watching it on a normal screen, almost like a moving
comic, which was something that we got very excited about. It felt like not a lot of people
had explored this form of storytelling yet.”
The completion of the film was assured by corralling a team of 11 additional volunteer
animators and a 13-person cleanup crew from a pool of creatives enthusiastic to see the
project come together from the strength of its premise. A similar sense of enthusiasm
for the end result pervaded the online community, earning the film the aforementioned
coveted Vimeo Staff Pick and exposure to an audience of hundreds of thousands thanks

Independent Animation 271

Figure 14.12
Still from Everything I Can See from Here (Dir. Bjørn-Erik Aschim/Sam Taylor). (Courtesy of The
Line, ©2013.)

largely to word of mouth and social media. While this was hugely beneficial to the duo’s
visibility and reputation as artists, Bjørn’s take on the future monetary potential of this
form of exposure remains grounded (Figures 14.13 and 14.14).
“I think the sharing of videos online, in tweets, on people’s timelines and Tumblrs has
definitely opened up platforms for people who normally wouldn’t have one, to get their
vision across. I think that it’s hardly a model that is sustainable for an artist though. The
exposure is great, and there’s value in building an audience, but there’s practically no
money to be made and very little incentive to keep making short-form content beyond the
pat on the back and a ‘like’ on your video. There’s been attempts at getting people to pay
and donate money for short-form content online, like Vimeo’s Tip Jar or PayPal’s ‘donate’
button, but apart from crowdfunding, there seems to be no sustainable model that could
even get close to financing something like a short animated film.”
To Sam, the exposure’s primary benefit is also the spectrum of feedback and encour-
agement first-time filmmakers are given access to. “It’s interesting how different forums

272 14. Keeping Up

Figure 14.13
Everything I Can See from Here “Barry” character sketches. (Courtesy of The Line, ©2013.)

Figure 14.14
Everything I Can See from Here character turnarounds. (Courtesy of The Line, ©2013.)

have very different responses to the film. Vimeo is almost always extremely positive,
which is partly a function of people wanting to self-promote. Some of the animation blogs
had slightly more critical opinions, a lot of which was really insightful and instructive”
(Figure 14.15).
“Social media is a great tool to get people interested in what you are working on,” Bjørn
adds. “We’re experimenting more and more with journaling our process online and being
completely transparent about the filmmaking as we go along. Animation takes a long time
and can be an isolating process. You just want to share something, get some kind of feed-
back, and the Internet is great for that. But there’s value in keeping a bit of secrecy about
your work as well; the magic can quickly fade if you’re sharing everything.”

Independent Animation 273

Figure 14.15
Everything I Can See from Here shot list. (Courtesy of The Line, ©2013.)

Another established, UK-based animation duo is the Brothers McLeod. Made up of

siblings Myles, typically the writer of the pair, and Greg, who is responsible for their well-
known and distinctive style of 2-D animation and illustration, the pair have built up an
impressive body of work spanning independent films, commissioned films, pilots, televi-
sion series work, illustration projects, commercials, and idents. Their division of labor is,
by and large, rather cut and dry, as Greg explains.
“It varies on project to project how much we collaborate. Myles works on a lot of scripts
for TV that I don’t really have much input into unless he’s gotten stuck for an idea. I do a
lot of illustration and ident work which doesn’t necessarily involve Myles, but for the big
projects such as the short films, feature films, and some of the bigger TV series ideas, we’ll
basically sit down in a room together and generate the ideas from spending time together.
Then when the idea’s kind of gelled, he goes off and writes some stuff, and I go off and draw
some stuff; then we get back in a room again, and so on, until eventually we end up with
something. Even in production, he kind of codirects and does a lot of the music, while I
do a lot of the sound; for postproduction, we work together, so there’s a collaborative back
and forth that works really well.”
Although the notion of brothers working together has become something of a tradi-
tion in the world of film, the pair often field questions about the nature of their working
relationship. Having invented stories with toys and playsets as most young siblings do, the
pair naturally gravitated toward one another again in adulthood, shared influences and
experiences building an intuitive sense of professional communication, not to mention
ambition.
One such instance is the film 365, an experimental piece that retains Greg’s loose,
cartoonish style with a pointedly out-of-left-field concept, having been animated in dis-
jointed, 1-second increments each day over the course of the year 2013 (Figure 14.16).

274 14. Keeping Up

Figure 14.16
Still from 365 (Dir. Brothers McLeod). (Courtesy of The Brothers McLeod, ©2014.)

“I had started working on a film that wasn’t really going anywhere,” recalls Greg, “and
wanted something that could be improvised. The idea of 365 just popped into my head one
day, and I just kind of started it without really thinking about it. The idea was that I would
post an image every day on Facebook so people could follow it that way” (Figure 14.17).
Once several of these images had been posted, Greg noted a visible interest that started
to spread throughout social media. As with the primary motivation behind such work as

Figure 14.17
Still from 365 (Dir. Brothers McLeod). (Courtesy of The Brothers McLeod, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 275

Andy Martin’s The Planets (see Chapter 19), the public awareness served as enough of a
push to emotionally invest and commit to following through.
“Not doing it would mean I’d lose face, and the more I got into it, the more of my face I
would have lost if I would’ve stopped. I think also, if I’m honest, there’s an ego thing there,
of ‘Look what I’m doing, aren’t I great for being able to do this?’ Without being arrogant,
hopefully! It was a reward system—if you make a film, you want people to watch it and
enjoy it, and by sharing with them a bit of it every day, you get a little bit of a buzz. Now,
watching the finished film with an audience is a whole different buzz. Aside from a couple
of moments right towards the end in December where I just wanted it to end, in general,
I really enjoyed not having to stick to one character or one scenario; every day was just a
new thing, which kind of suits my personality. It wasn’t easy, but it was enjoyable.”
The simple brilliance of the concept behind the film, which went on to win multiple
awards and receive tremendous festival exposure, was the cornerstone of its feasibility.
Very few animation projects could demand a daily commitment for an entire year, if for no
other reason than the likelihood that an artist can guarantee they’ll be able to work from
the same location. Greg’s solution was simple and is one that has proved increasingly via-
ble for independents—the setup of a portable studio that could be taken wherever he went.
The demands of 365’s visuals, being little more than digital illustration, only required a
laptop, animation software, and a drawing tablet and, as such, accompanied Greg on his
various travels whenever he was away from his office studio (Figure 14.18).
“It was really freeing. The technique I used for 365 was really basic, just hand-drawn
straight into the computer, colored, then onto the next day. I really enjoy working like that
and will probably work like that more in the future.”
At the start of the book, we explored a range of storytelling approaches, from stream-
of-consciousness experimentation to straight-ahead narrative. A project such as 365 cer-
tainly leans more toward the former, though as with such abstract fare as Robert Morgan’s
Bobby Yeah or Don Hertzfeldt’s more avant-garde work, a structural backbone makes
all the difference (Figure 14.19). Without even a small element of concession to audience

Figure 14.18
Still from 365 (Dir. Brothers McLeod). (Courtesy of The Brothers McLeod, ©2014.)

276 14. Keeping Up

Figure 14.19
Still from 365 (Dir. Brothers McLeod). (Courtesy of The Brothers McLeod, ©2014.)

habits, a film made up of 365 random, 1-second sight gags could easily be unwatchable.
Greg attributes his own sense of such concession to having worked alongside his brother
for so long.
“Storytelling-wise, most of my short films have been nonnarrative in a traditional
sense, and 365 isn’t at all. I think you naturally find rhythms, little tropes and little ideas.
Codswallop had something of an emotional arc, as Myles works a lot in television, where
you need to know story structure, so all the things he writes for have beats you have to
hit. Myles really enjoys working with three- or four- or five-act structures; if you can get
it right, it’s fantastic.
“We always do a talk about how you might have a subconscious idea that will just pop
into your head, but to make it work in a film, you have to consciously twist it. So there are
bits like that in 365 where, at the ends of a month, I would sometimes consciously slow it a
bit, and at the very end, there’s definitely 4 seconds where I knew I had to give people that
relief. So even though I do a lot of subconscious work, I still have to somehow organize it
so it isn’t just a load of stuff on screen. The issue when you’re doing something that’s very
heavily scripted is that it’s a different mindset, where you have to heavily storyboard, cre-
ate an animatic, and know what it’s going to be before you’ve finished. With a film like
Phone Home, that is absolutely the right thing to do, because the comic timing had to be
perfect. If I had done just any old thing, it wouldn’t have worked. I like working either way;
it keeps it fresh depending on what the project is.”
At this point in the book, it should be more than clear just how unfettered one’s approach
to an independent animated film can be. Not only that; the platforms and avenues avail-
able for your work are constantly evolving to accommodate these leaps forward in both
technology and artists’ progressive approach to their creative concepts. In the upcoming
chapters, we will be further exploring just how conceptually broad an independent anima-
tion project can be and how recent advances in technology are making the experience of
viewing them more immersive than ever before.

Independent Animation 277

15
Combining Your Efforts

Next we will explore the ways in which independent animation has embraced the mixed-
media approach, something that has, over time, become a significantly more viable option
for auteur production. Prior case studies have touched on this, such as Signe Baumane’s
tactile, handcrafted sets and stop-motion environments for Rocks in my Pockets, against
which her signature 2-D character animation is juxtaposed. The longtime staple of com-
bining live-action with computer-generated (CG) animation is also no longer the exclusive
domain of mainstream cinema, as seen in Matthew Walker’s Little Face and The Outpost’s
Endtrip (see Chapter 16) amongst others, not to mention the variety of stop-motion pro-
cesses that define the work of PES. Here, however, we’ll be looking at a handful of artists
especially known for taking the combined approach throughout their respective bodies of
work, showing just how adaptable and (at times) self-aware animation can be.
The first director whose work we’ll look at is Daniel Greaves, whose 1991 short
Manipulation would go on to win the Cartoon d’Or and an Academy Award the follow-
ing year (Figure 15.1). Evocative (as many films have been, to varying degrees of success)
of the 1953 Chuck Jones classic Duck Amuck, Manipulation is an early example of the
artist-versus-creation concept going one dimension further into more metaphysical terri-
tory, as the abuses inflicted on Daniel’s hand-drawn, 2-D animated figure grow consider-
ably more complex, involving real materials animated using pixilation and stop-motion.
Several sequences in the film (including its final moments. in which the animated victim
seemingly breaks free of the confines of the page) foreshadow the visual premise of the

279
Figure 15.1
Still from Mr. Plastimime (Dir. Daniel Greaves). (Courtesy of Daniel Greaves, ©2014.)

director’s later short Flatworld (1997), produced for the BBC with a grander budget and
scope. In this film, the protagonist Matt Phlatt, his pet cat, and their fellow inhabitants of
the strange titular universe are traditionally animated in 2-D, albeit as cutouts that stand
upright in a stop-motion environment of handmade sets. Beginning with a series of wryly
executed nods to the process itself (e.g., shaving with a pencil eraser, turning sideways on
to negotiate narrow openings, etc.), the film becomes progressively more elaborate, with
an electrical storm opening portals through which television characters (also tradition-
ally animated but composited into the action to suggest more dimensionality) appear and
wreak havoc, thanks to their own set of physical laws. To achieve the overall effect, all of
the half-hour-long film’s 2-D animation was first animated on paper before being photo-
copied and glued onto meticulously cut-out cardboard (with corresponding replacements
required for each different frame of animation), to be then posed within the set and filmed
as stop-motion.
“I suppose it’s a kind of inherent restlessness in myself, that I keep wanting to try differ-
ent things,” Daniel reflects. “I quite like the challenge of doing something that’s slightly out
of my comfort zone and then learning from it. The bigger picture is to then accumulate all
of these skills because they might spark something really special one day, when I’ve got all
these techniques under my belt, as it were. That’s why I jump from one thing to the other.
“I find that one film informs the next, so when it comes to an experience I’ve had mak-
ing a film like Flatworld, which was incredibly labor-intensive work with cutouts involved,
I know that I probably wouldn’t do again! It looked good, and it was exciting at the time,
but once I’ve done something once, I want to do something relatively different and learn
something else.”
The British Academy of Film and Television Arts (BAFTA)-nominated film is
part of a strong legacy of work produced by Tandem Films, the production company

280 15. Combining Your Efforts

Daniel cofounded in 1986 that ran until 2014. The final project Daniel would produce
as part of the company would be Mr. Plastimime (2014), a hybrid of stop-motion pup-
pet animation and digital 2-D in which a floundering mime artist unknowingly lives
beneath his biggest—and only—fan (Figure 15.2). We previously learned in Chapter 9
that the film’s successful completion was owed to crowdfunding, though the idea had
existed for some time before the team at Tandem took the Kickstarter plunge.
“I had this image in my mind of a black-and-white, mime artist character, set in a particu-
lar era. I just wanted to do something that was quite moody. It was originally going to be a lot
more slapstick in the beginning, but it changed into this romantic, atmospheric love story.”
Though the film was initially self-funded, the main impetus for crowdfunding a higher
budget was Daniel’s propensity toward using mixed media to strong effect. In the case
of Mr. Plastimime, the stop-motion puppets are imbued with an extra level of expres-
sion through the addition of hand-animated facial acting. Elsewhere in the film, the star-
crossed neighbors find themselves indulging a mutual fantasy (while an accidental fire
starts to spread in the woman’s apartment) conveyed through an entirely 2-D animated
sequence where they dance the Tango, put together by Daniel himself with the use of live-
action reference footage (Figure 15.3).
“As it was a fantasy sequence, there was a reason for it to be done in a different tech-
nique, for the two principal characters to be together. It also gave us enough time for the
apartment to burst into flames, so when you come back to reality, it’s a shock, or a surprise
at least.”
While Daniel directed the entire film, not being a stop-motion animator by trade
saw him amongst those taking on the additional 2-D facial animation, using reference

Figure 15.2
Mr. Plastimime campaign page promo image. (Courtesy of Daniel Greaves, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 281

Figure 15.3
Still from Mr. Plastimime (Dir. Daniel Greaves). (Courtesy of Daniel Greaves, ©2014.)

points built into the physical puppets as a guide, similar to the compositing approach
of the National Film Board of Canada’s (NFB’s) 2007 stop-motion film Madame Tutli-
Putli (directed by Chris Lavis and Maciek Szczerbowski), which would instead overlay
live-action eyes to bring a more “human” performance out of the puppets. In the case
of Mr. Plastimime, this hybrid approach was crucial to taking each character’s range of
expression to a place that would not have been achievable using stop-motion on its own.
“The animators said it would have been really difficult to sculpt the eye blinks and
subtle expressions with these squashy shapes. I was quite concerned that they would have
looked a bit blank, so I think it was worth taking a chance, even though it cost more.
The thing is, the characters are in the film pretty much 80% of the time, so you’ve got to
take perspective into account. We didn’t use any technical, clever tracking devices; every-
body just had to use their eyes and match it up, which was tricky because the eyes change
depending on the angle of the camera.”
Using Flash, the eye and mouth animation was applied straight-ahead to the stop-
motion footage, with the opacity level brought down a touch so as to not be solid colors
(Figure 15.4). Being able to discern Plasticine textures through the 2-D overlays keeps the
end result from being jarring or incongruous—for the most part, the facial animation
comes across almost as having been physically painted onto the puppets themselves.
Harkening back to the days of Manipulation and Flatworld, Mr. Plastimime also
indulges a certain degree of metaphysical humor in its references to the physicality of the
animation itself, something of a Daniel Greaves trademark.
“I don’t do it consciously, but it has been pointed out—people say, ‘Your films really are
about the process of animation.’ In Mr. Plastimime, you become aware of the technique
when he walks into a lamppost and the Plasticine squashes, for example (Figure 15.5).
You can’t pull the wool over the audience’s eye—they’re pretty clued up as to how these

282 15. Combining Your Efforts

Figure 15.4
Daniel Greaves using Flash to animate facial expressions in Mr. Plastimime. (Courtesy of
Daniel Greaves, ©2014.)

Figure 15.5
Still from Mr. Plastimime (Dir. Daniel Greaves). (Courtesy of Daniel Greaves, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 283

types of things are done—so I do like playing with the genre, but I don’t want to be too
heavy-handed with it. I don’t want to make a big statement that this is a film about anima-
tion; it’s just nice to occasionally remind the audience that this is what the film physically
consists of. So occasionally, there’s a little nod, almost like an in-joke, like the moments in
Flatworld where the characters turn edge-on, but I try not to overdo it.”
On reflection, Daniel cites his first short film outing, Manipulation, as perhaps the most
harmonious coupling of animation approaches: “I had so much more control, because it
was pretty much just me, so when it came to the point of combining the pixilated hands
with the characters, I had an instinct of how far to move. As I was so familiar with the
animation, having done it myself, I had an instinctive idea of how much to move my hand,
per frame. Because this was the early 1990s, the days before computers, I didn’t have video
playback; I just had to sense how far to move my hands every frame. People have said it’s
remarkably smooth—it’s actually quite jerky in places, but I think I got away with it, to a
large degree.”

Duality
Chris Shepherd, whose collaborative adaptation with David Shrigley Who I Am and
What I Want (2005) we learned of in Chapter 4, is another UK filmmaker who has fre-
quently combined animation processes to remarkable effect. Two primary examples from
his extensive filmography that come to mind are Dad’s Dead (2003) and The Ringer (2013),
both of which are rooted in live action and visually emboldened via an assortment of
captivating animation and visual effects. Although these films have a distinct visual edge,
they succeed for both being strongly told stories.

Figure 15.6
Still from Dad’s Dead (Dir. Chris Shepherd). (Courtesy of Chris Shepherd, ©2003.)

284 15. Combining Your Efforts

“Story has always been my cornerstone,” enthuses Chris. “I always think of story first
and then think of what style it would be, based on how that might affect the audience. I’m
not crazy about technique just for the sake of it; I always think, What’s my story? And then,
How can I tell it? Then I’ll think about what I want to do to the audience; do I want to scare
them or make them laugh?”
Ticking both boxes, Dad’s Dead is laced with dry wit, while at the same time, the events
are catastrophized by the increasingly nightmarish overlaid animation (Figure 15.6). The
film is a memoir about the turning point in which an unnamed, Liverpudlian narrator
(Ian Hart) comes to realize that his “best mate” Johnno (Chris Freeney) is not just an anti-
social youth but an outright sociopath. The film is presented as a sequence of point-of-view
(POV) memories with animated embellishments projected over them, beginning innocu-
ously and becoming progressively more disturbing; with each new unveiling of Johnno’s
real self, his depiction becomes ever more demonic and distorted (Figure 15.7).

Figure 15.7
The increasingly demonic “Johnno” of Dad’s Dead. (Courtesy of Chris Shepherd, ©2003.)

Independent Animation 285

“I wanted to tell a story about my environment. My previous film was very cartoony,
and I wanted to make something that felt real, more about memory.” The backbone of the
film is Ian Hart’s narration, which had been recorded several years previously. Hearing
Hart’s performance of his own writing struck enough of a nerve that Chris initially had no
desire to put it out in the world in any form. “I stuck it in the cupboard and shut the door
on it! I was scared of it because it was so dark and I’m not a very dark person. But it was a
good story, and so when I got some funding to animate it, I brought this recording back
out and then made the film.
“It wasn’t traditionally storyboarded. I did it very instinctively, five or six shoots over
the year; I’d do some animation, then do another shoot, then edit, do some animation and
do another shoot, and so on, building it up like a painting.”
Citing Francis Bacon as one of the film’s visual references, the incrementally-built-
upon approach—some instances of footage having been shot 3 years beforehand in a tower
block, with new footage subsequently composited in—makes for a film that manages to
cultivate a natural flow to it. This can be attributed to two main consistencies—the nar-
ration that binds the action and the regular visual augmentation the animation brings to
the film.
The latter is also a major component of The Ringer, an altogether different type of film
yet still laced with a certain mix of comedy, darkness, and pathos. Inspired by real-life
events, the film sees Christopher (Kieran Lynn), a young man working in web animation,
reencounter his estranged father, Danny (John Henshaw). Unable to comprehend that his
son’s job does not bring with it any show-business pull, Danny’s deluded hope and over-
bearing insistence that the two can work together on getting his mediocre screenplay The
Ringer made into a film serve to dash any hopes of a clement reconciliation.
“It’s not a portrayal of reality; elements are real, but it is fiction, and it’s up to the audi-
ence to try and figure out what it’s all about. I suppose in a way, it’s about reconcilia-
tion, but it’s also, in my mind, a bit about dreams as well, the dream of wanting to go to
Hollywood, the dream of wanting to make a big feature film.”
The substory within the main narrative is that of The Ringer itself, a cliché-ridden stab
at the gangster heist genre as filtered through someone with no real grasp of film or story
structure. Indulging his father out of a sense of obligation that quickly wanes, the son can
only envision the events described as a cartoonish pastiche modeled on the overstated
grandiosity and color palettes of 1970s movie posters.
“It was something that I never would have done in a million years, the car chase, pros-
titutes getting shot, gunfire—normally, I’d run a mile from that sort of stuff. So I did it out
of irony, but in the process of making the film, I realized how fun it was to make cars blow
up and shoot people in the head—I can see why other filmmakers do it now! Even though
the parallel story is quite weak and meant to be ironic, I like it, because whenever you
make a film, you care about all the characters: Big Tony, the kid, Amber (Figure 15.8)—
even though they’re not based in reality and are more like cartoon characters, I care for
them just as much.”
After their initial encounter, the interactions between Chris and his emotionally unsta-
ble father grow increasingly terse. The characters from The Ringer begin to bleed into
Chris’s thoughts as he starts to connect with them, eventually coercing him to make at
least some stab at inward reconciliation. The fantasy sequences for the film, which was
produced in association with Autour de Minuit, were predicated on live-action footage

286 15. Combining Your Efforts

Figure 15.8
Still from The Ringer (Dir. Chris Shepherd). (Courtesy of Autour de Minuit/Polkadot Produc
tions, ©2013.)

shot against green screen, later keyed, filtered, and composited into 3-D CG environments
by a team of visual artists at ADV Studios in France. Last, a form of rotoscoping was
applied, tracing line art over every frame of the characters—a process that took over half
a year—resulting in a striking, “moving-poster” effect. While the film’s strictly live-action
sequences are strong enough in terms of the writing, direction, and performances to be a
compelling film, as with Dad’s Dead, the visual garnish allows for a very effective insight
into the main character’s emotional conflicts and turmoil.
“Live action and animation are very different,” Chris reasons. “Something you show as
being quite harsh in live action, you can put it into animation, and it can become funny or
quite mild, so there are all those considerations. If it’s a dark comedy, you might not want
it to become too heavy, so by showing it like a cartoon, it just deflates it and almost brings
a sense of sarcasm to it (Figure 15.9).
“All the films are different, but when I wrote Dad’s Dead, it was as more of a straight
play. Then when I did the animatic, I would think about parallel narratives and ways to
subvert the main narrative, building it up over time. When it came to The Ringer, I would
see the film as I wrote it, the idea of this parallel world that would be animated.”
Another shared trait with Dad’s Dead, though buried perhaps a little deeper, is The
Ringer’s tragicomic sensibility (Figure 15.10). The humor, underplayed though it is, keeps
the film from being maudlin melodrama. Danny’s attempts to bond or find common
ground with Chris, for instance, are strangely endearing for being utterly devoid of logic.
Toward the end, when the film’s main narrative (now intertwined with that of the fictional
universe within) goes from threatening to poignant, the shift in tone is felt all the more.
“I feel that with comedy, you can convey something quite dark while keeping the audi-
ence on board. Even when I try to be serious, the films always end up being funny; it’s

Independent Animation 287

Figure 15.9
Still from The Ringer (Dir. Chris Shepherd). (Courtesy of Autour de Minuit/Polkadot Produc
tions, ©2013.)

Figure 15.10
Still from The Ringer (Dir. Chris Shepherd). (Courtesy of Autour de Minuit/Polkadot Produc
tions, ©2013.)

288 15. Combining Your Efforts

become one of my things. I suppose the other thing I’ve always tacked on are themes
around nostalgia and imagination, because you can use the animation and live-action
combo to go to a higher sensory plane, by showing your fantasies in a way that you can’t
do with live action on its own.
“I do love live action because with that it’s all about subtlety. I always say that in ani-
mation you can kill somebody by dropping an anvil on their head, that’s totally accept-
able, but in live action, you can kill somebody with something small, a look, even, and in
the next scene, they’re dead or gone. I’ve done purely live-action films as well, such as Bad
Night for the Blues (2010), but the magic of live action and animation combined is that
anything can happen. That’s quite an exciting thing, to have that extra arsenal of tools to
make something come to life.”

Splintering Off
One particular series of independent, mixed-media projects from the Netherlands serves
as a prime example of how storytelling and a multitude of art forms can come together to
form entire creative universes. The work of Dutch artist Rosto is legendarily grand in spec-
tacle and the talk of many a major festival, combining rich soundscapes; arresting musical
compositions (from avant-garde to straight-ahead rock); a plethora of epic, sometimes
metaphysical interwoven story strands; and unforgettable visuals. While Rosto’s later
projects boast bolstered production values through significant financial support from a
variety of funding bodies, all of his work retains a crucial independent and artistic spirit
at its core.
Animation has always been an important part of Rosto’s process, going back to his
childhood and a home studio setup involving his father’s 8 mm camera and friends who
would financially contribute to material costs so as to be involved. The technological limi-
tations of the time put his animation inclinations temporarily on hold. “It took forever to
do all the animation, shooting all these cels and then sending it off to a lab and having to
wait 3 weeks for it to come back—only to discover that it was all out of focus and underlit!
After a while, I gave up and started to shoot horror movies in my teenage years.” With the
advent of video briefly reigniting a predigital enthusiasm for filmmaking, it wasn’t until
the arrival of the Amiga (“a miracle machine!”) that animation was permanently brought
back into his life.
“I first started doing the drawn-animation thing again, then very slowly, the hybrid
approach came in. By now, I was a more stubborn young man who decided that I don’t
have to choose to become a 2-D animator—or graphic designer, or musician; I can actually
combine all these things!”
The mixed-media roots of Rosto’s highly complex artistic universe can be traced, at
least visually, to his online web series Mind My Gap (Figure 15.11), which takes the form of
a multimedia “graphic novel” detailing the troubled journeys of Diddybob and Buddybob,
best friends and presenters of the fictional television show Living Interior. The story begins
in a 1998 Flash-animated webisode Map1: Highway, which sees Diddybob on a mysteri-
ous road journey, having left his life and Buddybob behind, for reasons unknown. Set to
mostly still illustrations and rudimentary animated sequences, the narration and dialog
are unforgiving, at times coyly self-aware of their impenetrability, yet the story is absorbing
enough to entice the viewer into attempting to fathom its mysteries. The saga concludes 15

Independent Animation 289

Figure 15.11
Artwork for Rosto’s Mind My Gap. (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D.)

years later in 2013 with the two-part, full-blown live-action/CG metaphysical epic Map13:
XIII and Episode13: XIII (episodes 25 and 26 of Mind My Gap, respectively). These two
concluding chapters are best known on the animation festival circuit as the single piece
Lonely Bones, itself the second part of a parallel series of short films (Figure 15.12).
Before exploring those, however, it’s worth examining the long path to Rosto’s status as
one of Amsterdam’s most successful and intriguing independent artists. Though Mind My
Gap is where the story ultimately begins, the creative seeds were sewn some time before
through music, not animation.
“The graphic novel was actually inspired by songs I had written in the mid-1990s,”
says Rosto, “although I didn’t realize at the time that my entire career would spring
from it! When I wrote the first songs around 1995 with the band The Wreckers—as we
were called back then—it was all very intuitive. The only thing that I knew was that
it was about landscapes, crossroads—there was no concept behind it other than those
elements.”

290 15. Combining Your Efforts

Figure 15.12
Still from Lonely Bones (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D./Autour de Minuit, ©2013.)

Several years later, as both the 1990s and The Wreckers as a real-life band were com-
ing to an end, these compositions became the springboard for something altogether more
complex. From the very first episode, it is clear that Mind My Gap does not follow any
established patterns or frameworks that Flash-based web animations were known for at
the time. Certainly, it makes use of the advantages of the medium—the addition of sound
effects, music, and recorded performances helps tremendously in the adaptation from its
original print incarnation, as does a certain level of interactivity, allowing the viewer to
switch from one narrative strand to another. Though the official website self-effacingly
refers to these early episodes as “obsolete,” the concept of this type of digital storytelling
“a dinosaur” in an era where the Internet has “evolved into a dominating household com-
modity,” they are a valuable study when it comes to several areas of artistic development
and approaches to storytelling. As Rosto recalls, “This was basically right after the birth of
the Internet. I was pioneering, while not really understanding what I was doing. You have
to understand, this was the 1990s—the Internet seemed like it might be here to stay, but we
didn’t know at the time whether or not it was just hype.”
Though not “tech-savvy” by his own admission, Rosto’s motives for embracing the
Internet’s potential in a manner far removed from the glut of web animators rising to
popularity at the same time came from seeing a documentary on the subject. “I realized
a couple of things. First, that this was probably going to be big, and the ‘big boys’ would
probably try to hijack it and make it theirs. So we, the ‘little people,’ had to be there first—it
was like the Wild West, basically; whoever gets there first claims their territory.
“The other thing I realized was that even as an independent artist or filmmaker, you’re
never truly independent, because you need the money people on your side. Even if you
don’t do it with big budgets, if you make your own small guerilla projects, you still need
the blessing of curators, festival directors, or whoever else might own a platform where

Independent Animation 291

you could put your work on display. They still have to be your friends, your fans, or sup-
porters, so you depend on their tastes.”
Rosto’s sense of territorial obligation paired with the open-door potential of distribut-
ing his work on the Internet (nowadays a common practice) led to the breakthrough rev-
elation that there were truly no limits—subversive, individual, or personal—on whatever
form it might take. “That I could publish it online and have the world be my audience was
amazing! Now we’re so used to it, but back then, literally all possible platforms and stages
were owned by people whose help you’d need to get work published.”
That very evening, the efforts to adapt Mind My Gap—which had already started in
print form as a running series in two sibling Dutch magazines—began, converting the art-
work and dialog to an online Flash slideshow with music and sound, and teaching himself
the fundamentals of http to be able to create and upload the first episode all in one night.
Bound by the same technical limitations of the era, as previously mentioned in Chapter 5,
early episodes are bare-bones affairs less than a megabyte in size to allow the online audi-
ence of the time to be able to watch them uninterrupted. Though visually minimal, the
uninhibited, auteur nature of the stories more than compensate for this. “The early days
were fantastic in the sense that it literally felt like, on a more political or philosophical
level, what I was doing as a truly independent artist mattered. It was great to discover that,
as soon as Mind My Gap became more of a body of work, there actually was an audience
out there, in the world. What I do is what you could call ‘boutique’; it’s a niche that is cer-
tainly not for everyone, but as soon as you have all these quirky individuals who are poten-
tially interested in what you are interested in, suddenly you have a substantial audience.”
Learning, largely via e-mails, that this ongoing mixed-media project had some reso-
nance and a growing fan base boosted Rosto’s confidence to progress the stories of Mind
My Gap without compromise, regardless of their intricacies or inaccessibilities. The stories
became as adventurous and unpredictable to Rosto himself as they were to their eventual
audience, yet certain components ensured that the narratives did not go so far off the rails
as to become tedious or off-putting. Chief among these was the musical foundation of the
series.
“There was no master plan except for the songs. On a narrative level, I had no clue as to
what would happen in the next episode. I wanted it to be as adventurous and as creatively
challenging as possible, so I basically just took my time and, just like a musician would,
followed the material and played with it and surprised myself. I deliberately did it like this
because having everything sketched out and knowing what I’ll be doing for the next 15
years of my life sounds like a nightmare to me.”
As the free-form approach to telling Diddybob and Buddybob’s story continued to gain
momentum, additional narrative strands branched out of Mind My Gap in the form of
the short films Beheaded (1999), (The Rise and Fall of the Legendary) Anglobilly Feverson
(2002), and Jona/Tomberry (2005). Rosto acknowledges this trilogy as representing more
or less the start of his career as an independent filmmaker.
“The first little short “Beheaded” is a 3-minute musical piece about the Langeman, one
of my characters, losing his head—I consider that my first successful film (Figure 15.13).
I had been trying to make films all my life, basically messing around, trying to find my
voice, trying to imitate others, all the stuff that you should do as a young person. Beheaded
was my first film where I felt, This is me; I did this for me; it’s as honest as possible; I’m not
trying to please my mother or my girlfriend or any of these demons looking over my shoulder

292 15. Combining Your Efforts

Figure 15.13
Still from Beheaded (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D., ©2005.)

whenever I’m creating something. It was a 3-minute little sweet nothing, but for me, it was
a breakthrough.”
The film certainly succeeds as a natural progression of the graphic novel webisodes,
combining the simple yet affecting visual of the Langeman’s disembodied CG head sing-
ing his lamentation against a backdrop of densely composited typographical elements, fol-
lowing an introductory scenario combining both asset-based and hand-drawn digital 2-D
animation. While the film would not achieve the same success as those that came after, it
laid an important foundation for the subsequent works to build on.
“After Beheaded was (The Rise and Fall of the Legendary) Anglobilly Feverson. In Mind
My Gap, there is an episode where the ‘director’ character refers to a storyboard for his
film. People thought I was just messing around, but it actually was a real storyboard for
a real film that was, I suppose, my breakthrough. Anglobilly finally gave me a spot in
the independent short filmmakers’ landscape.” Further cementing this spot was the con-
cluding film, 2005’s Jona/Tomberry, which went on to win a major prize at the Cannes
International Film Festival. This trilogy of films embraced the established characters and
sense of structural lawlessness from the graphic novel universe while adding additional
elements, such as a hallucinogenic reincarnation of Rosto’s 1990s musical outfit, later to
be rechristened Thee Wreckers. Paying tribute to the band from whose music these stories
had sprung, the animated counterparts of band members Wrecker Walley, Wrecker Folley,
Wrecker Rooney, and Wrecker Rosto are shackled and chained demonic spectres who
quickly become a key visual of Mind My Gap’s expanded universe. “I had now immortal-
ized them by taking their ‘souls,’ making them into characters, and doing a studio project
of all the songs that we wrote in the 1990s, this time recording them properly.”
The strength of this visual concept, paired with the crucial role the songs played as a
catalyst for these adventurous film ideas, ultimately led to another supplemental story
strand, a tetralogy of shorts in which Thee Wreckers ultimately take center stage. The first
two of these films, No Place Like Home (2009), and the aforementioned Lonely Bones are

Independent Animation 293

firmly a part of the Mind My Gap storyline, functioning as works of avant-garde film to be
appreciated in their own right and/or as an elaborate coda to Diddybob and Buddybob’s
journey (Figure 15.14). From the third short Splintertime (2015) onward, the films focus
on the journey of Thee Wreckers themselves, chauffeured in an ambulance following the
events of Lonely Bones through a vast, seemingly unending tundra by a dancing nurse,
again a metanod to the band’s real-world origins (Figure 15.15).
“Often, there will already be a backstory or a legacy of some sort. The nurse was our
‘mascot’ when we were The Wreckers in the 1990s, because for the first demos that we
recorded I designed the covers for our cassette tapes. I found this ‘kinky’ nurse in a 1960s
magazine who was doing nothing special except for just sitting there and pulling on her
clothes a little bit, which I found fantastic, in a way—what is kinky about that? I liked
that visual a lot, so every time we put out a release on a cassette, there was a nurse. It
always seemed to make sense, these guys in black—The Wreckers—wrecking stuff, and
then a nurse in white comes in. That visual disappeared for a long time, and with Thee
Wreckers, she doesn’t play a part until that ending of Lonely Bones, when suddenly, there
she is again.”
Portrayed in live action by dancer/choreographer Nina Nestelaar, the CG-accentuated
features and frenetic movements of the nurse serve as one of the most striking visuals of
Splintertime, and as such, the character’s organic origins are notable when considering
idea generation. Indeed, many of Rosto’s most affecting visual concepts have sprung from
the real world, adapted in such a way as to occupy a limbo between documentary film-
making and outright fiction (though it is certainly closer to the latter). The final sequence
of Lonely Bones, for example, is laced with acknowledgments of the production process
itself, in which the elaborate CG backdrop alternates and occasionally disappears com-
pletely to reveal the green-screen studio and crew (Figure 15.16). Other recurring visuals
in the preceding films, such as the motif of various forms of a cross, inform the visuals of
Splintertime, though whether these are conscious or subconscious decisions eludes even
Rosto himself. “Did I create these things, or did they just fall into place? I never know how

Figure 15.14
Still from No Place Like Home (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D., ©2009.)

294 15. Combining Your Efforts

Figure 15.15
Splintertime (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D./Autour de Minuit/S.O.I.L., ©2015.)

Figure 15.16
Still from Lonely Bones (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D./Autour de Minuit, ©2013.)

Independent Animation 295

that works, but that’s why I call my work intuitive; it often feels like I just found these ideas
somewhere. My own intuition is basically a repository of everything that has happened
to me in my life. Did I find these things there? Did I borrow them? I don’t know, but at a
certain point, these things click; they are all aligned, and then it’s as though the universe
is telling me that they are ready to be used in my next project.”
These ideas generally manifest themselves as combinations of elements from preced-
ing projects, oftentimes perfectly suited to the variety of combined approaches that has
become something of a signature style. Though the tetralogy has, at the least, some ele-
ments of consistency, be they the musical foundations, the characters, or each film being
able to identifiably lead into the one that follows, the lack of any hard-and-fast “rules” to
the mythology of Rosto’s universe has been its most creatively freeing aspect.
“It’s interesting to me, because the graphic novel is now finished, and it sort of has its
own internal logic, but everything grew organically, and there is still a lot of stuff in there
which is contradictory and doesn’t add up or lead to anything. I see some things where I
go, ‘Wow, I never realized at the time that this actually makes a lot of sense,’ because I had
just done whatever pleased me, whatever I found interesting. There are also other leads
that I see that are basically red herrings, things I found interesting at the same time, got
bored with, and dropped.”
The actual visual execution of the films chronologically increases in sophistication, with
the funding circumstances, as overviewed in Chapter 8, playing an obvious part. However,
from the rudimentary assortment of animation processes visible in Beheaded to the lavish
high-definition (HD) spectacles of Lonely Bones and beyond, Rosto has always embraced
the limitless potential of cross-media filmmaking, even eschewing such labor-saving
approaches as motion capture (mocap) for comparatively complex pipelines of 3-D tracking

Figure 15.17
Still from Lonely Bones (Dir. Rosto). (Courtesy of Studio Rosto A.D./Autour de Minuit, ©2013.)

296 15. Combining Your Efforts

and rotoscoping overlaid on top of live-action performances, so as to preserve the unique
look and nightmarish quality of hybrid animation he has established (Figure 15.17).
“It may be that how I do it is time-consuming, which could be a case for motion cap-
ture, but I don’t find that especially interesting. If I want the characters to look like real
people, I don’t see why I can’t just shoot a real person. Sometimes I want them animated,
because there’s always a difference in what an animator brings to a character; it’s never the
same as live action unless you rotoscope it. An animator can bring an otherworldliness to
a character, which you cannot do in live action. So I never really understood, except for
time efficiency, why I would use motion capture.”
Although Rosto concedes that experimentation within certain areas of mocap, in par-
ticular, facial capture, can yield some interesting artistic results, his philosophy for incor-
porating new animation methods and approaches is far less about convenience than the
potential for creative ingenuity. “I might go into those territories somewhere in the future.
As soon as there is something that I don’t understand yet, or find fascinating—especially
for all the things that it wasn’t designed for originally—then I often try to make it part of
my next project. I hate to repeat stuff that I know too much about already—life is too short
to be repeating yourself.”

Independent Animation 297

16
Your Film in Depth:
Considering Stereoscopy

Mainstream cinema’s on-again, off-again relationship with stereoscopic projection has

seemingly settled down, moving past the inevitable glut of gimmicky, postironic 3-D
affairs to nowadays being largely focused on films that are grand enough in spectacle to

299
warrant being viewed with an added sense of immersion (many of these being animated
features). At this point, producing your independent short stereoscopically is a relatively
straightforward process, with software incorporating it as an option when compositing/
rendering and stereoscopic camera rigs for stop-motion setups easily obtainable. The
question remains: just because it can be done, should it be?
While some festivals are able to accommodate 3-D projection, it is far from standard
practice, so the first major element to consider is just how focused your plan of action will
need to be if you actually want a film to be seen stereoscopically, in a theatrical setting.
With 3-D home viewing never having taken hold in a major way, outside of a festival or
cinema environment, there are other viewing options that allow for 3-D shorts in a more
portable sense, such as displaying films as moving stereograms, in which the two necessary
images required to create the illusion of depth are simultaneously screened side by side. To
achieve the stereoscopic effect, the viewer needs to physically cross or outwardly diverge
(depending on which side is which) their eyes so as to blend the two images, though this
is not an especially comfortable practice for many and becomes increasingly less advisable
the larger the image. Also, who wants to sit watching a film cross-eyed?
This essential principle is easier facilitated by processes such as Google Cardboard,* a
budget option for experiencing films and apps in 3-D on mobile devices. The loose and
adaptable premise allows viewers to construct their own wearable goggles that direct each
respective image from the 3-D project to the corresponding eye, essentially transforming
the device into a makeshift virtual reality (VR) headset. The higher-end versions of this
are professionally manufactured gaming headsets themselves, whose main applications
are designed to be interactive experiences, though experimental film projects in which the
wearer can passively observe the action without actively engaging with it do exist, such
as the multiartist Oculus Mobile VR Jam project Colosse and Maarten Isaäk de Heer’s
Februar.† The world of immersive film is, however, a somewhat separate beast to (though
perhaps a more viable future than) the application of stereoscopy to independent anima-
tion shorts. One area in which stereoscopy will most likely never fully take flight is 2-D
character-based animation. Compositing in a 3-D environment is now a staple of most
prominent software, from Toon Boom to After Effects, but if the graphics are actually
rendered stereoscopically, the illusion of depth will only be applied to a series of flat planes
for each layer, rendering the endeavor somewhat underwhelming and arbitrary. There
have been some instances where the level of atmosphere and visual innovation has been
well served by stereoscopic projection,‡ though these have proved rare exceptions. When
applied to a more conceptually adventurous film, however, an assortment of 2-D elements
can be reconfigured in a rather compelling manner.
Though it went on to perform spectacularly as an independent film in its own right,
Thomas Stellmach and Maja Oschmann’s 2013 Louis Spohr tribute Virtuos Virtuell ulti-
mately began life as a commission for Kassel’s Spohr Museum, one of its primary funders
(Figure 16.1). One of the caveats of this arrangement was to create a piece that would

* https://www.google.com/get/cardboard/
† http://www.maartenisaakdeheer.com/
‡ Such as Claire Blanchet’s 2013 NFB film The End of Pinky, whose flat, traditionally animated characters

inhabit a misty, film-noir dream world that envelopes the viewer.

300 16. Your Film in Depth

Figure 16.1
Thomas Stellmach and Maja Oschmann at the Virtuos Virtuell exhibit. (Courtesy of Thomas
Stellmach.)

embrace newer technology, and the decision was made to produce the film stereoscopi-
cally so as to be displayed on an autostereoscopic monitor.*
“That was the main reason that we had this stereoscopic aspect to the project. During
the early days of the project, however, we did some stereoscopic tests and were actually
quite disappointed with the effect. As artists, we were so happy to do the 2-D version, as
it seemed more interesting for the audience to sense the third dimension and not really
see it. We recognized this aspect very early on and we knew that the 2-D version was our
favorite.”
As the stereoscopic angle was one of the primary hooks of the film in the eyes of
certain funders, the hope of proceeding with a 2-D-only version of the film was not an
option. With the digital painting and live-action experimentation with ink (as outlined in
Chapter 11) generated and filmed in standard 2-D, creation of the stereoscopic effect for
the museum-friendly version came during the film’s compositing phase.
“The black ink stroke was drawn first on a graphics tablet in software that simulates
that style of ink, and when it went to the third dimension, I changed the technique. I used
an After Effects plug-in called Particular that also simulates this black ink stroke. With
that, I could move the key frames in three dimensions using After Effects. This effect is
especially visible when the camera moves away; even when watching the 2-D version of the
film you can appreciate the sense of 3-D, more and more.”
As the film is composited on multiple layers, the 3-D capabilities of After Effects made
the creation of elaborate stereoscopic sections of the film a relatively straightforward

* The type of screen that doesn’t require the use of glasses, using lenticular technology to present two (out of
five or more) separate images to each eye, so as to be viewed from multiple angles.

Independent Animation 301

affair. On top of this, having the footage comprised of multiple, separately-filmed seg-
ments allowed for it to be “bent” as it progressed, heightening the level of dimensionality
beyond what would otherwise be a series of flat planes (Figure 16.2).
To generate a 3-D effect when it comes to film, at least two images are required, from
two slightly different perspectives approximate to the distance between the eyes of the
viewer. For live-action productions, this is achieved by two simultaneous cameras film-
ing side by side, with a similar setup for stop-motion projects; given the immobility of a
stop-motion puppet once posed, a variant on this setup can be achieved by a single camera
“stepper” rig that can allow a single camera to shoot each frame twice, adjusting its posi-
tion accordingly. When it comes to digital animation, this effect is relatively easy to rep-
licate, whether through a self-made rig (as we’ll learn about shortly, in the case of Florian
Werzinski), plug-ins, scripts, or built-in software functionality.
For the purposes of an autostereoscopic projection, however, at least five different
renders of the film from incrementally different angles are required, as was the case for
Virtuos Virtuell’s museum screening. Though the viewer will still only see one angle per
eye, the broader range of perspectives allows the film to be more easily viewed from each
side of the screen, rather than simply face-on.
Beyond the exhibition itself was the film’s broader festival appeal, although it’s inter-
esting to note that, while festivals that specialized in 3-D projection would grant the film
special consideration, the 2-D alternative was far from a limiting factor.
“I found that there were only a few festivals that show 3-D films (such as KLIK!
Amsterdam International Animation Festival), so most festivals haven’t shown Virtuos
Virtuell stereoscopically; they have shown the 2-D version (Figure 16.3). I’m not sure that
all these festival directors even know that a stereoscopic version exists! When you enter
a film into a festival, you have to choose 3-D or 2-D on the online entry form; in a lot of
cases, it can only be one.”
With over 180 official selections under its belt, the greater percentage being 2-D projec-
tions, it’s clear that the film’s success would never have hinged on 3-D as a selling point.

Figure 16.2
Virtuos Virtuell Stereoscopic test footage. (Courtesy of Thomas Stellmach.)

302 16. Your Film in Depth

Figure 16.3
Still from Virtuos Virtuell (Dir. Thomas Stellmach and Maja Oschmann). (Courtesy of Thomas
Stellmach, ©2013.)

Though having a stereoscopic version of the film arguably served to increase its visibility
and appeal to a certain degree (amongst the film’s major awards were Best 3D Animation
at the Barcelona 3D Film and Music Fest), for Thomas and Maja, the 2-D incarnation of
Virtuos Virtuell remains their preferred version.
“Of course, people are curious to see the stereoscopic version, but I like to say that I
prefer the 2-D version because the audience shouldn’t get the whole, clear picture. They
should have questions about how the film was made.
“In my opinion, stereoscopy is not really necessary, because after 10 minutes or so,
you forget that the 3-D effect is even there. In some cases, they use it very well for special
effects, which can make sense, for the story—The Walk (Dir. Robert Zemeckis, 2015), for
example, or Gravity (Dir. Alfonso Cuarón, 2013). I used it very subtly in Virtuos Virtuell,
which I think people prefer. It’s not present at the beginning; it appears more and more
throughout. For dramatic aspects of the film, it becomes more three-dimensional sud-
denly, and at the end, it goes back to the flat plane, to the ‘paper,’ you could say.”

An Interview with Filmmaking Collective The Outpost

The Outpost* is a collective of animation and visual effects artists based out of Utrecht
in The Netherlands, consisting of Koen de Mol, Olivier Ballast, and Rick Franssen. Their
sense of visual sophistication and strong work dynamic began when they first came
together at Utrecht’s HKU University of the Arts. Their first stereoscopically produced

* http://theoutpost.nl

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collaborative project Endtrip (2013) boasts a spectacular degree of visual richness in its
first-person portrayal of a young woman’s drug overdose (Figure 16.4). Beginning in live-
action point of view (POV), the woman’s perspective gradually retreats inside her own
body, where an array of hypnagogic computer-generated (CG) visuals are introduced.
Combining photorealism (to depict organic forms such as organs, appendages, anatomi-
cal canals) with pure CG abstraction, Endtrip is a brief but powerful piece from which the
group have forged an already strong career. The effectiveness of the film, carried through
by the illusion of a constant backward motion, translates to standard 2-D viewing, but
in its stereoscopic form, it truly shines. Here we will learn more about the film’s origins,
execution, and reception, along with some of the practical concerns that presented them-
selves along the way.
First, can you explain how the team came to work together and, by extension, how the
project itself first came about?
“Before the actual production, we started with a bigger group in which everyone still
had to orientate on what they actually wanted to do for their graduation piece. Even
though we come from a CG background, some of us actually graduated as concept art-
ists, not having to do anything with animation. There were multiple ideas for stories from
everyone, and slowly but surely, some people figured out what they wanted to do, whether
it be something completely different or to make a film all by themselves. The three of us
wanted to do something surrealistic and confronting, something that would shock our
audience. The next big question then became ‘how?’
“For several weeks, we started gathering different ideas, which we pitched to each other
until finally we knew we had a subject that would get everyone going: a visualization of a
drug trip that would turn into a bad trip. Even for people that have never done drugs, this
seemed interesting, as it gives the audience our interpretation of what it might look like”
(Figure 16.5).

Figure 16.4
Concept visual for Endtrip. (Courtesy of The Outpost, ©2013.)

304 16. Your Film in Depth

Figure 16.5
Concept visual for Endtrip. (Courtesy of The Outpost, ©2013.)

With your respective backgrounds, how did you communicate ideas back and forth
during the film’s production?
“We all had different views on the subject, which meant having lots of discussions
about it. We had multiple brainstorming sessions a week to come up with fresh ideas. That
actually made both the process and the film quite dynamic, up to the point where we even
changed the story in a pretty significant way during production. We knew the storyline
would be multi-interpretable, but the three of us had to understand what we ourselves
wanted to communicate in the film. How the audience interprets the film is up to them,
which is what makes it interesting to have discussions about the subject.”
Can you break down the overall division of labor within the production—did any of
the team have particular skill sets they brought to the project, for example?
“When we started with the project, there was no clear division; everyone did what
needed to be done and what made them enthusiastic. As the project moved along, it became
clearer what each of our strengths were. For example, we all took on the role of director,
which sometimes made it difficult to make decisions. Of course, in every production, skill
sets overlap and you help each other wherever you can. Next to that, we all had differ-
ent roles in the production. Koen was mostly doing the compositing, stereoscopic setups,
and solving technical problems. Rick was responsible for the animations and simu lations.
Olivier did art direction, modeling/sculpting/texturing, and lighting the scenes.”
How long did the production last, in total?
“Preproduction—which meant getting our concept, artwork, and storyline
straight—lasted about 6 weeks. The production lasted for about 4–5 months, including
postproduction. We always tried to get the postproduction of each scene done as soon
as they were rendered, while in the meantime, the other members of the team would
work on the next scenes. It’s fair to say the whole production lasted about 7 months”
(Figure 16.6).
In terms of the visualization, can you break down the film’s planning/preproduction
in so far as how you were able to later stay on top of such a visually complex series of
images?

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Figure 16.6
Endtrip poster. (Courtesy of The Outpost, ©2013.)

“The planning of the film would change frequently, which had to do with a few deci-
sions we made during the project, one of which was the decision to make it stereoscopic.
We made this choice a few months into the production, meaning we had to make a few
changes visually and in the storyline, because the technique requires changes in the way
we move throughout the scenes. After we got our first storyline straight, we started art-
work to complement our concept. When we had our concept approved, we started the
storyboard and animatic, which took quite some time to get the way we wanted. The
single-camera movement made it pretty hard to connect and time the scenes in such a
way the viewers could create any type of storyline for themselves. For every scene in the
animatic we approved, there was concept art to complement it, so as to give us a way to
visualize the trip. We constantly build on top of each other’s work, so there was always
work to be done.”
On that point, how did you come up with the visual ideas themselves? Was there a lot
of research into the mechanics of the mind when under the influence/near death and
so forth?
“We actually researched a lot, from reading people experiences, watching lots of differ-
ent films about life/death/drugs, and watching art created by people under the influence
of different kinds of drugs. We filtered it down to what were, in our opinion, the most
intriguing ways to look at the subject.”
The film begins in live action before the CG sequence comes in to play; why did you
choose to have this mixed-media approach, and do you feel it makes the film more
engaging?

306 16. Your Film in Depth

“The live-action part was something in which we decided would make the experience
more realistic for the audience. It gave us a status quo with which people can identify,
after which they undergo the surrealistic experience of a trip, something most people have
never gone through” (Figure 16.7).
What brought about the decision to have the film be stereoscopic?
“Our goal was to create a film that would be as immersive as possible—that explains
the live-action opening and the single camera shot that moves backwards throughout. We
learned that having a sense of depth would add a lot to this immersive experience. When
a person undergoes a drug trip, they do not experience it as a two-dimensional film play-
ing in front of their eyes. This way, the audience can actually partake in this newly created
world. We hoped that the use of stereoscopy would bring the viewer closer to the film and
make it a less passive experience.”
Did HKU as a university have any role in the decision to approach the film in this way?
“Our teachers advised that stereoscopic would be an interesting technique to use and
a way of enhancing the immersive experience of the story. We feel it has done exactly
that. The school gave us the opportunity to be put in touch with experienced people and
equipment.”
Were there stereoscopic considerations in place during preproduction, idea genera-
tion, and shot planning, or was that largely down to the software itself?
“At first, it wasn’t part of our production at all. We decided quite a long way into the
production to make the film stereoscopic. That also meant doing a lot of work again, revis-
iting shots and the storyline. We had to learn the technique in a short amount of time to
keep our planning straight.
“We started out as complete newbies to stereoscopy, which meant we had to learn a lot
of new techniques in a very short amount of time. We were very lucky to have an experi-
enced stereographer who explained most of the dos and don’ts. At first, we did not have
access to a 3-D TV or projector, so we went old school and used anaglyph glasses—this
actually worked surprising well. The next step was to acquire a 3-D TV and test out the
first couple of shots. At that moment, the limitation of the stereoscopy became clearer,

Figure 16.7
Still from Endtrip (Dir. The Outpost). (Courtesy of The Outpost, ©2013.)

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Figure 16.8
Still from Endtrip (Dir. The Outpost). (Courtesy of The Outpost, ©2013.)

with ghosting* becoming the biggest issue. We soon learned tricks to deal with these prob-
lems, and within no time, it became an integrated part of the pipeline. The final stage of
stereoscopic postproduction consisted of several test screenings in a theater, and based on
those, we made several final tweaks” (Figure 16.8).
How have you found audience’s reactions to the use of stereoscopy?
“People have reacted in a very positive way. We think it has to do with the fact that most
people have never seen stereoscopy pushed to its limit. Most movies in cinemas don’t push
the effect of stereoscopy very far, because some viewers are sensitive to the effects. It can
result in headaches, which of course cinemas don’t want their audience to suffer from after
watching a 90-minute movie. Because our film is relatively short, we can push the effect
much further.”
From your perspectives, has there been any change in audience’s attitudes to 3-D films
in the few years since the film was originally released?
“We think it has become a well-integrated part of today’s cinema experience, but not
enough experimentation is being done. It has become quite a generic and bland addition
which most movies could easily do without.”
Do any of you have any personal feelings about the use of stereoscopy, and are there any
types of film in particular you feel it is best suited to (e.g., certain genres, animation
over live action, experimental projects over narrative, etc.)?
“It’s probably best suited to short film experiences, which can be performances, theme
park rides, and of course, short films. The technique definitely adds to the film but has to be
pushed further to add to the storyline/experience of the film. For example, art-house mov-
ies with a slow-paced narrative would have no reason to use the technique” (Figure 16.9).
One assumes that the preferred viewing experience of the film is in 3-D; do you feel it
is still successful as a film when viewed as a 2-D projection?
“The answer to that question is an easy one. After we finished the movie, we didn’t really
know what to think of it. That’s probably not so weird when you know that if you work on

* An unintended side effect where one eye is able to pick up on visual material intended for the other.

308 16. Your Film in Depth

Figure 16.9
Stills from Endtrip (Dir. The Outpost)—photorealistic “tunnels” evocative of organic, anatomi-
cal canals significantly heighten the film’s surreal intensity. (Courtesy of The Outpost, ©2013.)

something for so long, you become blind to the qualities of your own work. Eventually, we
decided to post it on Vimeo and make a list of websites to promote the film. After 2 days,
the 2-D version of the film got 20,000 hits and became a Staff Pick, after which it went viral.
Right now, the film has been viewed over 700,000 times, so it’s safe to say that the 2-D
experience is definitely successful even though we think the 3-D stereo version is better.”
From critical and audience feedback you have experienced firsthand, what do you feel
it is about the film that has resonated so positively with people?
“The vibe and confronting setting of the film. We start out by sort of confusing the
viewer, letting them think about the situation so as to make it personal. The opening

Independent Animation 309

Figure 16.10
Still from Endtrip (Dir. The Outpost). (Courtesy of The Outpost, ©2013.)

scenario is everyone’s nightmare and probably one of the reasons a lot of people don’t even
want to think about taking drugs: losing control. Also, the backwards camera movement
makes it scary as far as what to expect next. It is our visualization of a trip a lot of people
have never experienced, yet it triggers everyone’s interest on what it might look like. Of
course, the film is very subjective to our imagination, but isn’t that the case with every film
ever created? It also leaves the viewer with a lot of questions that only they themselves can
answer.”
Can you explain the ways in which the completion and reception of this film has been
beneficial to your careers and visibility?
“I think it kick-started our teamwork. We know exactly what to expect from one
another, which helps in building a team. Everyone has strong points and weaknesses that
complement each other. After the film, we started freelancing and hiring one another
whenever we could. A few months after graduating, it made us decide to get together
and work alongside each other. Our cooperation has been successful enough to start
a 3-D animation studio that we still run successfully today. The Outpost was born in
2014, and we have had the honor to work on great projects with a lot of talented people”
(Figure 16.10).

Along for the Ride

There are, of course, instances where the use of stereoscopy can be an unashamed driving
force of a film’s conception and execution. Once such film would be Luigis’ Pizzaride 3D,
a 2011 “stereoscopic motionride movie” directed by Florian Werzinski and produced at
Nuremburg university Technische Hochschule Nürnberg Georg Simon Ohm. Serving in
many respects as a technical showcase, a trait more common in student film than inde-
pendent animation as a whole, the short fully embraces stereoscopic immersiveness as
the audience accompanies the pizza delivery driver of its title on a frantic journey to the
customer’s location. The main impetus for making a film of this nature came, as Florian
notes, from his occupation at the time.

310 16. Your Film in Depth

“When I was a student, I worked in a 3-D cinema, the type where the seats move. My
job involved giving out the glasses, showing around six films every shift, so I spent a lot of
time in the projectionist’s room. That may have been the main thing that made me think
about doing a motion-ride movie as my university diploma film. So Luigis’ Pizzaride was
inspired by my job (Figure 16.11).
“When I finished school, I already knew that I wanted to make something with ani-
mation, but I was not clear how and what. Then I studied a design course where you also
learned about photography, websites, typography—everything that’s related to design.
There was just one animation course that was part of the bigger program.”
As part of the university process in Germany, a 6-month internship period was required
to supplement Florian’s animation studies. This time was spent accruing valuable experi-
ence and skills at Munich-based visual effects company, Scanline VFX. With a solid foun-
dation knowledge of CG processes under his belt, Florian endeavored to take on Luigis’
Pizzaride as a stereoscopic production from the start, encouraged in part by the university
itself (Figure 16.12).

Figure 16.11
Luigis’ Pizzaride poster. (Courtesy of Florian Werzinski, ©2011.)

Independent Animation 311

Figure 16.12
Still from Luigis’ Pizzaride (Dir. Florian Werzinski)—visiting Italy in person would contribute to
the authenticity of the film’s eventual design and environment. (Courtesy of Florian Werzinski,
©2011.)

“There was one professor in particular who is also an art director at a famous German
company; he encouraged me to do a 3-D movie. Most other people would say, ‘Oh no,
don’t do it; it’s too much work; you need more render power and more time; everything is
more difficult.’ But for me, it was interesting.”
Beginning with a series of tests, initially just through a combination of rudimentary
CG sequences rendered out to be viewed with traditional red-and-green anaglyph glasses,
the immersive potential of Florian’s film idea grew in appeal as something he was keen
to explore in more detail. What elevates the film beyond the perceived gimmickry of 3-D
is that, at its core, the animation, timing, and approach to cinematography are very well
observed, paying tribute to all manner of cinematic chase sequences. Also, contributing to
the film’s immersiveness, is the attention to detail when it comes to the environment itself,
owed to Florian going the extra mile and visiting Italy, where the film is set, to establish a
firsthand visual frame of reference.
“I’ve always liked the approach of going outside, not just sitting in front of a computer.
You have to see the world to make your movies a little bit more interesting. There are many
things that can generate new ideas for the film itself, all the small details that make the
film a little bit more authentic, so I went to Italy for roughly 10 days and shot a lot of pic-
tures. I used them to help with the design of the movie. Even if it doesn’t look real, it feels
like Italy, a little bit, and that was the aim. So I think it’s a great thing to go somewhere new
and experience it for a while.”
The approach to the stereoscopy itself was largely down to trial and error. As a result,
Florian concedes that certain shots and visual approaches seen in Luigis’ Pizzaride would
not necessarily pass muster with a professional visual effects (VFX) studio production.

312 16. Your Film in Depth

While these potential issues, largely regarding the human eye’s tolerance for how far the
illusion of depth can be pushed, were not especially obvious during production, when
playback was only possible on monitors, an early screening in a 3-D cinema environment
brought them to light.
“In the years since I made Luigis’ Pizzaride, having already made another film, I
know a bit more about the various perception problems of space and distance between
the screen and the viewer. At that time, I didn’t care too much about that. But I learned
that you have to be more careful if you’re making a film for the cinema screen rather
than just a computer monitor; it tends to be too strong if you make the eye distance more
than a certain number of pixels apart. So now, I would be more careful with that side
of things.”
Planning out the production with the knowledge taken from his Scanline VFX intern-
ship, Florian put together Luigis’ Pizzaride over the course of 1 year, with the first 6 months
dedicated to research, preproduction, and the animatic. The remainder of the year, he
devoted to the elaborate production of the film itself, working 8–10 hours every workday
until its completion. The film was created entirely using 3D Studio Max, with all areas of
production (save for voice acting and sound design) taken on by Florian, from character
design, texturing, sets, and lighting to the animation itself (Figure 16.13).
“I like to work on my own, because then I’m independent; I can make decisions very
fast and don’t have to discuss too much about the whole technical pipeline. But it also
tends to be very hard because you have to do everything on your own!”
Determining the best way to create successful stereoscopic renders of each shot also fell
on Florian’s shoulders. While stereoscopic workflows for 3D Studio Max would eventually
come into effect, at the time of making the film, the director took his own approach to a

Independent Animation 313

simple yet robust 3-D camera rig, replicating what he had learned from literature on the
subject.
“I built something that replicated a stereoscopic camera rig that I basically used in
every shot—that was all, just a few cameras linked together. It’s pretty fail-safe because
it’s so simple. Something more fancy can lead to problems afterwards, when it comes
to the rendering, so the fact that I built it by myself meant it worked very well for my
purposes” (Figure 16.14).
The use of stereoscopy in a film is also a major consideration when planning out each
shot, ultimately determining the degree to which the camera work will play a part in the
action. The interplay between camera movement and character animation is especially
crucial for the POV sequences in which the audience is taken on the journey from inside
the vehicles. By contrast, the composition of static camera shots needs to be well thought
through so as to not disrupt the action.
“Basically, I just tried things out, whatever looked most interesting or impressive to
me. I’m 100% sure there are a few shots which are wrong or would not be allowed in a real
studio environment, but for me, it was just about trying out what looked best, more than
the story or the dramaturgy.”
Considering these small issues, the response to the film was consistently positive,
perhaps bolstered by the recent resurgence stereoscopic cinema had experienced at the
time. Following a successful premiere at the very cinema that had inspired Florian to
make the film, Luigis’ Pizzaride attracted some significant attention during its festival run
(Figure 16.15).
“It was a really great response, and there was also a lot of interest from TV companies
who wanted to use the film to demonstrate the 3-D capabilities of their product. There
were also some cinemas and film distributors, but that side of things was always very dif-
ficult because it’s not an especially commercial project.”
On top of this visibility, the film would win several awards, including Best Stereo-3D
Production at Germany’s high-profile animago conference in 2011, and Best Use of

314 16. Your Film in Depth

Stereoscopy at Amsterdam’s KLIK! International animation Festival 2012. A contributing

factor to this success, Florian attributes to the period of hype that surrounded 3-D cine-
ma’s aforementioned resurgence, though this has paved the way for a new and potentially
exciting era of independent filmmaking.
“I think it’s not so much stereoscopy; it’s more about the immersion factor itself. Now
there are new projects with virtual reality glasses, which is all very interesting for me, but
also, I have to look at how I earn money, and I have to do all the normal work as a 3-D
artist. I can’t spend too much time in making new projects on my own or making a new
movie, but sooner or later, I will have to do something new again. I’m curious how it will
all develop, but as for stereoscopic films themselves, we will see. There are still a lot of
mainstream movies out that use it, but when it comes to the home cinema sector, it doesn’t
seem to have worked out like the people expected.”

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17
Audience Interaction

Constructing the interactive PLUG & PLAY app in Unity. (Courtesy of Michael Frei.)

It’s often been pointed out that Orwell’s vision in his 1949 novel Nineteen Eighty-Four of
an interconnected society without privacy has indeed panned out, but the role of calculat-
ing governmental forces drumming a hive-mind mentality into us is not the cause, having
taken a backseat to our newly developed need to be visible to the world. Mankind, as it

317
turns out, is far less collectively at ease when not being seen than when we’re screaming,
“Look at us!” Orwell evidently didn’t predict the deep-seated emotional comfort that high
numbers of vlog subscribers and social media followers would induce, the near-sighted
fool.
This state of affairs has bled into how we engage with the world around us, to the point
where entertainment sometimes just isn’t entertaining enough. A night in watching tele-
vision rarely goes without by a session of pithy, hashtag-accompanied editorializing over
social media. As smokers might fidget in a conversational scenario where they’re unable to
light up, the rest of the world does likewise when it’s socially indecorous to reach for their
phone as it temptingly vibrates with news of how many “likes” their pithy editorial remark
has received. Our brains—or simply our fingers—have been reconditioned, it seems, to be
constantly occupied, and alongside the exponential rise of video games, from hyperreal,
decade-spanning franchises to cutesy, faddish ephemera, is an interesting and relatively
new trend within animation itself—interactive storytelling.
Interactive media may have hit a stride within most of our lifetimes—some of you
readers may even have muddy, half-buried memories of the long-long-ago, a troubling era
before every household had even a dial-up connection to the internet. Nowadays, how-
ever, digital interactivity has gone to the other extreme, becoming a component of pretty
much every child’s cognitive development; there’s something vaguely eerie about seeing a
drooling infant intuitively know exactly how to swipe at a tablet browser to get to the next
Morph episode, but that appears to be where we’re at. We may be witnessing the dawn of a
new evolutionary stage, in which being attuned to technology in such a way advances our
entire species; or it may be that our utter dependence on constant stimuli via our smart-
phones will in fact become a worldwide pandemic of crippling addiction that will lead to
our utter annihilation as a species. Tomato, tom-ah-to, we’ll cross that bridge when we get
to it. In the meantime, how do we take advantage of it as animators?
Perhaps unsurprisingly, the world of independent game development has proved one of
the most ideal bedfellows. In many respects, there is a sense of mutual intent, to creatively
appeal to a niche (while potentially voluminous) audience and to serve as a platform to
showcase ability, work ethic, and talent to potential employers.

Adventurous Spirit
One happy resurgence has been that of the point-and-click adventure game. Developing
from entirely text-based, choose-your-own-adventure-esque journeys going as far back as
the late 1970s, increasing graphics capabilities soon allowed for a visual element, initially
just digital illustrations in games such as Wizard and the Princess (1980) and then, over
time, becoming interactive computer environments, set apart from platformers or shoot-
‘em-ups in that the characters are less controlled than puppeteered—point to where you
want your protagonist to go, or what object you want him/her to interact with; click to
make it happen; and let the inevitable surge of godlike power go to your head as you watch
events play out. In that respect, it’s like a much faster and more instantly gratifying version
of the animation process itself.
I’m sure that plenty of you are familiar with the type of game I mean. Having been
established by video game pioneers Ken and Roberta Williams, development companies
such as LucasArts powered the medium forward, from its blocky roots with games like

318 17. Audience Interaction

Maniac Mansion (1987) to something of an early-to-mid-1990s heyday with the less-blocky
entries Sam and Max Hit the Road, Maniac Mansion: Day of the Tentacle (1993), and the
long-running Monkey Island series (1990–2010). These games, at the time, were incred-
ibly sophisticated and the closest approximation gamers could get to a fully-interactive
cartoon. That they had teams of highly skilled animators taking care to craft wonderful
instances of classical, physical comedy instead of the standard, generic sprite animation
one expected from games at the time helped sell the experience enormously, not to men-
tion the first major inclusions of wittily scripted voice acting. Though 2-D animation soon
fell by the wayside in favor of 3-D polygonal graphics, for a time, there was quite a sig-
nificant ripple effect in game animation—Doug TenNapel’s Earthworm Jim (1995) and
Michel Ansel’s Rayman (1995) applying similar degrees of visual brilliance to platformers.
Indeed, even more recent entries in the video game world such as World of Goo (2008) the
Angry Birds series (2009 onward) and recent Rayman titles Rayman Origins (2011) and
Rayman Legends (2013) still prove how effective modern approaches to 2-D animation can
be when combined with today’s high-definition (HD) gaming capabilities.
The independent scene has similarly been influenced by this era, with Earthworm Jim
creator Doug TenNapel himself having taken advantage of its comparative freedoms. In
1995, shortly after the release of Earthworm Jim 2, his last professional involvement with
the franchise, Doug collaborated with several Jim talents on a point-and-click adventure
game for the now-defunct DreamWorks Interactive, then in its infancy. The result was The
Neverhood, a critical success and cult classic that captured the same bizarre and inventive
energy of Earthworm Jim in a Plasticine animated environment.
While Doug’s career has gone on to span all manner of creative outlets, including
graphic novels for both young and general audiences, two Neverhood sequels, and televi-
sion series such as Catscratch (Nickelodeon) and VeggieTales in the House (Netflix), his
skills as an artist were largely self-taught, something he remains in two minds about.
“There’s a good side and a bad side to do it. The bad side of self-teaching was that I never
learned the official principles that would really give me the tools and skills to get truly bet-
ter and transcend my mediocrity. So I never got those skills, early on. The good side of it is
I’m very much a self-starter; I never need someone else’s permission to do things; I’m very
into just creating my own thing and going for it, even if I’m not that good at it. The ‘easy’
path of actually learning the official way to do it just seems so difficult to me, but I have
the experience and the drive, and I usually get pretty far on that. Doing something poorly
is better than having done something not at all, because you were waiting for perfection.”
In spite of this, The Neverhood, whose universe harkened back to Plasticine constructs
of Doug’s as far back as the late 1980s, boasted a story and mythology dense enough to
equate with that of film or series production. In the mid-1990s, the only means of produc-
ing such a project would be within a professional studio environment. With the recent
changes to the landscape of funding alongside advances in animation and interactive
production, however, the idea of a spiritual* Neverhood follow-up became increasingly
tenable. As with its spiritual predecessor, inspiration came from an idea that had been
marinating a good long while.

* As with Earthworm Jim, the rights to The Neverhood remain out of Doug’s hands, and so a direct follow-up
would not be a legally viable proposition.

Independent Animation 319

“I was working on Armikrog for 15 years. It wasn’t going to be a game; it was going to be
a comic book or a movie or something weird (Figure 17.1). It didn’t even have Tommynaut
as the lead character; it was a bunch of weird characters more like Beak-Beak, a whole civi-
lization of blind birds and animals. You see some of those show up in The Neverhood too,
so it’s kind of been my style to work with those shapes. Even when I draw them, they look
like they’re made of clay. I never thought they’d have to be made of clay in the execution;
they could have been drawings.”
Two of Doug’s Neverhood collaborators, Mike Dietz and Ed Schofield, had started
Pencil Test Studios in 2009, branching out from their established careers as game design-
ers and animators for major studios the likes of Heavy Iron. After several years of inde-
pendent contracting, circumstances allowed for another opportunity to collaborate on
a project with Doug before closing their doors. The world of Armikrog was presented to
Mike and Ed through character write-ups and rough sketches. Even at the earliest stage,
it was crucial to fully develop the universe of the game as one would a television show
or film—even more so considering the immersive nature of the story as it would unfold.
Without studio funding or creative limitations, the independent approach to Armikrog
meant that the sky was the limit (Figure 17.2).
“Armikrog has a big mystery and a big backstory; it has a really deep, really funky
mythology to it, because nobody was there to tell us ‘no,’ so it was kind of our opportunity
to show games what creativity looks like. I think gaming should be a lot farther along than
it is, certainly at least with independent games—I mean, why not? So I presented a few of
the characters and the main ideas, I asked Mike and Ed what they thought of the palettes,
and we went back and forth. To me, the biggest controversy was that Tommynaut’s eyes are
black, solid spheres. We hadn’t seen that on any other character before, because usually, I
would do the carved eyes in Klaymen (the protagonist of The Neverhood), and before that

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on Earthworm Jim with the big, bulging, Tex Avery eyes. I didn’t know if we could pull that
off, so I did a couple of drawings for Mike demonstrating how we’d mold the clay to look
like he’s looking right, looking left, surprised, eyes closed and stuff.”
Next up was scripting the introductory movie the team would present to not just their
intended audience but also potential funders. In terms of division of labor, Mike and Ed
took the reins on the crowdfunding campaign itself, something Doug was happy to take a
back seat on following his own Sketchbook Archives campaign a year previously. Instead,
Doug focused his energies on the game design itself, the approach taken being a balance
of new and old.
“We were loosely trying to fit it within the Neverhood game mechanic of point-and-
click adventure, mostly because that was the easiest thing to do that would show off our
animation. So we shot that intro movie over a period of about a month; I flew out to
Colorado Springs for about 2 weeks to pencil test and build the sets and work on the ideas.
We shot it, and it just looked crazy, but there was always just that nagging thing in all of
our guts of How much are we just gonna copy The Neverhood? I really kept veering away
from that, as I really wanted to create something new. I made The Neverhood, so I knew
that the style was going to be similar to it, but I didn’t want to get caught copying our-
selves. Even when you use the same people, it would be easy to just copy The Neverhood
and do a knockoff—that just is not in my vocabulary, if you know where I come from.
That’s just not how I do it.”
Writing for a short film is hard enough, and writing for a feature is a tremendously
ambitious undertaking. Writing for an interactive story, with all its potential variables and
protracted length, is an entirely different kettle of fish.
“The story has to be way more editable. Mike and Ed did a lot of editing and a lot of
the writing on their own. They don’t need to call me to tell me a line’s not working out if

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they’ve changed the gameplay and need a different line instead; they’ll just write that line
up and go for it.”
A far more open-ended approach is required when compared to conventional narrative
storytelling, extending not just to elaborate game design bibles but also to physical mock-
ups of the universe itself. Given the proposed mechanics of the game, the logistics of the
story and the action required testing with construction aids built in cardboard on Doug’s
living room table.
“All those buildings that you see in the film had cardboard representations—and we
were filming it all, so a really basic box would represent a room. In Neverhood, all the
rooms were fixed, whereas in Armikrog, you can move some of the rooms around to
change the way the puzzles connect, so it’s like a puzzle in a puzzle, loosely. Then I wanted
the rooms to feel real visual and big, so they needed to clunk about and move on the spot
(Figure 17.3). We ended up cutting a lot of those features out, just for time, but that was
what I was trying to pull off, on my living room table. Other stuff that we designed that
was a little easier to pull off went in. But we always overdesign our games; in Neverhood,
we designed at least another third or two-thirds that we cut out.
“So once the game structure’s there in the design, I did watercolors of each room to
show what the design might be and how it corresponds to the outside puzzle; there’s a lot
of inside–outside stuff, mostly inside.”
The final stage was polishing off the story with consideration toward the vastness of
the mythology Doug had established. While the game itself, for all its intricacies, still
conforms to the intuitive three-act structure discussed in Chapter 2, contained within is
a deeply considered history that, when explored, makes greater sense of some of the more
bizarre elements and character motivations the player is presented with.

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One thing that differentiates an established creative who has made the move into the
independent realm from those who’ve always operated within it is how willing the estab-
lished fan base will be to follow. Although there are greatly diminished opportunities for
funding and distribution, in a way, the comparative anonymity of those who have always
been independent animators is a blessing in so much as it doesn’t come with the baggage of
fans mired in the past. Although the artistic style of Armikrog is similar enough to Doug’s
earlier projects, simply not replicating a tried and tested formula 100% can be enough to
alienate the more entitled contingent of a fan base.
“Many of them are saying it doesn’t seem like The Neverhood, so they don’t like it.
They just point out all the differences. I get their concern, because they were raised on
The Neverhood, though I had experienced the same thing when making that game in that
it was completely different to Earthworm Jim. Different genre, different everything, and
a whole lot of people just wanted us to make them feel the way they did when they were
younger, playing that game—but we didn’t do that. So I get what they want, that senti-
mental value, but there’s a whole generation of people who were raised on The Neverhood
who would never have experienced that if we didn’t break off from Earthworm Jim.
Likewise, there’ll be a generation raised on Armikrog who don’t care about The Neverhood
or Earthworm Jim; this will be their experience growing up, later saying, ‘I wish you’d do
another Armikrog!’—guess what’s gonna happen next time? I’m gonna let you down!
“I don’t want to lose them; I’m not trying to be clever or anything. I just think a new
game with a blank slate is an opportunity to really come up with something that isn’t just
new—you have to give yourself permission to think way outside the box, to come up with
something better.”
Rumpus Animation, the Bristol-based animation studio whose independent music
video work we looked at in Chapter 5, took a similar initiative by drawing upon a prop-
erty they had incrementally developed over the course of a decade. Bertram Fiddle began
life as the titular explorer of Rumpus Creative Director Seb Burnett’s MA film The Films
of Bertram Fiddle, produced at the University of the West of England’s Bristol School of
Animation years before Rumpus was firmly established (Figure 17.4). The original film,
predominantly serving as a character design and illustration showcase, did not take flight
in and of itself, though the hopes of finding a fitting avenue for the character remained.
“I had an idea about making some kind of film based on a Victorian explorer, and over
the course of that year, I developed Bertram as the main character. I made a short film
where he gets lost on his way to Great Yarmouth and finds himself up in an obscure part
of England that no one remembers.”
After what Seb dubs the “amazing nonsuccess” of the film, the character was further
developed over the course of several, equally nonsuccessful ventures, the character kept
alive through an online presence. “I’d carried on writing a blog; I think I had a MySpace
page for Bertram, things like that, as a means of carrying on writing these snippets from
him. So his personality was developing, but then one day, for whatever reason, there was
an opportunity to make a web series for the BBC. Joe came round, and I opened up this
big chest—my Bertram box—of scraps of paper with ideas on them. We spent ages going
through this box of notes and managed to find some ideas we were able to write episodes
from.”
The BBC web series pitch, though not successful, gave the duo some perspective on who
the property might and might not appeal to. With humor deemed “too old” for children, and

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“not smutty enough” for most remaining online avenues catering to the 16- to 24-year-old
male audience, it became clear that Bertram Fiddle would be a harder sell than anticipated.
“We then considered doing a Kickstarter to fund our own series. We estimated that
we’d only need £800 to do a whole series—our budgeting has never been a strong point—
so luckily, we didn’t do that. Afterwards, it kicked around for ages; we continued doing
other work; I continued writing more Bertram stuff; my pile of different ideas and differ-
ent characters continued to get bigger.”
The universe of Bertram Fiddle was further developed during Seb’s participation in
Animation Sans Frontieres, a course that allowed him to develop the project for production,
a step that coincided with studio discussions of the possible merits of branching out into
interactive work. The culture of self-published apps, books, and games as a way of selling

324 17. Audience Interaction

one’s ideas without requiring the assistance or permission of a major broadcaster held
significant appeal, especially to a studio with designs on getting a television or web series
together. Upon returning from Animation Sans Frontieres, the studio took the initiative
to pitch their idea to Starter for 10, a regional funding scheme that had been recently set up
to support new creative businesses in the South West. After succeeding in receiving starter
funds, Rumpus went on to pitch for additional financial support via Gameslab, a game
development fund initiated by the UK-based investment scheme Creative England. After
8 years of the character’s incremental development, The Adventures of Bertram Fiddle was
created (Figures 17.5 and 17.6).
For a character to have survived 8 years of, in blunt terms, rejection only to persevere
and finally break through in an interactive medium says something about the character’s
staying power. While the timing or circumstances were never right for Bertram Fiddle to
have his day as a funded short, series, or comic book, certain qualities of the character and
his world translated effectively to the independent game world.
“I think the Victorian thing seems to work better for games than animation,” suggests
Joe.
“There’s more of a market,” adds Seb. “And also because there’s a resurgence in point-
and-click games. Yes, when you compare it to Call of Duty, then obviously, there’s a much
bigger audience for games like that than there is for Bertram, but I think audiences enjoyed
the humor. Also, because I had spent 8 years coming up with all these different ideas that
hadn’t quite seen the light of day, I had a whole world ready; we could show huge amounts
of backstory and characters.”

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Despite being Seb’s creation, by association, Bertram and Joe are also well acquainted.
“You can answer any question about him because the information is already there. Even I
can answer a lot of questions about Bertram. I feel like I know him just because he’s been
in the background for that long as well.”
While the reception of the first game has led to the follow-up entry A Bleaker
Predicklement, Rumpus have not altogether ruled out other avenues for the character, or
even a return to the original proposed web series outings. The game is constructed as such,
coded using the game engine Unity, though the assets and animation itself were largely
put together in the same way they would be in series production. Naturally, for an anima-
tion studio’s first time dipping their toe in unknown waters, the interactive component of
the story presented plenty of challenges, as Seb attests.
“One was I didn’t have a clue what I was doing! There were a lot of technical issues,
and also, it was that when you’re doing an animation, you have complete control over

326 17. Audience Interaction

the scene, you know exactly what will happen and when, and that’s it; it won’t change.
Whereas when you’re making a game, it’s much more open-ended; you can set certain
things up, but you can’t completely control it. You’re not making something for an audi-
ence; you’re making something for someone to play, so that took a while to get my head
around. Then games have things like bugs—when we ported it to PC some of the audio
files, just vanished, for example; a little animation clip disappeared, so we had to re-set
that up. When you’ve done an animated film, it’s finished; you can’t go wrong; you’re done.
But with a game, it never ends!”
As with all independent ventures, much by way of the promotion itself falls to the
creators, who were able to ensure a launch on the game distribution platform Steam
via an online campaign, as well as a spotlight focus on various online publications such
as Adventure Gamers. With the increased coverage comes increased demand, though
that in itself presents its own issue when considering how many platforms need to be
accommodated.
“There’s so many different variables—when it comes out on iOS, people ask if it’s com-
ing out on Android. Once it’s out on Android, people ask when it will be out on PC. Then
they’ll still complain, because they have a Mac or use Linux. With animation, it tends to
come out, and then you can just watch it; you don’t put it up on YouTube only for some-
body to demand you put it up on Vimeo, or Dailymotion, because they only visit those
sites.”

Technical Realities: Trial and Error

Dan Emmerson, technical artist, The Adventures of Bertram Fiddle:
“I used to make little games when I was younger, so I could get my mind into that quite
mechanical way of thinking, of knowing how to apply loose, arty ways of thinking to the
rigid structure you need to make a game. On The Adventures of Bertram Fiddle, I learned
a lot of things, mostly about the limits of what you can do, but it was fun to try new things
(Figure 17.7).
“The title I was given was technical artist, which is generally a kind of catch-all term
for bringing the art and the technical side together. We animated everything in Flash first,
and then we’d export that into the sprite sheets, which we’d then bring into Unity. We’d
then almost have to reanimate again to make sure the frames were in the right order, in the
right place, which was quite tedious because, as we were doing everything twice, it took
a long time. It was a terrible pipeline, but it more or less worked. We got into the flow of
it eventually, but it did mean we had to keep the file sizes down and make everything as
compact as possible. If there was a shot or action where Bertram had his arms out really
wide, every sprite would be a square containing that image, so we’d have this massive
space under his arms; we’d have to figure out a way to make that tie in with another set of
sprite sheets, so everything kind of clustered together.
“If we would have animated directly in Unity, we wouldn’t have had that problem, but
since the studio and most of the freelance animators knew and used Flash, we decided to do it
that way. If we’d have done it all in Unity, we wouldn’t have gotten as much animation done,
and every freelancer we brought in would have needed to be a specialist who knew Unity.
“One of the other problems we have had with doing sprite sheets is that we originally
made sprites for the iPad, so when we were porting, we had to try to make things bigger,

Independent Animation 327

Figure 17.7
Technical artist Dan Emmerson works on The Adventures of Bertram Fiddle in Unity. (Courtesy
of Rumpus Animation, ©2014.)

and the artwork isn’t as good as it could be. We had to consider memory and optimization,
but if we had made them all in Unity, we could have rigged the characters at a larger size.
That one bigger, rigged character would have been a lot smaller in file size than the 200 or
so sprites we made for the animation itself.
“In terms of organization, interactive production is relatively similar to animation:
you need to have folders, you need to know where everything is, because a lot of the
game is referencing files where everything has to be in a certain hierarchy. We did spend
a good week or two just figuring out how the folders should be laid out and stuff. It is
important to be organized, especially if there are a lot of people working on the same
project.”

Reflection
Looking back on the ambition of taking a short film premise and applying it to the
unknown territory of interactive media, Rumpus by and large have a good sense of which
lessons they’ve learned are the most essential.
“Have a plan!” enthuses Dan. “It needs to be a flexible plan, but some kind of plan.”
“I must admit, the planning is something I left to the last minute,” confesses Seb. “It
happens in animation, where you have your last couple of weeks when you get everything
finished, address what needs changing, and you do it. With a game, you can’t really leave it
that long; you need to constantly keep testing and playing; deadlines need to be a lot closer
than you might imagine.”
“Everything you do, you’ll have to learn to spend 2 weeks testing it and making sure
it hasn’t broken, testing what you’ve already done, whether it actually works, if it’s fun

328 17. Audience Interaction

Figure 17.8
“Bertram” character turnaround assets for The Adventures of Bertram Fiddle. (Courtesy of
Rumpus Animation, ©2014.)

to play, or if it makes sense. This is especially important in an adventure game that’s all
about puzzles; you have to make sure people can actually figure out how to solve them.
A lot of adventure games have an internal logic that only makes sense if you’re a devel-
oper—that if you combine a rope with a bit of bramble, it will make a pigeon—whereas
you would never have thought that unless you already knew it. That’s something that
took a lot of time, making sure things are in a place where people can find them and
you’re not just going back and forth too much. But also, you want it to be difficult enough
to be a challenge.”
One potentially intimidating factor to bear in mind is the cause-and-effect nature of
iteration-based storytelling. The type of playable system that Bertram Fiddle makes use of
demands constant testing to accommodate all the possible story variants as the game is
played, as Dan recalls (Figure 17.8). “One of the things we had problems with was account-
ing for everything the player does, so with animation, you know exactly where the cam-
eras are going to be, what characters will speak at what point, in what order, whereas with
this, you have to make sure that something a character said several chapters ago is going to
be relevant when someone talks about them in the chapter you’re in now, and it hasn’t con-
tradicted anything. Every choice you include exponentially doubles however many more
options there are of things you have to deal with.”

To Defy the Laws of Tradition

A native of Switzerland, Michael Frei’s journey into the world of animation is an atypi-
cal one. Though not necessarily the most traditional route, it did begin with the skill of
visualization when he started an apprenticeship as an architectural draftsman at the age
of 15. After 4 years of appreciating the drawn side of that industry, the strict rigidity of
straight lines and mathematical precision that construction plans entail, coupled with the
complete lack of creative freedom, was ultimately not what he was looking for in a long-
term career.

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The world of animation existed as a relatively vague concept outside of Disney movies.
Michael was exposed to little else at a young age. As his enthusiasm for draftsmanship
waned and he began to take on a variety of more experimental projects that involved
recording himself as he drew, eventually, a self-started desire to learn more about anima-
tion began to manifest itself. Following his apprenticeship, he took the advice of a friend
and looked into what options there were to study animation, eventually starting a course
at Switzerland’s University of Lucerne. The traditional processes and fundamentals of ani-
mation, as it turned out, were something of a brick wall themselves (Figure 17.9).
“I was quite disappointed after the first year, because they have this classical approach
to animation—start with an idea, do a storyboard, then a character sheet, then do your
layout, then key frames, then in-betweens and maybe some color—so it’s a very linear
process. It appeared to me that it was training to work in the industry, a little bit, so I took
a year off after that because I wanted to do my own stuff. Eventually, I had to do something
serious, so I studied 1 year in Tallinn, Estonia, which was very different from Switzerland.
In Switzerland, we don’t really have an animation history; we have French-speaking artists
inspired by French animation, we have German-speaking artists who are not influenced
by anything in particular, so it’s a bit scattered. In Estonia, they have some animation
tradition; it’s a very small country, but they have an animation scene that’s quite big con-
sidering the size of the country, with some studios that are still producing quite original
work. The people there really do their own thing; they don’t care too much. That’s where I
started to make my very own films.”
Michael’s fundamental issues with the traditional approach to animation produc-
tion should be familiar enough to some with an independent bent—being one link in a

Figure 17.9
Early PLUG & PLAY concept sketch. (Courtesy of Michael Frei.)

330 17. Audience Interaction

production chain. The idea of having to refine one’s area of interest into specialist exper-
tise rang too familiar to the architectural work he had left behind.
“It was clear what I had to do—and it was kind of boring. Although I really like it at
some times and find it rewarding to watch when it’s working, I’m not a born animator.
When I animate something, I try to animate until it’s finished, I scan it, and I watch it, and
I just do that once. I really hate pencil tests because they ruin that.”
The enthusiasm Michael did have toward animation was pretty much entirely limited
to independent production and the possibility of creating his own film while being in
control of every aspect of it. Investigating the wider independent scene led by proactive
individuals and small teams, the idea of figuring out a process that worked best for him
and on his own terms held far more appeal than figuring out what to do in the classical
animation process.
“Because the process is very predefined in the industry—there’s a department for story,
a department for animation, and so on—there’s too little interest in experimentation, I
think. That was also how I got into this interactive approach to animation; it was just, for
me, a logical addition to having a vocabulary to tell something through animation. I was
not interested in gaming necessarily; it was just one more tool to work with.”
Michael’s first film, Not about Us, was produced as part of a yearlong exchange program
at the Estonian Academy of Art, under the mentorship of lauded directorial duo Priit (“his
feedback was mostly no feedback”) and Olga Pärn. One area of guidance that benefited
Michael during this time was the broadening of his scope of influence to include the work
of numerous independent Japanese animations, something that helped the development
of his own style along.
“I had problems drawing after my apprenticeship because I was so used to constructing
everything I was drawing, so when I started animation, where there are character sheets,
where every proportion has to be right and where everything has to be on model, I started
to construct everything, boxes with a circle inside to make a head; it was ridiculous. In
Estonia, with drawn animation, quite often, the drawings are loose and ‘ugly.’ I tried to
just get away from constructing my drawings and just draw a character 50 times a day
until I just had a feeling for it.”
Even with the new exposure and experience, the imprint 4 years of architectural
apprenticing had made on Michael frequently saw him gravitating toward geometry-based
design work. While this had no adverse affect on Not about Us (the film’s bold look and
unique energy earned it a modest festival run, winning several awards and was capped off
by a Vimeo Staff Pick upon its release, something of a holy trinity for independent films),
for Michael’s own sense of artistic direction, he was keen to try something new. When it
came to his Lucerne graduation film PLUG & PLAY, he actively eschewed the formality
and parallel lines of his earlier training by creating the entire film on a trackpad, which
made any attempt to draw a completely straight line impossible (Figure 17.10). While Not
about Us had performed well, PLUG & PLAY’s response was phenomenal, winning over
15 major awards and screening at over 60 international festivals in its first year of release
(the eventual festival count would far exceed 100). A prime example of how abstract,
experimental filmmaking can be not just entertaining but witty and subversive, PLUG
& PLAY takes place in a universe of detached, arguing voices and a society of not-quite-
androgynous (some have plug sockets for heads, others have plug pins) characters. What
the film doesn’t possess in terms of conventional narrative, it makes up for in spades with

Independent Animation 331

curiously poignant dialog, well-considered timing, and—a particular rarity in abstract

filmmaking—slapstick physical comedy. The interactive potential for PLUG & PLAY was
on Michael’s mind since the early stages of the project, although initially just as a hypo-
thetical option (Figure 17.11).
“I remembered afterwards that before I got into animation, I was also interested in
interactive design and had applied for that as well, so I had to actually decide whether to
go into interactive design or animation. To me, animation was just kind of my hobby, and
I thought, Okay, it’s probably impossible to earn a living like that, but if I do it in the begin-
ning of my life, that’s okay. If you study interactive design, then you most probably will
have a job in the industry, you’ll make some money, and so on, but once you’re earning
money, you’re stuck. That’s what I found out through many of my friends, that once they

332 17. Audience Interaction

start to work commercially and have a regular income, it’s very difficult to go your own
way, to say ‘no’ to money.”
Amongst the various case studies we have already looked at in this book, we’ve seen
a hefty variety of ways in which the storytelling process of a film can be approached—
scripted, visual, non-fictional, metafictional, interpretational, abstract, and most recently,
with interactive considerations. When it comes to Michael Frei’s overall artistic process,
along with his methods of idea generation, storytelling is not a word he is fond of. As he
sees it, the term narrows down what a film in and of itself is, an issue that proves a particu-
lar concern when extended to transmedia projects.
“At that point, nobody gets what it means anymore. But I think I have a more open
approach, by which I mean I call it narrative more than story. I try to develop a system that
works, a world that works to certain rules like our own world, and if everything somehow
works together, then I have a film. With PLUG & PLAY, I tried to have very few visual ele-
ments as well, to make it simpler to develop it further into this interactive experience. In
general, that’s what I think I’ll try to do in the future, to make a narrative out of minimal
visual elements. It’s not that I start with an overall concept of what I want to tell and then
I try to do that; it’s more playing around with visual elements until I’ve found something
that is meaningful to me.
“The filmmaker Royd Anderson has a not-so-very-different approach to filmmaking,
but how he tells stories is just different enough to feel as though it is totally from another
world. It’s more like a theater play. I really like his approach; I think he also avoids the
term story, and I think that’s very interesting. His films were definitely an influence, in
how they transport emotion. That’s why I go to the cinema, not for the story but to relate
to something.”
The absence of “story,” as many would define the term, does not hamper the effective-
ness of the final film—as abstract as it is, the visuals are not so obtuse or ineffable that
an audience cannot make their own interpretations as to their meaning. The interactive
version of PLUG & PLAY took roughly 2 years to put together following the completion of
the movie, made possible in large part by the positive festival reception and prize money
it had picked up. These festival-enabled funds were also supplemented in part by Swiss
Television.
“In Switzerland, there is some government funding for animated short films and for
animation in general, because in Switzerland, the industry is so small that it wouldn’t
work without a funding system. So it turns out with PLUG & PLAY that there is a chance
to get some revenue from doing such work. I was quite surprised; I didn’t anticipate some-
thing like that, but I think it’s possible to still make something for a niche audience that
people are willing to pay for, even though it’s hard” (Figure 17.12).
The terms of accepting the funding were that the developers themselves had to be
Swiss. With Michael reaching out to Zurich University of the Arts, known for having a
prominent game design course, it soon became apparent that the option of working with
students would not be practicable on top of their course workloads. Eventually, Michael’s
search led him to recent graduate and independent game designer Mario von Rickenbach.
“I sent him the film when it was finished over e-mail; we met at the beginning of 2013
and just talked about what we like between these interactive, game-related worlds. I’m
really not a gamer, but there were two games we both considered favorites, Windowsill
by Vector Park and BlaBla from the National Film Board of Canada (NFB), so these were

Independent Animation 333

Figure 17.12
PLUG & PLAY app concept sketches. (Courtesy of Michael Frei.)

what we wanted to go for. We definitely didn’t want to turn it into any particular game
genre that was already out there; we just wanted to make an interactive experience that
could really stay true to the film. We didn’t really know how to do that; there was a lot of
experimentation and prototyping, and it took an incredible amount of work in the end. It
was only possible because of how much Mario committed to the project.”
It was clear from the outset that the project would need to be done for the love of the
medium rather than any financial gain. Following a series of working and prototype ses-
sions, Michael ultimately found himself moving to Geneva to work on the final project
with Mario full time from May 2014 to February 2015, when it was released to accompany
the online premiere of the original film. The production of the game itself required a great
deal of experimentation, Michael not having gone into the project with a clear and rigid
concept of how it should turn out. This free form approach was pointedly different from
how he had put together the original film (Figure 17.13).
“I try to figure out everything in my head before I start to animate because I’m a lazy
animator and I just want to animate what I have to. With the game, it’s completely differ-
ent. With almost every scene that is in the movie, we made a prototype; we started just
taking the animation that was the easiest to take out of the movie and tried to make some-
thing out of it. In the beginning, we only had this figure running left and right, trying to
figure out how to interact with it. That turned out to be one of the most difficult scenes,
in the end.”
The interactive experience was gradually pieced together by each scene from the film,
deconstructing them from how they were originally presented and reconstructing all the
pieces together in Unity. Out of necessity, certain work arounds needed to be developed,
such as modifying the frame rate from the original film’s 12 per second (considered way
too slow by today’s standards for interactive media) to a more accommodating 60. As

334 17. Audience Interaction

Figure 17.13
Constructing the interactive PLUG & PLAY app in Unity. (Courtesy of Michael Frei.)

Independent Animation 335

well as the film’s frame-by-frame animation, Mario and Michael also made use of Unity’s
digital puppet system, as well as certain elements such as the game’s interactive cables
rendered in 3-D computer-generated (CG) images using a 2-D shader.
“We also combined some of these techniques, so there are scenes where the legs are
frame by frame and the upper body is a physical puppet. Where all these techniques are
combined, we made this process of going from one step to another.
“You might have seen the finger simulator. It was an earlier test on how to interact
like that, and the cables were coded by Mario. He worked on them for 1 month until they
felt right, so it was a very slow process of making a scene, making a prototype, advanc-
ing to another one, going back to an earlier scene with new ideas or a new technique,
until everything fit together. The difficulty was that we wanted to have clean cuts, like a
film would have; this is something you see very rarely in games. We didn’t want to have
cutscenes instead, when we developed a whole new system, where you have to plug in
cables to advance from one scene to another. So that was the only thing we actually added
in the game that was not a component of the original film. That was to solve a lot of the
problems that we had, because every path has to be motivated by something, in a game or
interactive experience; otherwise, it feels awkward (Figure 17.14).
“With the game, the problem is it never really feels finished; you can always think of
ways to make it better. After a certain number of updates you have to say, ‘That’s it’; oth-
erwise, you could work on it forever, but we were very happy with the response we got.”
Having the original film version of PLUG & PLAY to compare it with, Michael has had
a direct insight into just how different each project’s audience response has been. While
the various online communities that support and showcase independent film tend to be
positive and constructive, customers who have paid for a game will make no bones about
airing any and all grievances they might have with the experience.

Figure 17.14
Constructing the interactive PLUG & PLAY app in Unity. (Courtesy of Michael Frei.)

336 17. Audience Interaction

Figure 17.15
Prototyping the interactive PLUG & PLAY app. (Courtesy of Michael Frei.)

“When I show the film at festivals and I get comments about a film, they are always
filtered. Because you’re in a room with the audience, there’s a certain social dynamic that
changes depending on which country you’re in. I find it very interesting to watch gameplay
videos; there are lot of videos of people playing through the whole PLUG & PLAY experi-
ence and they will just tell you what they think, unfiltered. It’s very funny to be in some-
one’s head as they play; it’s interesting how different it is to the reactions I had gotten before
(Figure 17.15).
“I think there are some flaws maybe that we already know of, but it’s quite funny that
people don’t really see them. Another critique we got which was surprising to me was
there were people thinking I had just made a game to make money, that it is either too
expensive or too short. These are the main complaints you get online.”
Cues from the world of corporate commissions are also identifiable. The viral sen-
sation Dumb Ways to Die, a chucklesome, catchy public awareness film commissioned
to promote railway safety, proved it had life beyond the original film with an interac-
tive game series for handheld devices, basing an assortment of fast-paced minigames on
the characters and premises of the original film. In this instance, the gaming element
is more of a thrust, with the level of challenge continually increasing throughout, thus
tempting its audience to break their prior records, a staple of gaming that goes back to the
dawn of coin-slot machines and has remained to this day. Similarly, symbiotic relation-
ships between independent shorts and accompanying games are on the rise, one defining
example being London studio Animade’s Ready Steady Bang franchise.* With it starting
life as a basic one- or two-player reflex-test app, the sprite design of the dueling cowboys
each player commandeers is minimal yet fluidly animated, with 30 comically animated

* http://animade.tv

Independent Animation 337

death sequences in rotation. The originality and perfect timing of these basic animations
prove so appealing that merely compiling them in sequence makes for a satisfying micro-
short—Thirty Ways to Kill a Cowboy—on its own. As more games—with more sprite ele-
ments—were introduced in the wider-ranging follow-up app Ready Steady Play, more
short films in a similar vein, such as More Than Just a Hobby and Queue the Cowboy,
were produced as in-studio offshoots, facilitated by the stark minimalism of their design
while again animated with beat-perfect comic timing and smoothness. While serving as
additional advertising for the games, their value as entertaining shorts is owed to their
structural discipline and ability to get their point across clearly and quickly, a similar
trait—though very different in terms of design approach—to fellow webisodic animation
producer Ant Blades, as seen in Chapter 6.
Further exploring what precisely makes an animated project interactive, Ant’s own
Singing Christmas Hedgehogs from 2011 is also worth considering. Without having any
traits that could see it considered a “game,” strictly speaking, it serves more as a cleverly
updated spin on the now-antiquated Flash webtoons that would offer viewers prompts to
determine the events or outcome of an animation (spoiler alert: whichever way you went,
there was no happy ending for the frog in that blender). By 2011, YouTube had become
more of an automatic go-to as far as the general public were concerned, though only offer-
ing a platform to host videos without any built-in interactive buttons. Instead, Ant makes
ingenious use of the website’s captioning and annotation options that allow viewers to skip
to either a certain time in the video being watched or a new video altogether (Figure 17.16).
“When you’re working, you’re always trying to think of new approaches,” Ant explains.
“Every advertiser comes to you and says they need something new that hasn’t been done

Figure 17.16
Diagram indicating one possible outcome for Singing Christmas Hedgehogs. (Courtesy of
Ant Blades/Birdbox Studio, ©2011.)

338 17. Audience Interaction

before, and there are a limited amount of things in your toolbox to try and make use of. In
this case, it was something that not many people had done, that whole kind of annotation
journey, taking you through different stories. I was mostly thinking about that from play-
ing with these annotations when I worked at YouTube.”
The interactive experience of Singing Christmas Hedgehogs is facilitated by 11 separate
video uploads, seven of which being the alternate final outcomes. The first is a “charac-
ter selection” menu, where the audience is presented with three hedgehogs in a snowy
field. Depending on your choice, one of three subsequent videos will play, presenting
three options (that occur as the timeline progresses or can be skipped to using YouTube’s
annotations—labeled within the body of the video itself—in lieu of buttons) as to either
how you want your hedgehog dressed, or what you want it to sing. Each of these choices
leads to a final punch-line video promising a song from your hedgehog, after which any
viewer would be hard-pressed not to wish to return to the start and explore the alternatives.
“The actual initial idea was that there would be three hedgehogs—I think they were
called Adventure Hedgehogs—that you could dress how you wanted, as superheroes. You’d
see there would be, for example, a princess or someone who needed rescuing and how you
needed to get there; it would look like there was going to be this massive journey ahead of
you. You then chose what superpowers you were going to have, whether you’d be a knight,
or perhaps a ninja, but then when you started your quest, you’d take one step and get run
over by a car, however you dressed your hedgehog or whichever one you chose. That was
going to be the gag behind it.
“When it came to doing a Christmas idea, I think I was all out of any good ideas; that
was when I thought I could maybe just repurpose that one. It did well in terms of clicks,
people clicking around again and again, to try all of the outcomes, so that was a good
kickoff for the first year of the studio.”

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18
Reinventing the Wheel

Here we will look some contemporary examples of independent films that stand out for
having a particular visual edge, whether through dynamic use of color; contemporary
design sensibilities; or inventive approaches to shot composition, cinematography, and
dramaturgy. Granted, virtually every film that has been discussed is visually striking, to
some degree, and in truth, I could dedicate some words toward each on the matter in the
instances where I haven’t done so already. In the interests of simplification, I will limit my
indulgence in this regard, beginning with one of our earliest case studies, Adam Elliot.
The instantly identifiable nature of Adam’s sculpture work also goes hand in hand with
a particular sensibility when it comes to his use of color. When used at all, in fact, color is
sparse and often heavily desaturated. This resistance against a “chirpier” visual approach
began with what Adam refers to as a “purist ideal” during film school that he would only
make black-and-white films (“I was a minimalist at 25—I was full of ideals!”). This deter-
mination was followed through with his first trilogy of shorts Uncle, Cousin, and Brother,
though when the opportunity to tell a broader story came about, he found that matter not
entirely in his hands.
“By the time I got to Harvie Krumpet, I was convinced by the government funding bod-
ies that I couldn’t keep going with black and white, that if the film was going to have any
commercial potential, it had to be color. So I gave in.”
It’s hard to say whether or not sticking to his guns would have made a better or worse
film. Despite its tragic side, when compared to the quiet, bleak universe of his first three

341
darkly comic offerings, there is a far sunnier disposition to Harvie Krumpet, with more
outright comedic beats and a notably feel-good ending. That the world of the film is one
of color—albeit desaturated to the point of being near-monochrome—does not feel like a
negative thing, or one that goes against the film’s artistic intent. Certainly, the presumed
commercial potential paid off, the film winning an Oscar for Best Animated Short Film
in 2004.
The domino effect of this success ultimately led to 2009’s Mary and Max, a film
that boasted its own unique color palette (Figure 18.1). Set alternately in New York and
Australia, the look of the film shifts from black and white (with occasional instances of
spot-coloring for effect) to a sea of beiges and browns, respectively.
“With Mary and Max, I put up a battle again; I wanted it to be completely black and
white, and they said no. So I suggested that maybe Max’s world could be black and white
using color as a device, that we could create these two different color palettes, and one can
be grayscale, as New York in the 1970s was a very concrete environment, and the other can
be brown, as Australia at that time was very brown. Everyone had brown carpet; Mission
Brown was the most popular color at the time.
“With Ernie Biscuit, I wanted the film to have a nostalgic, photographic (as in an old
photo album) feel. I wanted it to have a heavy vignette round the edge; I was even going
to add scratches and more dust to the final grade, but in the end, I resisted that. Then also,

Figure 18.1
Original “Max” puppet demonstrating use of spot coloring in Mary & Max (Dir. Adam Elliot)
on display in Annecy, 2014.

342 18. Reinventing the Wheel

because I wanted to clear my head of color, I wanted to go back to black and white. The film
is set in 1966, which was precolor television in Australia anyway.”
Though Ernie Biscuit wound up a companion film to Harvie Krumpet rather than Mary
and Max, the black-and-white world Ernie occupies is at odds with the muted color world
of Harvie’s. Yet more than anything, the story itself is what binds the two, as similar tales
of migrants adapting to life in Australia. More importantly, to have produced Ernie Biscuit
in color simply to be consistent with its cinematic sibling would go against Adam’s fond-
ness for his chosen aesthetic (Figure 18.2).
“I love high-contrast-looking films; I love black. I see watching a film as a multisensory
experience; there’s the aesthetic, but there’s also the poetic nature of the dialog, but also, I
want people to almost ‘smell’ and ‘taste’ certain scenes. Of course, they’re not actually doing
those things, but I want it to be a full sensory experience. I love films where one of the ele-
ments is taken away, so you have to rely on your other senses. Another thing about black and
white that’s very honest in a way is that you can’t hide as much. Every film I make, I would
prefer it to be black and white, but just because I love black-and-white films and I love nar-
rated films, though for purely selfish, indulgent reasons.”

Rising High
Now let’s switch focus to an artist with an altogether different slant on design, not to
mention story and visual execution. Adam Wells has, in recent years, taken on a series
of self-started, auteur projects with his own visual edge owed largely to his background
in computer-generated (CG) motion graphics (mograph). A champion of Cinema 4D, a
software package with its feet firmly planted in both the animation and mograph world,
Adam gravitated toward it for its array of advantageous character animation solutions.
“I actually didn’t want to do any character animation really at all, because it was really
hard to do, so my solution was to mainly do little loops with simple characters and see if
I could tell a story using looping images. I enjoyed working in motion, and Cinema 4D,

Independent Animation 343

back in 2010, definitely seemed to have its own aesthetic. I think that the fact that I was
still learning the software comes across in my early work. It’s not something that many
people do, and I’ve moved away from it a little bit as I’ve gotten more comfortable with
actual animation, which is a shame because I think it’s interesting to blend the two.”
Adam’s first film that established his style to the independent community was 2012’s
Brave New Old, in which an assortment of simply designed, cuboid characters inhabit
their own insulated, compartmentalized worlds that the audience is alternately given
glimpses of through the side panels of a cube that perpetually rotates (Figure 18.3). Each
tableau we witness explores a variety of topics, on one end impenetrable (yet aestheti-
cally satisfying) abstraction, on the other, more accessible themes of travel, technology,
and relationships. The prevailing themes of compartmentalization and our ambivalence
toward the rise of technology (along with its potential for societal alienation) are recurring
themes in Adam’s subsequent work, which includes 2013’s Risehigh and The Circle Line
followed by 2014’s Fake Expectations (Figure 18.4). Though it is a subject ripe for criticism
and satire, Adam has a largely fond attitude toward said technologies, contributing as they
do to the films’ creation, distribution, and reception.
“I personally quite like technology. It’s kind of fun, isn’t it? There’s not much you can do
to change it; the genie’s already out of the bottle, so everything’s much more fragmented
and will continue to be so. I’m constantly excited by my iPhone, so I’m probably not going
to martyr myself. I can try as much as I can to be conscious of it, but I’ve been very fortu-
nate because I have a skill set that can work for me commercially and can also make my
own animations, so I’m quite satisfied as well. Being this fortunate means I’m not really in
the best position to judge the wider picture.”
This grounded sense of balance in Adam’s attitude benefits his work in several ways,
chief amongst them the absence of sanctimony; there is no hypocritical condemnation
of the technologies that have reshaped human habits, merely a series of well-observed
and good-natured visual gags around the habits themselves. In 2014’s Fake Expectations,
one of the main subjects of exploration is the validity of art, something Adam has seen
to be conflictive when it comes to how his medium is regarded in the independent ani-
mation world (Figure 18.5).
“On social media, I’ve seen some independent 2-D animators being very sniffy and
sneery about CG animation, asserting that 2-D is not dead. From my point of view, it’s
been a little bit left behind because it’s the mainstream, so people who are kind of drawn
to creating fringe work always want to work on the fringes and are slightly dismissive of
CG animation. It’s hard to say if they’re dismissive of it as an aesthetic because it’s so estab-
lished or because it can be quite technical and they feel cut out of it.
“There are a few different factors: Technically it’s different from drawing frame
by frame, sure, but a lot of animators use After Effects in a similarly technical way
to create rigs, for example. I’ve looked at festival selections, and it seems a very small
percentage of selected films are CG. Considering it’s supposedly the dominant pro-
duction method, it’s clearly seen as ‘for cinema,’ while other methods are for the inde-
pendent artists.
“Because it’s a newer medium as well, there’s so much potential to experiment and try
new things. The stuff I’m working on at the moment is poly cel stuff, trying to retain that
CG aesthetic while animating in a much more close-to-the-bone fashion. But ultimately, I
feel as though the independent sector’s very derisive of CG animation and dismisses it as

344 18. Reinventing the Wheel

Independent Animation 345

children’s stuff. People who are into independent film and animation tend to be, I always
feel, drawn to more traditional aesthetics because it meshes more with the personality of
independent animation.”
The complexity of Adam’s work is owed in many respects to multiple sources of inspi-
ration beyond just animation and design. The physical impossibilities of Brave New Old’s
key visual motif, made possible through a combination of CG modeling and extensive

346 18. Reinventing the Wheel

masking and compositing in After Effects, took inspiration from the high-concept physi-
cal manipulation of the video game Portal (Figure 18.6). Adam’s 2013 film Risehigh, a
20-minute miniepic where the audience travels up a tall building, glimpsing the goings-
on inside each apartment along the way, was informed in part by Terry Gilliam’s Brazil.
Predominantly, Adam’s key visual concepts and approaches to production are born out of
a passion for theater and set design. The progressive work of troupes such as Punchdrunk*
and You Me Bum Bum Train,† who take pains to further the art of immersive theater by
combining interactive environments and installations with traditional performance, is
of particular resonance. Oftentimes, it is the visual concept for a film’s environment that
serves as the first germ of Adam’s creative process (Figure 18.7).

* http://punchdrunk.com/
† http://bumbumtrain.com/

Independent Animation 347

“Whenever I have an idea for a set piece, I’ll generally end up designing films, stories,
and ideas around that set piece, which is probably a naughty way of doing it. It may be why
some things hang together differently to how they would in other people’s films, but I like
it. There’s a good core to build off of, and set pieces always help me with that.
“I’ve tried different things on different films, just because I’m trying to figure out what
works really well. In Brave New Old, I went through it in a very linear way; I just kept
storyboarding the plot with rough setup ideas of things I had been brooding about for
a long time. There were also visual remnants from commercial pitches that never went
anywhere that I thought were great mysterious ideas, people pulling levers and stuff like
that. The cube-headed characters were designed for simplicity’s sake, trying to determine
what I could technically achieve at that stage, to make them as simple as possible so I could
animate and manipulate them in many ways. I kind of got stuck at the end and decided to
make it a quandary everyone in the audience could stroke their beards to.”
Were it not for the themes introduced throughout the film and the visual sophistication
of the closing shot, the perceived absence of an ending would most likely not be successful;
even when dealing with conceptual abstraction, a film needs structure, something Adam
gave extra consideration toward with his follow-up film.
“Risehigh was a bit different. I kind of arced that out a little bit more, came up with a
beginning, middle, and end, and drew what were almost flow diagrams for the characters
(Figure 18.8). I knew where I wanted them to go, where I wanted them to start, and how I
wanted it to look. I then filled in all the blanks in a spreadsheet, which went from bottom
to top as with the building in the film, so every floor of the building was represented by a
rung on the spreadsheet that had a description of what would happen on that floor. The
other stuff is made up as I go along, slightly. Generally, I’ll see little visual ideas that I’m
keen on and try to think about how I can integrate them into a plot.”
The structural nature of CG animation brings with it several creative benefits. The free-
dom to tinker with the film’s environment before, during, and after the animation itself

348 18. Reinventing the Wheel

brings with it significantly more options than composited 2-D animation and especially
stop-motion, where there’s very little opportunity to return to the film, so to speak. Adam’s
process has proven conducive to embellishments and experimentation, creating densely
populated and detailed environments that invite repeat viewing. “Generally, before I start
building, there’s not much room for improvisation, but most of the films I’ve made up
until now, I’ve built as physical spaces. The Circle Line, I had built as a giant shopping
mall, and when I built that, there was a lot of ‘real estate’ that I hadn’t quite worked out
yet that wasn’t super important for the plot. It’s almost like leaving a page out of a book; I
go back and fill those bits in, which can be really hard, although I think that may be one

Independent Animation 349

of the things you can do in CG animation you can’t do as well elsewhere. It’s like writing;
you don’t know fully until you’ve actually written something how it might feel; ideas lead
to ideas.
“For practicality reasons, it can’t be one project file, because it slows the computer
down, but it will be designed as one file. So if you pasted all the elements together, it would
all be in place, but I can’t actually render that, because it’s impractical. Brave New Old
required so much compositing to make the rotating cube that there’s a different file for
almost every shot. I could do the compositing in the Cinema 4D project file, but again, it
would slow things down unnecessarily, so Brave New Old was wholly composited, whereas
Risehigh, I managed to make use of lots of in-software compositing by using Boole expres-
sions. Doing compositing can be a real head-scratcher; it just requires lots of planning to
make it work” (Figure 18.9).
There are two prevailing approaches to character animation evident in Adam’s work,
the first being shape-based geometric constructs with rotatable pivot points as opposed
to traditional, inverse kinematic rigging. This approach is seen in Brave New Old and
the quasi-robotic occupants of the world of Fake Expectations. Adam’s alternate approach
applied to Risehigh and its shorter follow-up The Circle Line sees the characters rendered
as flat, two-dimensional entities devoid of any detail save for their polygonal, Cartoon
Modern-esque outlines. This approach gives the films more of a mixed-media feel,
although the process is achieved within the same software.
“It’s animated on flat planes, which is a weird cheat, as I like the idea of being able to do it
frame by frame in the software, but I really like the idea of ‘drawing’ in the 3-D environment.
Using geometry is so much quicker, so Brave New Old and Fake Expectations had much easier
character animation than Risehigh or Circle Line. For those, I wanted to try and keep the
polygonal aesthetics while taking advantage of stuff like those weird smears and blurs you get
with old animation but don’t really see as much of in CG; you tend to see motion blur instead
(Figure 18.10).
“In my new work, I’m now designing characters to be much more naturalistic looking,
because what I find with those characters is I like them and they’re fun to do, but they’re
not very empathetic. They leave people a bit cold, I think, because they’re quite abstract. I
do like that, but if you’re trying to inspire people into feeling an emotion, you need some-
thing that people can grip onto a bit more.”
The major risk Adam has taken with his work is just how much it amounts to. With
Brave New Old and Fake Expectations averaging out at around the 10-minute mark and
Risehigh nearing 20, these projects are clearly enormous undertakings for one person
(outside of music and sound, the films are, by and large, put together entirely on his own).
Ordinarily, longer animated shorts can backfire by losing their audience’s attention along
the way, a pitfall Adam has effectively sidestepped by keeping the action so consistent and
varied. The remaining concern is the drain on one’s personal time such an undertaking
demands, an aspect that Adam is fairly levelheaded about (Figure 18.11).
“I’ve managed to trick my brain: When I do commercial work, which is how I make
my living, there are often really strict deadlines. I was looking at these crazy deadlines and
thinking, I just made a minute’s worth of animation…in a week! And it’s pretty good stuff.
Why can’t I do that for myself? So I just forcibly did it, working really fast and not getting too
bogged down sometimes, because it’s really easy to get really bogged down in ideas. If I get
stuck on something for too long, I’ll try to move on; otherwise, staying focused for so long

350 18. Reinventing the Wheel

Figure 18.9
Character animation using flat planes in Cinema 4D for The Circle Line (Dir. Adam Wells).
(Courtesy of Adam Wells, ©2013.)

can be pretty difficult. I really enjoy modeling with music on, which is controversial because
lots of animators don’t, but I get more done because I can just relax and do the work, then go
back and fix things without music on if I need to. But if I didn’t have the music or the pod-
casts, I wouldn’t get it done, because I wouldn’t be entertained while I was doing it.”
We all may find ourselves in a better position when freelancing, as we can allocate, as
Adam does, a certain amount of time to our film work. If a work lull appears every once
in a while, it’s a good use of one’s time and keeps the creative muscles relatively flexed.

Independent Animation 351

Figure 18.10
CG sets constructed in Cinema 4D for Risehigh. (Courtesy of Adam Wells.)

“It’s tough work on days when you just want to sit around and play video games, but
once you’ve done it enough, you develop this mentality where you feel like you’re failing
if you’re not doing it.”
The need to work does not necessarily have to be constant either. It’s far more advisable
to let your personal work benefit you when the time is right, rather than force it and risk
burnout. As long as our creative impulse remains, it’s a good idea to take the odd break
and absorb what’s around us every once in a while. As Adam points out, “You have to fill
up your brain with stuff before you can spit more stuff out.”

Retro Vertigo
While Adam’s work features the odd nod to the past, his filmography is rooted in its
contemporary sensibilities. Yet great things can also be achieved when marrying the
tropes and conventions of animation’s golden age with the edgier, more frenetic pacing
of our current film landscape. Montreal-based Benjamin Arcand’s Wackatdooo grew
from a series of animation experiments made during his work breaks, centered around
a traditionally styled, 2-D animated dancing cat created for the fun of it. Pleased

352 18. Reinventing the Wheel

with the outcome, it occurred to Benjamin that an entire animated, musically driven
short “about a cat going crazy and dancing around” could be a very real possibility
(Figure 18.12).
“I had tried to make a short film before and had to stop at a certain point, because it was
pretty hard. So Wackatdooo was a challenge I set for myself, whether or not I could do a
film on my own, with no production company or money whatsoever.”
Having not followed through on the earlier attempt at a completed short, Benjamin
credits his intervening industry experience as the guaranteeing factor of Wackatdooo’s
success, as well as a clearer knowledge of how one’s ambition for a project can be more
realistically achieved. Although the finished film holds together perfectly, the preproduc-
tion process was something of a staggered affair.
“I started to storyboard it, but mostly just as rough story panels on pieces of paper. I
was just getting the heavy ideas out, still working on it when I had breaks, until the point
where I decided, Okay, let’s do this—I think around February 2012. I started to do the
boards, going with my thumbnails I had done and building the story straight-ahead in the
animation software, not using storyboard software, just the animation timeline.”
The freeform, unrestrained mania of the film is influenced by such early animation
pioneers as Ub Iwerks and the Fleischer brothers, with the sight gags and overall visual
quality serving as an ode to Warner Bros. animation stalwarts Tex Avery, Bob Clampett,
and Chuck Jones, not to mention the contemporary filter applied to their approach by
The Ren & Stimpy Show creator John Kricfalusi (“After seeing the episode ‘Stimpy’s
Invention,’ I knew that animation was what I wanted to do for a living”) in the early
1990s. This is perhaps most notable toward the end of the main musical segment, where
the frantic nature of the fantasy world becomes an increasingly overwhelming nightmare
(Figure 18.13).

Independent Animation 353

While the production of Wackatdooo would be assisted in many respects by the music
at its core (see Chapter 20), another major contributor to its visual appeal is the bold and
inventive approach to its use of color (Figure 18.14). As the piece increasingly gives way to
fantasy elements, color palettes alternate between highly saturated analogous schemes and
more understated complementary schemes, with occasional monochrome backgrounds
jumping from one point of the color wheel to the next with each shot—sometimes even
within the same shot as the fantasy gives way to manic hysteria. What gives these freer,
more playful instances of color use more impact are the comparatively restrained and dis-
ciplined palettes of the bookending “real-world” scenes, an area assisted in by fellow artist
Edith Lebel.*

* http://edithlebel.blogspot.com/

354 18. Reinventing the Wheel

Figure 18.13
Demonstrating the impactful use of color during a sequence in Benjamin Arcand’s
Wackatdooo. (Courtesy of Benjamin Arcand, ©2014.)

“Sometimes I like to do everything because every aspect is fun, but also I think it gives a
film a nice touch to bring a different vision to it. I went and looked for the strongest people,
and Edith is very strong with color, and she wanted to do it, so I was happy. Another rea-
son would be that it helps with the workload—I mean, just painting the city background
would have taken me forever—but I do think the film is better with an outsider vision.”
Maintaining the spirit of the original test sequences from which the film developed,
Wackatdooo was animated straight-ahead in Toon Boom (with textural and film grain
overlays to enhance the richness and retro vibe of the film), flying in the face of the con-
ventions of animation where previs and meticulous planning are considered crucial. This
manner of tackling the visuals pairs well with the overall vibe of the production and the
events being depicted—the film begins as a cathartic, postworkday dance session, the lines

Independent Animation 355

Figure 18.14
Wackatdooo background layout by Benjamin Arcand; background painted by Edith Lebel.
(Courtesy of Benjamin Arcand, ©2014.)

between reality, fantasy, and dreams are blurred to the point of nonexistence, until the
main character’s morning alarm brings him back to the real world. As such, the absence
of a need for continuity allowed for Benjamin’s approach to each shot to be more or less
unfettered, save for a certain degree of visual continuity to keep the film anchored on a
subliminal level (Figure 18.15).
“Animating straight-ahead doesn’t suit every kind of film story, but mine was pretty
simple. I think the main advantage to the animation was that sometimes, scenes were

356 18. Reinventing the Wheel

created purely out of ideas for transitions—‘let’s see what we’re going to do next’—from
shot to shot. So I like the straight-ahead approach, although it can create some conti-
nuity problems in a way, and of course, you need to wrap it up at the end. I had some
trouble working out how the film was going to finish—all I knew was that I wanted him
to wake up, so at the animatic stage, I left the ending a bit open, when the alarm clock
is ringing.”
The coda of the film manages to tie everything together with a cleverly paced, three-
punch ending that frees the musical-enthusiast cat from the hell of his job by sending him
instead to the hell of his fantasies, to his eternal delight. Bookending the main musical
number of the film with two “real-world” scenarios that are playfully subverted by the
time the credits roll proves an effective means of lending the project more substance from
a story perspective; though the bulk of Wackatdooo is a wordless dance number, the over-
all piece works structurally as a film (Figures 18.16 and 18.17).
“I think that sometimes, when there aren’t enough limitations, you find yourself going
in all directions without enough structure, but in this film, at least I had a small setup. It
wasn’t a crazy story with thousands of characters, so since it was pretty simple, it worked.”
As with many of these case studies, the time and effort spent on the film have been
advantageous to Benjamin’s career and future prospects, as well as his own personal artis-
tic development.
“I’ve been contacted for a couple of projects and job opportunities, and there are pos-
sibilities to maybe pitch for short programs at major networks. The main benefit was that
I came away from the project with more skills; by making the film, I’ve improved much
faster than if I had been just working on some TV show. I decided to not take on any work
for a period of time while working on the film, and at first, I was a bit scared about losing
opportunities, that maybe it was going to be hard after the film was done, but now, things
are even better than before.”

Independent Animation 357

Late Nights
Few collaborative projects so encapsulate the spirit of independent animation while
confirming the creative possibilities this book celebrates like Ghost Stories, a multiartist
anthology quietly worked on between January and September 2013. The film’s genesis was
the coming together of 15 like-minded animators based around the globe, corralled by
illustrator/animator Scott Benson to form a loose collective known as the Late Night Work
Club.* As contributing director Alex Grigg recalls, “The first seeds of the idea began with,
appropriately enough, a series of late-night conversations over social media” (Figure 18.18).

* http://latenightworkclub.com

358 18. Reinventing the Wheel

Figure 18.18
Alex Grigg. (Courtesy of the artist.)

“Scott had put up this tweet that just said, ‘What if there was a Nobrow* for animation?’
I thought that was an amazing idea, so I just replied to him that he should definitely do
it. I still don’t know if that affected him at all, but I had done some LoopdeLoops† he had
seen (almost all of my professional work that someone sought me out for specifically had
a nucleation point with LoopdeLoop, for some reason), so he sent me an e-mail saying,
‘We’ve got some of these people involved; do you want to be part of it?’ I saw the list of
people, and it sounded amazing.”
Alex had been working in animation for roughly 4 years, and his experience had largely
been limited to commercials, feature work, and assisting on other people’s shorts. As he
had reached a point where he was able to take time off from paid work, the opportunity to
direct a film entirely of his own was met with tremendous enthusiasm.
“I had just moved to London, which was a huge influence on me, getting out and doing
my own stuff, finishing my own work for the first time. Having been in Australia previ-
ously, the only people who made and finished personal work were people who got funded
by funding bodies. That seemed to be the only way to do things, and then I got to London,
and everyone I met was in the same position as me; they’d all be freelance animating by
day, but they’d all have finished films or interesting projects to their name, without having
to wait for permission from anyone. So it was kind of a perfect storm of timing, for me:

* The publishing company Nobrow Press began life in 2008 as a collective of contemporary artists who
specialize in design-oriented graphic literature.
† http://www.loopdeloop.org/—a popular animation challenge based in Melbourne, Australia, where

animators the world over are invited each month to create and submit looping animations with the possibility
of valuable online exposure should their work be selected as the winner of that month.

Independent Animation 359

lots of energy, London, LoopdeLoop, and Scott starting this thing with Charles (Huettner)
and Eamonn (O’Neill).”
Alex’s first job out of school had been as an animator on the short film The Cat Piano
(Dir. Eddie White and Ari Gibson) in Adelaide. It was on this job that he cut his teeth
animating in Photoshop, a software he continued to gravitate toward throughout his
subsequent work and involvement with the Late Night Work Club. Bouncing around the
Australian industry saw Alex take on work as varied as commercial CG animation and
motion capture for video games before eventually landing a job at Nexus in London. This
last move proved something of a culture shock in terms of his perception of what consti-
tutes an independent animation director.
“That is something that doesn’t happen in Australia at all. There aren’t really freelance
directors here—you own a company and then you’re a director; that’s what director gener-
ally means now, in Australia. So I worked everywhere just generally as an animator, and
about the time I moved to London, I was sort of losing interest in just animating; I felt a
little bit like I was watching someone else work all day. So I broke out, got my own studio
space, turned down work, started making my own, and then spent maybe 4 or 5 months
on my film.”
Said film was Phantom Limb, Alex’s contribution to the Late Night Work Club’s
Ghost Stories anthology, in which a man finds himself plagued by guilt manifested as the
haunting apparition of his girlfriend’s arm, which had been detached in a road accident
(Figure 18.19). From the outset, Alex knew that the opportunity and motivation to direct
his first short was not to be taken lightly, and made the potentially risky decision of taking
an extended period of time off from freelance work. For some independent filmmakers,

PHANTOM Ll M B

360 18. Reinventing the Wheel

this level of dedication can be the only guarantee that a project will receive the proper
attention it deserves to come together successfully.
“It’s weird to talk about money, but it’s obviously a reality of making personal proj-
ects. I think that at a certain point, I stopped being afraid of not getting freelance work.
Eventually, you know that when you finish a job, you get another one relatively quickly,
within a week or two, and after that happens a bunch of times, you just lose the fear. There
is always a hustle, but it is really liberating, not having to worry. Also, I’m pretty frugal
generally, so that I can take time out to do this sort of stuff. I’ll save a lot of money when I
work, then live on those savings while I do other stuff, which is cool.”
Alex is the first to concede that this way of life is not for everyone. Whether one’s cir-
cumstances require constant work and constant frugality or the notion of losing the sta-
bility and quality of life we’re accustomed to is frightening (or perhaps just impractical) is
something we can only determine individually. Aside from the occasional monetary award
at festivals, Phantom Limb did not wind up generating much by way of revenue; as is so
often the case with independent shorts, any perceivable monetary value is far more likely
to be measured by the increased visibility and career prospects a successful short can put
in motion. With a career already established, for Alex, the venture was more worthwhile
for the artistic growth and development of new skills it brought about (Figure 18.20).
“If it had turned out that everyone hated it, I might not feel the same way, but people
were into it, so it’s a relief! Even if they didn’t like it, I wouldn’t have regrets about it. That’s
one of the things people don’t talk about, because they have this idea that there’s this
gift, ‘natural talent’ or something, and I think it’s a really dangerous point of view. It’s as
though there’s this narrative that they give people, and if you struggle at all, if you fail or
you’re not seen as gifted from a young age, then people think you’re not as good. I find that
really damaging. I have this view that the things that differentiate me from somebody on

Independent Animation 361

the street are not my ideas so much as my discipline in learning a craft to make them hap-
pen and having an interest in actually making something out of those ideas. I think that
everyone has interesting, cool thoughts about stuff, so I sort of hate that myth of the artist.
It comes down to the concept of failure—people will tell you failure is important, but they
don’t like seeing it. They think less of you.”
All 15 contributing Late Night Work Club artists were given the same theme of “ghost
stories,” but unlike other group collaborations (such as the varieties of Anijam discussed
previously), there were no parameters when it came to style, materials, or execution, nor
was any film required to transition from or to either film that bookended it. The end result
is an anthology of completely individual stories, despite a binding premise of sorts.
“I’m lucky that they gave us a theme. ‘Ghost stories’ sounded sort of spooky and cheesy,
as in ‘campfire tales’ or whatever, so I actively tried to do something that wasn’t that, but
Phantom Limb did turn out to be a pretty literal ghost story, I guess. I think we all had a
similar reaction, to be honest; we were all on a similar wavelength except for one or two
of the films (Figure 18.21).
“I think that something that saved me a lot in the process was having a really under-
standable premise. I tried to set up the premise really quickly and early on, and then
you just kind of play with it at that point. I don’t know if I wanted it to be more complex
originally; I think I just wanted less of a straight narrative. I wanted it to be a little more
dreamlike, but I think that my mind just works in ordering things into an understand-
able package, so inevitably, it became a pretty straight narrative. That was important to
this film.”

362 18. Reinventing the Wheel

The dialog in the film is scarce, though effective in its scarcity. Dialog did not fall within
Alex’s comfort zone as a storyteller, which saw the visuals taking the lead.
“I really respect people who can do dialog well, but they tend to be people that write
words. Maybe it’s a cheat to just use visuals, because I spend all day practicing that specific
craft, so it becomes more natural. Films that I have made since Phantom Limb have been
completely visual. I start by going into it with designs and fully finished storyboards so as
to present a story I am interested in exploring. I want to be more playful visually rather
than lock myself in with storyboards and a really tight animatic. I don’t have any prefer-
ence when I watch films; I tend to think either way can be a crutch, whether using a lot of
dialog or not. I don’t particularly like narration unless it’s really well done; if the film itself
isn’t balanced, then it feels like a bit of a wasted opportunity. Mikey Please’s The Eagleman
Stag is a great use of it because it’s almost like the narration is ‘unreliable’ or something?
And so it adds this extra layer; it’s not just exposition. It’s the same with Tom Brown’s film
Teeth.”
While consistent with the overriding theme of its fellow Ghost Stories segments,
Phantom Limb would go on to much success and visibility as a stand-alone film, both
online and at festivals. In spite of it not being narratively or stylistically beholden to the
other shorts involved, Alex was initially hesitant to split it off from Ghost Stories, main-
taining that the ideal way to experience it is as a chapter within the overall anthology.
“I think Ghost Stories is more than the sum of its parts, plus the reason any of us got any
attention at all is because it felt really aspirational and new. I think that we were all keen
to keep it as part of the anthology for as long as possible, especially on the Internet, so we
kept it like that for about a year. That way, we weren’t competing against each other; we
were always supporting each other.
“If we had all individually released our shorts, it would have been more of a flash in the
pan and whizzed by, like all Internet shorts seem to do. Just being part of a big group felt
like it gave it a lot more weight. I was really grateful to be a part of that. Then, on top of
that, it was my first film. I was a really big fan of all of the other people’s previous films,
and knowing that I would be up next to them made me push myself a lot harder, because I
didn’t want to show myself up. I can’t speak for the others, but it was very important to me
personally, and I’m really glad I was part of it.”

Independent Animation 363

19
Perseverance

The tenacity of self-producing an animated film—especially when one is also taking on

the roles of director, lead animator, both, or more—should be more than evident at this
point. A declaration of commitment is pretty much meaningless if you don’t stick around

365
to actually commit, and as we’ve seen and will continue to see, follow-through is more
vital to a film’s success than any funding scenario or distribution plan.
One project that truly demonstrates how independent work can be truly comparable in
quality to that of studios is Andy Martin’s The Planets. An exception to the earlier-touched
upon philosophy that an animation career can hinge entirely on a smash-hit student film
right out of the gate, Andy came into his own a fair while after his graduation, working
within the freelance sector until his skills and ability eventually led him to be taken on by
Strange Beast, a division of London-based Passion Pictures.
Andy incrementally segued into animation from studying motion graphics (mograph),
itself branched off from graphic design. Growing up with an enthusiasm for the character-
driven children’s fare of Peter Firmin and Oliver Postgate such as Bagpuss and The
Clangers, it’s no surprise that his 12-part anthology film The Planets is notably character-
driven with supremely palatable visuals and a light, general audience-accessible sense of
the absurd. It began life in January 2013 as an illustration project in which he made a point
of drawing something new in his sketchbook every day, cleaning it up in Photoshop, and
posting the results on Tumblr; several weeks in, it was suggested by one intrigued follower
that the visuals he was coming up with would look impressive in motion (Figure 19.1).
“I had a week where I wasn’t doing anything, so I animated the first planet and thought
it would just be its own little special thing. Then I changed the whole style for February
because I knew that to stay interested, I would need to mix it up. After I animated the
second one, I figured I had something here, that it could be a series, something that would
provide a deadline at the end of each month. By putting up something new every month,
people might start getting interested, and by changing the look every month, then I’d stay
interested in what I was doing and have a big catalog of styles that I’d done and different
directions of animation I’d explored.”
This method also pushed Andy to hone his skills as a storyteller, working on the fly to
write achievable stories in the limited time (working alongside a day job as well as real-life

366 19. Perseverance

obligations) he had allowed himself. “It was a challenge that, at the end of it all, seemed to
come together quite nicely and had a feel of one whole thing.”
Each monthly film focuses on the life forms and general activity of a previously-
undiscovered planet, each one unique in tone and animation style, though bound by a
strong comedic thread. Planet Eleven, for example, is inhabited by frantic alien cyclopes,
animated using cardboard cutouts; Planet Nine is occupied by destructive, childlike super-
heroes rendered in pixel-art (Figure 19.2); Planet Six is under threat from its own warring,
Claymation society; and so on. The final film, edited together from the 12 microshorts that
preceded it, not only serves as a design portfolio and artistic showcase in its own right but
also, most importantly, succeeds enormously as a film. To preserve the journey’s sense of
development, the anthologized edit shows all the planets chronologically.
“It seemed logical to do it like that, although given there’s no running narrative between
them, I could have mixed them up, except for the last planet, which needs to go at the end.
Planet Nine, with the digital, 8-bit superhero characters, that was the one that really hit
people and turned a corner; it was towards the end of the project that it got Staff Picked,
and then people really started noticing what I was doing. I could have started off with that
one, but I didn’t want to put that at the front, just because it felt nice the way that they ran

Independent Animation 367

together, in the order they were. This way, you start and end with the musical ones, Planet
One and Planet Twelve.
“So from the start of not knowing where it went, the project eventually came to a point
where I knew what I wanted to do with it, and then once I’d finished the 12 individual ones,
I just needed to package them all, and I did the space in-between bits where I got all the
planets together and we moved from one to another, which seemed like quite a nice device.”
Another benefit of having an anthology film is just how much wider its exposure has the
potential to be. While of the 12 microshorts that it consists of, some certainly work better
than others as stand-alone films (Andy cites Planets Six, Nine, and also Four, in which a
society of robots who have taken over “find harmony and discuss philosophical matters of
enlightenment, beauty, and magnificence,” as being particularly resonant with audiences),
all of them possess a uniquely identifying strength. Planet Seven, in which sheeplike crea-
tures ponder the banality of their existence, is, while minimally animated, notable for
its dialog; the entirely musical Planet Two is a character-based mograph extravaganza
reminiscent of the best that onedotzero and Pictoplasma have been known to showcase.
“I think if you come into some of them on their own, they come across more as sketches
than narratives. The ones that are narrative, that have dialog and voices in them, stand
alone better than the ones that don’t. Some festivals have just chosen individual ones to
show. They were all made to be individual parts of a series, so I’d assume that if you saw
one of them on their own, or found it in the middle of the project, you would see that a
film titled Planet Seven indicates there are at least six more of these. That’s what I hoped
would happen.”
Despite the high professional standard of the film’s overall look and feel, The Planets
serves as another example of a film created without adopting a methodical, studio
approach. Preproduction consisted of little more than sketches and doodles, dialog more
often than not scribbled in notebooks or recorded into a phone while out walking the dog
rather than scripted. Andy equates his creative process more to that of writing stand-up
material (Figure 19.3).
“Sometimes I’ll just speak into the microphone, acting out stuff to see what works. I lis-
ten to a comedy podcast where comedians interview other comedians about their writing
process, how they came to do what they do and how they technically write the material.
Very rarely is it that people just sit down at a desk on a computer, typing stuff out. Some
of them do that; I think people who specialize in one-liners will have a topic and write a
load of things that work with it—that’s a sit-down thing. I think a lot of them go onstage
and try stuff out; they start with a nub of an idea as a bullet point and then start talking
round it and seeing what works and what doesn’t. I don’t have the kind of audience that I
stand in front of, but I do try to take a bit of that on, where I’ll act it out so that I can see
that it works. When you write stuff down, it can turn out more like literature, rather than
the way people talk or the way a character would interact. You write more words than
you need, whereas I think if you just try it out and say stuff, then you will get the natural
rhythms of speech.”
A quality of Andy Martin’s work that is clearly evident in The Planets, and works signif-
icantly to its advantage, is its broad appeal, something generally synonymous with simply
“playing it safe.” In Andy’s case, the fact that his film plays just as well as part of a late-
night screening as it does at an early morning children’s program (I can personally attest
to this, having witnessed both circumstances during its 2014 festival run) is a testament to

368 19. Perseverance

his authenticity as a filmmaker. The film doesn’t contrive to be child friendly, nor fashion-
ably design oriented or edgy; it simply is what it is, from sketchbook to the screen (Figure
19.4).
“I usually just make stuff that isn’t that offensive!” Andy muses. “In my own work,
stuff with lots of swearing or sex and violence doesn’t naturally come out of me. I like it in
other people’s work, but I think if I tried to do something like that, it would feel forced and
would be awful, because it wouldn’t represent who I am and the kind of thing that I would
want to make. I really love films like David O’Reilly’s The External World, but I could
never make a film like that; I could never push it as far as he could, so mine tend to become
quite family friendly. The Planets seems to appeal to adults as well as kids, which I think
is good because I don’t really aim them for kids, but kids seem to like my sense of humor.”
The accessibility of a film like The Planets to younger audiences highlights what gener-
ally separates the wheat from the chaff when it comes to effective children’s programming.

Independent Animation 369

It is easy to pander and condescend to children (perhaps even difficult not to) if they are
your intended audience. Yet the films, shorts, and television shows that stand out are the
ones that invariably make a point of not doing so. Oftentimes, it is merely the absence of
sex, violence, and other adult themes that deems content to be engaging to children. From
the uncompromising verbosity of Oliver Postgate’s writing in the 1960s and 1970s to the
unabashedly vanguard premises of more modern shows such as Sarah Gomes Harris’s
Sarah and Duck or Grant Orchard’s Hey Duggee, children evidently respect not being
talked down to.
“If I tried to do The Planets as a film for kids, trying to think of stories that would appeal
to boys aged 7 and 8, I would probably start patronizing, and it wouldn’t appeal to them;
it would be all wrong. I’ll more likely do something that I think is a funny idea, stories
reflective of aspects of life such as war, reluctance, regret, belief, all these starting points;
they then become really simple ideas and jokes that appeal when I show other people. If I
thought, Okay, this is going to be targeted at this specific age group, I would just fail miser-
ably! Whereas if I do something that does appeal to them, then that’s a happy accident”
(Figure 19.5).

370 19. Perseverance

Staying Power
While there is laudable perseverance when it comes to filmmakers like Andy Martin, to set
themselves an unshakable goal that ensures their commitment for an entire year (such as Greg
McLeod’s 365 project discussed earlier in the book), a short film idea can be just as well served
with a slower-burn approach. As Rumpus Animation’s belief in their own Bertram Fiddle’s
strength as a character eventually bore fruit (though, in its interactive form, not in a way
they had anticipated), Emma Birch and Peter Williamson’s short film script Being Bradford
Dillman also took nearly a decade to successfully adapt into an animated short (Figure 19.6).
Emma, whose creative partnership with Peter began when she joined the Soho-based,
independent stop-motion studio Loose Moose, used writing as an exercise to keep her
creative juices flowing, having found herself largely settled in the admin side of animation

Independent Animation 371

production. Peter, largely working on character design commissions and commercial

briefs, had a similar itch to scratch, and so the two paired up for what was originally
planned out as a 3-minute short. Similar again to the journey of Bertram Fiddle, a series
of ultimately unsuccessful funding applications proved invaluable in terms of addressing
areas of the film that could be strengthened.
“It was after being short-listed for a couple of funding schemes that the team at Loose
Moose thought maybe there was something a bit more to our idea,” Emma recalls. “They
encouraged us to continue to develop it during times when the studio was quiet.”
Though the film slowly marinated, progressing to the point of fully developed charac-
ters and story, circumstances led to the project being shelved for 3 years. As her time at
Loose Moose drew to a close, the planets eventually aligned nearly 10 years after the proj-
ect’s initial conception. The catalyst came from the arrival of the showreel of recent gradu-
ate Daniella Orsini (later of Catfish Collective), which showcased her unique approach to
stop-motion, cutout animation.

372 19. Perseverance

“We really liked Daniella’s animation style and thought it would fit the story perfectly,
so it was one of those happy coincidences. We called Daniella in, and she agreed to help,
so we wound up completing the film before I left Loose Moose.”
What made Daniella’s contribution so essential was the laborious style journey the
film had gone on throughout its development. The story is of Molly, a young girl who
becomes obsessed over her Mother’s drunken admission that, at birth, she had been a boy.
Her alternate self is manifested as Bradford Dillman, an imaginary friend with whom she
forms an uneasy sibling bond. Over the years, no visual approach to telling the story had
seemed like a fit, or least not one that could be constrained within the limited available
resources as an independent project (Figure 19.7).
“We had looked at lots of different styles of animation. We’d even gone through the pro-
cess of having people build Molly as a 3-D computer-generated (CG) puppet. Obviously, I
would have loved to have done stop-motion, but from years of experience watching Loose
Moose, I knew that was way out of our budget. I think I had even tried to turn my hand
to Flash at one point to try and get it made, using Pete’s designs, but everything that we
tried lost the charm of Pete’s original ink illustrations. He used to do them with ink and
cartridge paper, so they’d also have a nice texture to them, and something was just lost.”
Daniella’s approach served to succeed where Flash had failed, retaining the textural feel
of the designs and animated from multiple printouts. Given the narrative thrust of the short,
mainstream television shows such as Family Guy proved helpful research when evaluating
the economics of the character animation and approach to set construction. The film sets
were built with sitcom production in mind, the cinematography combining theater views
with characters typically set at three-fourths angles, creating a tactile environment with the
depth of a 3-D stop-motion production in which the 2-D printed characters could perform.
“It’s a quite naive, simplistic style, but it works graphically for the piece. There are always a
couple of shots you think you’d do differently, and there are a couple of mistakes in there that
I don’t think anyone else spots, but every time I watch it, I always only see those details. But

Independent Animation 373

generally, I’m very proud of it, as a first film, and because it took so long to get into production,
I’m just glad that we completed it! It ended up being a little bit rushed towards the end as time
and money ran out, but I figured that it’s better to have a finished film people will enjoy than
an unfinished masterpiece that nobody’s going to see. Something I’ve always carried with me
that Pete once said is not to dwell and just make sure any lessons learned you apply to your
next project. You just have to keep moving on and keep learning from your experiences.”
As aggravating as spotting mistakes can be—especially if it isn’t until after the film
is done and out there—a strong story will make great strides in masking them as far as
the general public is concerned. We are all, as Emma reasons, only human at the end of
the day. On reflection, the protracted production of Being Bradford Dillman was the best
thing for it, and as a back-burner project, it had the opportunity to mature creatively as
Emma and Peter themselves did, as well as resulting in a more considered, fleshed-out
story (Figure 19.8). The experience of the studio environment itself also played an impor-
tant part in the film’s maturity, Emma cutting her teeth by osmosis through observation
of directorial talents such as Ken Lidster and Ange Palethorpe.
“I don’t think you jump on your first idea and then be impatient to make it,” Emma rea-
sons in summation. “Development is essential, I think, to make strong and compelling work.”
A similarly protracted development process also served to benefit Daniel Gray and Tom
Brown’s 2015 film Teeth, the first pass at the story being written nearly 8 years previously
during a train journey returning from the Annecy festival. In the interim, Dan and Tom,
collectively Holbrooks, would largely work on commercials, though as the years went by,
they would see the expectations of advertisers transition from short, simple messages to
elaborate, sometimes quite lengthy endeavors with parallels to short film production.
Projects such as Parcel* for Red Cross New Zealand and Safe in Your Hands† for Allstate’s

* http://www.holbrooksfilms.com/red-cross-parcel
† http://www.holbrooksfilms.com/allstate

374 19. Perseverance

lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) campaign Out Holding Hands kept the pair
practised and helped refine their own working dynamic as filmmakers.
“Our working process sort of naturally comes from working on the commercials
together,” explains Dan, “so if there’s a commercial which suits Tom’s way of working
more, he tends to do more of the art direction, and I’ll stay back and do more storyboards;
if it’s something that suits my art direction, then I’ll do that.
“I guess we have a certain conflict about the way we work, not in an argumentative way,
but in the sense that my natural aesthetic is completely different from Tom’s. Where they
meet is always quite interesting, because they shouldn’t really meet. We basically try not
to overanalyze it!”
Though there were some initial funding prospects to help get Teeth off the ground,
these would ultimately not take flight, leaving the pair to rely on their own resourceful-
ness. The eventual coming together of the film was the result of simply dedicating time,
enthusiasm, and effort to a project they believed had legs. Knowing they had the skills to
cover the visuals themselves meant that the only real consideration in lieu of a budget was
cracking on with it. Where bringing on other talent was concerned, such as background
artist Leland Goodman and sound designers Antfood, the directors were able to offer
incentives such as festival attendance and a more artistically varied showreel in lieu of
remuneration (the old line of free work being “great for exposure” can actually be quite
appealing in the rare instances such as this where it happens to be true).
This approach largely epitomizes the spirit of many other case studies we’ve explored
in the book—as so many people have shown, devoting a regular portion of your free time
to such projects will incrementally bring it to fruition. In terms of being psychologically
committed to following through on a passion project, working toward a self-set dead-
line will always help. Major festival call-for-entries deadlines are often a strong motiva-
tor, especially if you have a particular hope for your film to get its premiere at a specific
event. When it came to ensuring that Teeth would reach its finish line, Tom and Dan made
the decision to seal their fate by sending a rough, work-in-progress cut of the film to the
Sundance Film Festival, so as to set an unshakeable deadline for the finished product
should it be accepted—which, as it turned out, it was (Figure 19.9).
Even if you need to work a day job, there is always time in the evenings and weekends
for our hobbies and passions. As Dan breaks it down, “Do as much in your own skill set as
possible towards the completion of the film until you reach a point where there’s something
you can’t do. For example, with us, we can storyboard everything, we can do the animatic,
so we did everything slowly until we got to the point where the next step was just to make
the film—which, again, we could do. So we started making the film, and then it was finished
by accident, really. Once you’ve started, it all tumbles into place, and you enjoy it! If you’re a
writer, you write every day; if you’re not a writer, you don’t—it’s the same with filmmakers.
“The classic Kickstarter scenario you see these days is, some guy will have some charac-
ter designs and a story, and he’s asking for money to make a film. He’s a filmmaker, he can
do everything—the storyboards, animatic, everything—yet goes to Kickstarter. It almost
looks like they want it as a job, and making short films shouldn’t be a job. They’re not going
to get you a house or anything like that. It’s something you put yourself through, because
you enjoy it. Then, once you release it into the world, it’s great to just sit back a bit and see
whether other people like it or hate it, if they’ve interpreted it completely wrong or gotten
it spot on. It’s a fun little world!”

Independent Animation 375

Hurdles to Overcome
Whether alone or as part of a team, there will always be factors at play that can sap the joy
out of a production. Returning to our first case study, The Dam Keeper, even the directorial
duo Robert Kondo and Dice Tsutsumi’s shared experience at a company as high profile as
Pixar did not completely steel them for what lay ahead when they embarked on the film.
What kept The Dam Keeper afloat and has since ensured the formation of the duo’s studio
Tonko House was the realization that their creative affinity could withstand the test of a
film production’s hardships (Figure 19.10). As Robert candidly explains, “We learned how
to be honest with each other at the core level of the filmmaking; it wasn’t just two art direc-
tors agreeing with each other. When we were making our personal project together, we
fought a lot; we agreed; we disagreed and went through a lot of things together. I realized
this is the kind of stuff that you need to start something with a partner who you can trust.
I realized, ‘If Robert agrees, I think I’m ready.’ ”
When the two found themselves working together as art directors during their time at
Pixar, they often found themselves unified on most fronts, sharing very similar aesthetic
tastes. Once they stepped outside of the studio environment and into their own first per-
sonal project, the scenario shifted quickly.
“I always explain it as two artists trying to make one drawing, but both of them have
one hand on the pencil. It was really a difficult thing to figure out how to collaborate in the
beginning, given that neither of us were writers and hadn’t written really anything; this
was a first foray for both of us into writing something of this nature, so we had to learn
how to write at the same time we were trying to figure out how to work together. That
brought out a lot of insecurity in both of us, I think.”

376 19. Perseverance

Considering that Robert and Dice began The Dam Keeper at a point in their careers
where they both felt fairly comfortable and that they were in a place where they could
experiment creatively, to suddenly find themselves in new territory both unfamiliar and
demanding took some acclimation (Figure 19.11).
“There was a lot of back and forth of trying to figure that out, a lot of arguments, dis-
agreements, and insecurity, which always creates a specific temperature that is not always
comfortable. A lot of the doubt came from the fact that we’d had such a good relationship
up until that point, then all of a sudden, we were pushed into this other paradigm of our
relationship, every minute of it questioning, Are we going to finish this thing?
“It almost became a daily thing: If we can make it through today, if we can be better
today than we were yesterday, then that’s good enough. Ever since then, it has been about
either making our relationship or ourselves as individuals stronger. That’s why I continue
to enjoy working together. Every day can be its own challenge, in its own way, but we fig-
ure things out as we move forward.”
We’ve seen examples of independent production that have put aside a traditional pipe-
line. Doing so has, in many instances, proved beneficial to an auteur project given that it
carries with it a new set of disciplines that, depending on circumstances, might only serve
to get in the way of the progress of the animation itself. In the case of The Dam Keeper,
however, Robert and Dice were already familiar with the hierarchies and processes of fea-
ture film production, and as such, replicating a similar environment for their own project
(which, while remaining strictly independent, amassed over the course of its production
a crew of over 70 contributing talents) proved to be the best way forward (Figure 19.12).
“I think it definitely helped us, understanding the 3-D CG animated feature pipeline.
Because of being employed at Pixar and having familiarity with it, we actually did involve 3-D
with our process, because we had access to people who were very eager to help. Animation was
a world that we were unfamiliar with, that we wanted to build as much time for as possible, so
anything we were able to do to speed up that process was essential. We actually did do previs

Independent Animation 377

Figure 19.12
Director Dice Tsutsumi reviews animation during the production of The Dam Keeper.
(Courtesy of Tonko House LLC, ©2014.)

378 19. Perseverance

where we figured out camera and scale; we built all of our sets in very rough, rudimentary
3-D, but we would do all our camerawork there. All the layout was done in Maya, and then
from there, we would draw and paint over it, and animate over that, so it made the camera
layout process go as quickly as possible between approval of story and the animation itself.”
The size of the crew eventually equated to that of a major production, extended beyond
animators and painters to coordinators, sound, music, and a full orchestra. The project
carried with it the type of buzz that made pooling their contacts and studio resources rela-
tively simple, as Dice explains. “The crew size was so big mainly because nobody worked
full time on this project; pretty much everybody had a full-time job during the daytime,
so we could only take so much time from each individual. We had to work very smartly;
we had a very skilled, capable, talented producer who came up with very creative ways to
utilize the number of people and get the most productivity out of them without killing
himself or killing all those people who had to work during the daytime.”
Having never experienced the editing process firsthand, Robert and Dice were able
to bring on Bradley Furniss, an assistant editor on Pixar’s Toy Story 3 and Brave, who, as
such, had a clearer understanding of how best to build an editorial pipeline.
“Whether it was from storyboards into editorial, music into editorial, or sound into
editorial, all the way through from the rough animation to the final animation, all of that
timing getting methodically figured out by our editor were all things that, coming from a
CG animation studio, really helped us to move quickly and efficiently.”
To summarize on a motivational note, I’ll hand it over to Andy Martin, director of The
Planets, for a nugget of crucial advice:
“Set yourself a deadline that you can’t get out of! That’s a really good motivator. For The
Planets, I had a start-of-month deadline that I couldn’t avoid; otherwise, everything would
just fall apart (Figure 19.13). I could have just stopped, but I think if you’re going to do

Independent Animation 379

something like an animated film, then it’s got to be in your nature to want to do it, so you
either will or you won’t. I think self-motivation is something that you have or you don’t; if
you don’t have it, you probably don’t enjoy your job and should maybe try something else.
“If you’ve got an inescapable deadline you have to finish by a certain date, it can’t be
bent because you have a client—so the way that I did it with The Planets was assume that
millions of people were waiting for the films to go online, even though they weren’t, but
that gave me pressure to make sure I got something done. Again, what helped was chang-
ing the style every month so I had a whole new cast of characters to play with. That made
it a lot more fun for me and helped me stay interested in it.”

380 19. Perseverance

20
Your Two Most Important
Characters

It’s said that an animated film’s music and sound make up the greater percentage of its
effectiveness. This proclamation may irk some of you who have bled, sweated, and cried
through countless hours of animation production, only for some noisemaking outsider to
swoop in and be granted more than half of the credit in what may take a fraction of the
time you’ve put in. In spite of this, the statement remains painfully accurate, and possi-
bly even understated. As many an auteur, independent, student, and even studio film has
proven over the years, whether your animation consists of virtually-inanimate stickmen
or rivals the production quality of a Disney feature, a botched sound mix or music score
can make it unwatchable.

Outsourcing
When it comes to finding a composer for your film, be discerning, if possible. When
turning to friends, students, young professionals, or those who’ve even carved a career
in sound or music for themselves, there remains the same potential for lack of talent or
ability you’ll have doubtless witnessed in your own industry. You want to find yourself
engaged in a creative partnership that will benefit the production, not just pad out one
another’s curriculum vitae (CVs).
Referring to an earlier case study, a strong example of this principle is the constructive
relationship between Melissa Johnson, writer and codirector of the autobiographical film Love

381
in the Time of March Madness, and the film’s composer and sound recordist, Albert Behar
(Figure 20.1).
“Albert converted his bedroom into a hip sound studio with a really beautiful, old-
fashioned microphone, and I got into this makeshift booth (his mattress and boxspring
propped up on their sides—with red velour curtains draped over them to ‘make it sound
better’) on the hottest day of the summer. It was just brutally hot, so swampy that we
would have to take breaks where we would put on the air-conditioning unit in his wall
and crowd around it to cool down so we wouldn’t pass out. I’d practice my lines and then
turn it off and do 5 or 6 minutes of recording. Then we’d turn the air conditioning back
on and cool down again.”
Having frequently collaborated on projects that preceded Love in the Time of March
Madness, Melissa cites their rapport and mutual respect for one another’s craft as being
conducive to their creative process.
“I love working with Albert—we have a long history of collaborating together. I know
his music very well; when I heard what he came up with for March Madness, it got me fired
up: ‘Yep, that’s exactly right!’ Sometimes when we were stuck in production, I’d go off and
play the music by myself to get back into the right headspace.
“Those moments, those are the true moments where you connect with your artist
friends, where it’s not about the money; it’s not about awards or anything external. If I’m
going to entrust the story of my love life and a range of funny and painful and awkward
moments growing up, who do I really trust to represent me in a way I’m really comfortable
with? Without question, I put myself in exactly the right hands, with Robertino and Albert.”

Figure 20.1
Still from Love in the Time of March Madness (Dir. Melissa Johnson/Robertino Zambrano).
(Courtesy of High Hip Productions/KAPWA Studioworks, ©2014.)

382 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

As with animation or, frankly, any of the creative arts, those who have taught them-
selves in their bedrooms—or even simply hobbyists—can prove to be just as gifted and
able as accredited professionals. A degree or list of credits is no guarantee of competence
or work ethic. Nor should either of these be disregarded, as there are many dueling factors
to consider. To begin with, more than anything, you need to make sure that whomever you
work with has a reciprocal respect and understanding of what you wish to achieve with the
project and how you both can benefit from the experience, financially and/or artistically.
• Get to know them personally; build up an understanding of their background
and a clear sense of their working methods to help determine where any creative
affinities might lie.
• Research their body of work thoroughly. When self-promoting, what projects of
theirs are front and center? Are these projects similar to yours, as far as story,
style, or even production conditions go? What projects of theirs seem weakest,
and why? Being keenly aware of one another’s limitations as well as your skills will
help keep expectations reasonable on both ends.
• Respect the artistry and skill of their craft and keep your expectations reason-
able. It’s aggravating to us when, as animators, a client makes farcical, unreason-
able demands on what is possible or acceptable within an established budget. A
client you’ll want to work for time and again will be clear, communicative, and
understanding, so extend that same courtesy to other artists (this applies to all of
your crew, to be perfectly honest).

A Composer’s Perspective
Generally speaking, this book has focused more on auteur film work produced outside
of a school or university environment, with some exceptions (notably in Chapter 16).
While student films have significant parallels with independent films, and are often up
there amongst the best work doing the rounds any given year, I’ve largely veered toward
nonstudent films with this book so as to paint a clearer picture of what independent
filmmaking circumstances are like once “out in the world.” When considering music,
one recent exception where the creative union of directors and musician is particularly
harmonious would be Anna Mantzaris and Eirik Grønmo Bjørnsen’s Volda University
College graduation film But Milk Is Important (Figure 20.2). The film’s composer, Phil
Brookes, first met Eirik Grønmo Bjørnsen during the latter’s Erasmus exchange period at
the University of Glamorgan in Wales. Their creative partnership began with Phil scor-
ing Eirik’s student film The Crow Who Wore a Suit and Worked in an Office in 2011, with
But Milk Is Important to follow in 2012. The film is a 10-minute tale of a man stricken
with social phobia, exacerbated when the building caretaker who helps with his errands
dies of a heart attack. Left to fend for himself, the man finds a strange, otherworldly
creature constantly appearing by his side. Though initially comedic in the scenarios that
follow, where the creature attempts to force the man into social situations, this progres-
sively gives way to a sense of trepidation as the man’s attempts to evade this pursuer grow
increasingly more frantic. While wonderfully animated and constructed, the musical
score stands out as being particularly strong and contributes tremendously to the recon-
figuration of the film’s overall mood. The following interview with Phil Brookes gives us
some valuable insight into this side of the production (Figure 20.3).

Independent Animation 383

Figure 20.2
But Milk Is Important (Dir. Eirik Grønmo Bjørnsen/Anna Mantzaris) poster. (Courtesy of But
Milk Is Important, ©2012.)

Have you found that being an independent musician has been a good fit when working
with independent animators?
“I’ve found so many parallels, which is why I’ve loved falling into this line of work so
much. Most of my projects have been animation, which just feels like a natural fit for me
because animators seem to work from the ground up; they’re pretty much responsible for
their whole creative vision. Especially the stop-motion animation I’ve been working on—
they can completely create their own sets and build their own models. I completely relate
to that because we’re both coming from the same place, so it’s almost like it leaves more
room for the creative part, which I love.”
What is your musical background?
“I basically grew up teaching myself everything I know. I didn’t really get on in an
academic environment, so I didn’t take music for GCSEs, for example; I just picked up my
brother’s guitar one day and started playing it. Then eventually, I did go to university to
study, and that’s where I met Eirik.
“There was an animator’s pitch evening where hardly any other musicians went
along. I hadn’t looked much into animation before or even into making music for film,
because it was something that seemed so out of my grasp. When you think of film

384 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

Figure 20.3
Phil Brookes composing for But Milk Is Important. (Courtesy of Leanne Brookes.)

music, you think of John Williams and Danny Elfman, big budget, huge scores—I
never thought that was for me. When I watched Eirik go through his storyboard on
this big screen, I really related to him, and so I got in touch with him and started mak-
ing music.
“I worked with him on The Crow Who Wore a Suit and Worked in an Office. Then even-
tually, he went back to Norway to start working on his graduation film with Anna and
recommended me, so that was really cool.”
In the case of either film, were you involved at all during the production, or only once
the final animation had been completed?
“Obviously, stop-motion animation takes a long time, so if they had finished it before
giving it to me to work on, that would have added more time to their process. So basically,
I started working with the storyboard, which was just sketches. Then eventually, I would
get drip-feeds of scenes that they’d finished so that I would be able to pick up on the actual,
final timing. If I needed to match anything musically with the visuals, then eventually, I’d
do it with the final piece, but I started composing pretty much when they started working.”
What would you say are the main advantages to working in this manner?
“I do feel like sometimes, music can be the last thing on a filmmaker’s mind. Because
it’s postproduction, sometimes it can be a last-minute thing, but the way that it worked
with Anna and Eirik (and then after that, a film I worked on called Three’s a Crowd with
Trevor Hardy, another stop-motion animator) was they let me in at such an early level, I
felt like I could do a much better job. I became a part of the furniture, a part of the atmo-
sphere of their story, which was an amazing feeling.”
As well as complementing the animation itself, your score brilliantly interweaves with
the film’s sound design, especially as the film progresses and gradually becomes more

Independent Animation 385

threatening and claustrophobic. What sort of part did you play in this, and how was
the atmosphere they were aiming for communicated to you?
“I do some of the sound design, musically, so when you hear lots of backmasking and
reversed instruments, those parts are me; that’s something I love doing. The main sound
mix itself was done by André Parklind, so he had a lot to do with the way that the atmos-
phere eventually turns, if not sinister, then certainly anxious.
“I could relate to the protagonist in the film a lot, actually, because if you’re an art-
ist or a musician and you’re constantly working on something in the same room a lot, it
gets to that point you might feel anxious and a bit claustrophobic. So that was how it was
explained to me, that he finds it difficult to leave his room. I was also given reference mate-
rial to give me some ideas, especially for the scene where the creature is following the main
character down the hall. It’s almost like a horror scene, which was really fun.”
Did you have any interaction with the sound engineer?
“No, not at all. It was a really interesting process actually—I sent him my music, and he
pieced it together with some of the sound work he had created, then sent it back. It was like
almost a little European collective over the Internet. It was really interesting.”
As a composer, what would you say are the main appealing factors of working on an
animation project?
“For me, when working with short or independent films—and especially animated
films—it’s that I can express myself with such free reign. Obviously, I’m working to fulfill
a director’s vision, so that’s my main objective, but they give me freedoms in a way that
wouldn’t be the case on more commercial projects, or nonanimated films. There’s a sense
of imagery and fantasy when it comes to the films I’ve worked on, where I can make music
that just comes naturally to me. I’m not particularly into scores with big symphonies—not
that they’re bad; I would just prefer to make smaller-level, interesting, experimental music,
which seems to go hand in hand with a lot of the animation I’ve worked on.”
How else does it compare to composing for live action?
“In a lot of the animations I’ve worked on, I feel almost like I’m playing a part through
my music, whereas in the live-action work I’ve done, it feels more like I’m the background
guy, which is what a lot of composing is. That’s what I’ve found the difference to be so far.
I find it fascinating, the different roles a composer can play” (Figure 20.4).
Can you talk a bit more about your involvement with Three’s a Crowd?
“I had loads of fun doing that. It’s a darker film than But Milk Is Important, but it had
similar elements to it. I think that’s why Trevor came to me, because he’d seen Milk and
really liked the part music played in the film. I think he similarly wanted the music to be
another character in the film. With Anna and Eirik, even though they eventually pretty
much let me create my own sound, they had a good idea of what they wanted, whereas
Trevor had a different approach. He had completely finished his film and sent it to me to
do pretty much whatever I wanted with it. That was a pretty interesting experience, and
I used some similar approaches to those I had with But Milk Is Important, such as back-
masking, lots of piano, and interesting percussion, while also emphasizing the movement
of the models, with lots of different noises. It was amazing to work on; I loved it.”
For the benefit of animators who want to work with outside musicians for their inde-
pendent project, can you offer some advice as to what to consider for a strong working
relationship?

386 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

Figure 20.4
Phil Brookes composing for But Milk Is Important. (Courtesy of Leanne Brookes.)

“First and foremost, I like to establish a friendship with people—that’s how I work
anyway. Generally, animations—like Trevor, Eirik, and Anna—are just really nice people,
so that really helped. They were always so open minded to anything that I did, and if I
sometimes went overboard and added too much—or came up with something that was a
bit underwhelming—they’d really explain themselves in such a way that I could under-
stand. We’d created our own dialect, that always helps, because musicians, animators,
and directors can have different ways of speaking that probably don’t mesh all the time. I
eventually learned about the animation process but to begin with involving any technical
terms I wouldn’t have known. Similarly to them, if I started going on about BPM or other
music-specific terms, it would have been confusing. So it was establishing a relationship in
terms of what both parties were comfortable with. Being respectful of one another’s vision
and creative process usually goes a long way.”
By contrast, what type of attitudes or behaviors have you encountered that have com-
plicated the process?
“Unreal expectations and devaluation of the musical process has been a problem some-
times, especially when you’re starting out and you’re working with people who are also on
the same level. I’m not quite sure if all universities or film schools teach this sort of thing,
but most of the film students I’ve worked with are amazing, while some of them haven’t

Independent Animation 387

necessarily been told about the musical process, so they think that it’s a last port of call and
don’t give it as much thought or value. A lot of the time, people expect me to work for free,
or they’ll expect me to create a huge orchestral piece in a short period of time. I think it’s
just a case of understanding; I don’t think anyone’s purposefully disrespectful or completely
thinks of music as nonimportant. It’s just perhaps some people haven’t understood—much
like I wouldn’t have understood the filmmaking process when I started.”
To get a clearer understanding of this crucial stage of production, we can look back at
some of the films we’ve previously explored.

Being Selective
As pivotal a role as music can play in a film, in some instances, it achieves more in its
absence. Adam Elliot’s student short Uncle, along with the companion films Cousin and
Brother that followed in swift succession, is notable for being almost entirely without any
music whatsoever. Rather than a preplanned artistic choice, the reasoning behind this was
largely the same as that which determined the minimal look of the films.
“As a student filmmaker, you have to be very economical, so with Uncle, my aesthetic
was purely based on lack of money. None of the characters walked, and they talked very
little, and similarly, I just knew that I wouldn’t have money to purchase music rights. I
could have gotten some friends to compose something, but I’ve never been a fan of com-
posed music, because I like to know what I’m going to have well in advance.”
The absence of music in Adam’s original trilogy does not come across as a budget-
ary choice, however. Allowing William McInnes’s understated performance as the films’
narrator to sit in the sound mix on its own, accompanied infrequently by minimal Foley
work, on top of the ever-present audible film hiss (another artifact of the time period in
which the films were made, again perhaps an unintended result of the small budget but
responsible for an atmosphere that would be near impossible to recreate authentically with
a digital sound mix), adds tremendously to the solemn tone of the film. Although certain
limitations remain, the added resource makes for a sudden contrast when it comes to
Adam’s lengthier 2003 short Harvie Krumpet. In a way similar to how the increased bud-
get affected the visual production values and color palette, the soundtrack also comes
across as more ambitious in its scope.
“I think it wasn’t until Harvie Krumpet that I was brave enough to start using music,
and in that film, the music came first. I knew that I wanted Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major
in it somewhere because it’s such a cliché, and Respighi’s Ancient Airs and Dancers as
credit music, but I also knew I wanted the song God is Better than Football, God is Better
than Beer because that was such a ridiculous song I used to sing at Sunday school when
I was forced to go to church. So all of that music ended up in there. Then with Mary and
Max I’ve always been a big fan of Penguin Café Orchestra. It’s such nourishing music,
universal and timeless and all those things that I love. I know it had been used a lot
in advertising and documentaries, but to my knowledge, nobody had ever used it in
animation.”
In a rare instance of true filmmaker indulgence, a significant chunk—$300,000—of
the film’s budget went toward the music rights for Mary and Max. It was undoubtedly
a worthwhile investment, as the aforementioned nourishment of iconic Penguin Café
Orchestra tunes Perpetuum Mobile and Prelude and Yodel became a huge part of the

388 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

film’s identity during its marketing as well as within the movie itself. Also rounding
out the music picks are Bert Kaempfert’s Swinging Safari and Pink Martini’s haunting
rendition of Que Sera, Sera, all used to maximum effect at crucial points in the story,
alongside a number of original cues composed by Dale Cornelius. Adam’s shift from
mainstream production to independent filmmaking when it came to Ernie Biscuit ulti-
mately meant that the luxury of music licensing was not nearly as available as it had
been before.
“The only piece of music I really paid a significant amount of money for is the music at
the beginning and end of Ernie Biscuit, which is a very cheesy number one hit from the
1970s, from a Dutch detective series called Eye Level, by an English orchestra. The rest of
the music in Ernie Biscuit was purely off the Internet, where I think it cost me $100, but
not of any high sound quality. I think that’s one of the things that lets Ernie Biscuit down,
is because I was experimenting with new materials with a really limited postproduction
budget, so I think not just the music but the sound overall is pretty average.”
A film whose storytelling approach is some distance removed from Adam’s is Sausage
by Robert Grieves (Figure 20.5). Without dialog or narration, the story’s timing is hugely
dependent on the character animation and visuals. One work around when taking this
approach is to start with a piece of music that will facilitate the timing along the way. As
Robert had such a clear concept of how the story would pace itself (having made the entire
film twice), the entire film’s animation was produced without any sound whatsoever, and
attempts to score it with a temp track of found music during production only served to
complicate the process. As all the sourced music that fit thematically came with its own
structure, it proved impossible to find a way to match up cues to the visuals being created.
The final film, however, is presented a glorious, rich score by Dan Radclyffe that matches
the film in tone and playfulness and syncs up perfectly to each action beat.
“What you’re enjoying is the genius of the composer,” Robert assures. “It wasn’t an easy
journey; I went through a few different people, but I found the right guy, who was someone
who could just riff off of things in a really spontaneous way. I had a wonderful experience
as well with the music where I had sat with the composer for about 3 days in his studio
and we just worked through everything together, so I just shadowed him. I hope I gave him

Independent Animation 389

enough space that he felt he was making his thing; I’m pretty sure he did, as it is definitely
his soundtrack. I was just there making sure things stayed narratively on track.”
Doug TenNapel, the creative driving force behind Armikrog, has a similarly strong
opinion of his project’s composer Terry Taylor, with whom he had previously collaborated
on many projects spanning his career in both games and television. Due to their consis-
tent working history, which included the score to Armikrog’s spiritual predecessor The
Neverhood, Terry was a natural, intuitive fit for the project.
“Being a writer, when it comes to all my creative guys, like Ed and Mike as game design-
ers, animators, or voice talent, I come from the art form as an artist and not as an execu-
tive. This is probably why I part ways with almost every executive I’ve met in Hollywood
who hasn’t worked in the arts. I think you get the best art from artists by pushing the
responsibility on them to entertain and figure it out. I can tell them what the problem is,
but I will not give them the solution. There are a lot of executives who go, ‘Never give a
note without a suggestion’—I do not give a suggestion; I just give a note and say, ‘I don’t
like this.’”
The effectiveness of this approach is only assured by Doug maintaining a hands-on
presence throughout the project, as the risk factor of having a composer go off on his/her
own with notes—especially ones that are purposefully vague—is too high. It’s unreason-
able to assume that your composer will telepathically know exactly what will work; that is
an unfair expectation to place on him/her. As talented as any composer is, it’s an outright
impossibility to get into your head as a director. Robert Grieves’ own attitude on the mat-
ter is more or less the same.
“With Sausage, I really needed to be there; he’d put some mood in there, and I’d say, ‘It
sounds cool, but it really doesn’t reflect the motivation of the character at that moment,’
and it’s stuff that you don’t necessarily know until you hear it” (Figure 20.6).
The latter point is worth considering—a director without a musical background is, in
fact, quite likely to not have a preexisting idea for the film’s score that will tangibly exist.
This makes the burden of a composer even greater if they are flying blind with no frame
of reference for what you’re hoping to achieve or evoke. In Doug TenNapel’s experience,
the solution—or, at the very least, the springboard that will bring a solution closer—is
to consider what is already out there.*
“When I did The Neverhood, I introduced Terry to blues artists like Leon Redbone
and The Squirrel Nut Zippers, and on Armikrog, I gave him a bunch of early Flaming
Lips and Talking Heads, things like that—my favorite kind of art major music! It’s a
giant space epic, but it’s not literal space. This is not an alien; this is a parallel universe
where it’s almost like an art world, so he has to be artistic. It shook him in this direc-
tion, where it’s not that I forced him to do anything; he found his own way. He’s always
a brilliant musician who can write anything really; he’s done country, he’s done space,
he’s done rock, and he can do folk and all these different kinds of music. I’m not a musi-
cian at all, so I just want him to surprise me, and I want Armikrog to have this unique
presence. I know that music’s supposed to tell an emotional story and can keep you in a

* For clarification, the last thing you actually want to do is merely present a composer with a bunch of pre-
existing songs to plagiarize. It should go without saying, but it’s alarming how many clients and fellow auteurs
have had so shaky a knowledge of the world of music licensing and copyright as to potentially land them in
trouble.

390 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

place that the narrative just can’t hit. It’s almost like I want Terry to be in charge of the
psychology of Armikrog, so I just need to tell him what the psychology is, and he figures
it out. It’s angsty; it’s moody; it’s heroic, so there are anthems; it deals with a baby, so
there are lullabies. So he came back with bizarre, layered themes that weren’t what I
expected, but he got it!”
Other options available to filmmakers in need of a musical accompaniment to their
film, if not a meticulously composed score, can be relatively affordable, if not outright free,
though this can be perilous too. Grabbing a piece of music you like from a website that
lists it as “free to use” is not exactly a binding legal contract, so it’s always best to do that
extra bit of homework to make sure that slotting a piece of production music into your
film is in fact legal to do. If you have some spending money, purchasing tracks to use from
online production libraries won’t break the bank necessarily, though there are a fair few
formalities that can eat up a lot of time if you are working without a dedicated produc-
tion manager to handle that side of things. For the sake of argument, the most advisable
low- to no-budget approach is to canvas online royalty-free music libraries that will often-
times charge a single fee for either a single piece of music or library collection. Another
alternative is to eliminate the middleman and go straight to the source, as Aidan McAteer
found himself doing when on the hunt for the perfect piano accompaniment to his silent
movie–era tribute A Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy.
“I’ve never met Kevin!” Aidan says of the film’s music scribe Kevin MacLeod, “but he’s a
fantastic man.” Via his online outlet Incompetech,* the composer licenses his own music,
a practice among composers that is becoming more and more common. In instances such
as short films with credits sections and online video descriptions that allow for him to be

* http://incompetech.com

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actively credited, the use of a free Creative Commons license to use the music is a possibil-
ity. “It’s an incredibly generous thing to do.”
“I was looking for music, knowing I didn’t want dialog—which also helped inform the
silent-movie aesthetic—because if I recorded dialog, I most likely wouldn’t do it very well.
As far as music goes, I kind of noodle a bit on the guitar, but I can’t play anything. So I
was looking for royalty-free music when I came across Kevin’s site, which had a silent-
movie section. I found this track which was the appropriate length (another thing where
DepicT!’s 90-second limit helps*); it was a great exercise in so far as what I could use and
what I could make out of it, with the resources available.”
As per the conditions of the license, MacLeod is given due credit as the film’s composer,
Aidan later getting in touch to show him the final result. “He may not have even known
that I was even doing it until he’d seen the final thing, but he was very happy with it.”

Self-Sufficiency
The aforementioned serves as another example of the ever-rising benefits of intercon-
tinental collaboration and how independent creatives the world over can support one
another. Of course, it’s entirely possible that you happen to have your own clear under-
standing of sound design, score composition, or both. In my auteur film work, I’ve often
found that having a sideline career in music and sound production has facilitated the
easiest path to a finished film. Taking on these roles on top of directing the film is a
time-saver in the sense of eliminating lengthy discussions on what you aim to evoke.
Now, I’m not suggesting that everyone go out and train themselves to be composers or
sound artists, and truth be told, it may be the best thing for your film for you to step
aside and let someone else take on the role rather than spread yourself thin. If a film of
mine, for example, called for country music, folk songs, or an elaborate, classical score,
I would not think twice about bringing in a composer more suited to these genres, as I
know they are not my strengths. Sometimes, going it alone is the most suitable route for
your film’s identity.
Andy Martin, himself a musician as well as an animation director, was able to apply his
own ability when closing out his anthology film The Planets, by rounding off his year-long
endeavor in traditional film fashion, with a musical number.
“None of The Planets was particularly well planned except for the last month, Planet
Twelve in December, where I knew exactly what I wanted to do: I knew I wanted it to be a
song (Figure 20.7); I needed it to tie everything up, to include what we’d seen and it have
some finality to it so you knew this was the end, a full-stop.”
After a first pass at a song in July, deemed unlistenable when played to his family, his
second attempt proved a lot more fitting and thematically in-line with the rest of the film.
“It has a bit of pathos and melancholia as well as being quite funny, which is what I
wanted it to be. I gave myself a little bit longer to animate that planet as well, because I
didn’t have another one starting afterwards.”

Supporting the notion that relinquishing control even with a musical background of
one’s own can be the most advisable option, Benjamin Arcand’s Wackatdooo benefited

* See Chapter 14.

392 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

from handing over the reins to a composer he instinctively knew would do a better job.
With music ever-present throughout the film, Benjamin originally timed the animation-
in-progress to a placeholder soundtrack in the form of jazz standards from the early twen-
tieth century, knowing that the final accompaniment would be in the same stylistic vein
and tempo. Using this as a springboard to help inspire how the beats were timed out, this
straight-ahead storyboard organically morphed into an animatic (Figure 20.8).
“I did a couple of the scenes using the placeholder music. There’s a double-bounce walk
at one point where I knew I wanted that tempo, so I stuck to it. Let’s say it was an eight-
frame beat; I would write it down, and when it came time to record the real song, I asked
the composer to keep the music to the tempo, using a metronome.”

Independent Animation 393

Taking on music and sound duties was composer and drummer François-Xavier
Paquin, a longtime friend and bandmate of Benjamin’s over the years. With a musical
background of his own, Benjamin’s reasons for reaching out to an outside composer are
simple—“He’s better than me at music! He has a master’s degree in composition and jazz
performance. He also likes cartoons a lot, and cartoon music, so with me going into car-
toons, it worked well.
“I could not have done what he did. I don’t know about jazz; as a musician, I play rock-
and-roll guitars. So he went ahead and composed all the parts for it, then we hired some
jazz musician friends of his. We had a very low budget; I mean it was like 50 bucks and
a few beers! They were kind enough to make it because it was short and sweet, and since
they’re all pros, they came in and only needed 1 day for each session. In the first session,
we had the rhythm section—just banjo, upright bass, and drums. After that, we went with
the trombone, saxophone, trumpet, and that was it! It only took a couple of takes for us to
have everything we needed.”
Once the final music was composed and recorded, Benjamin used the new musical
backdrop to tighten up the timing of the animatic, remedy any story or continuity issues,
and, once the proper flow of the film was firmly established, begin work proper on the ani-
mation. As anyone who has seen the film will attest, François-Xavier’s considered work on
the music absolutely brings out the best in the film’s equally dynamic visuals, something
that may not have been achieved otherwise (Figures 20.9 and 20.10).
Back to The Planets, the primary advantage of having an awareness of music composi-
tion and performance as far as director Andy Martin is concerned is just how much it can
assist with timing, something crucial to all animation production. Being your own film’s
composer can feed into the creative process from both ends. Animation on a scene, for
example, can begin with a set tempo and tone, which can then be compositionally embel-
lished to complement the visuals once they have come together.

394 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

“Generally, I do the music first and then animate to it, but I can switch between the two.
The animation might kick off an idea that I think would be nice to add punch to in the
music; then I can go back to the music and do them in tandem with each other. I try and
do funny stuff, and I think having a sense of musical timing helps with comedy timing. I
think they usually work hand in hand: you’ve got a buildup and then a release with music;
it’s the same with a joke. Also with storytelling, when you want something that feels plain-
tive and emotional, there’s a way of doing that with music (switch it to a minor key and it
feels sad; a major key, you’re upbeat). Similarly, with design and storytelling, you can take
these basic elements and fundamentals and apply them to both things.
“I think having different disciplines helps give your work an individual tone to it. The
music side for me gives my films just a little touch that’s very much my thing. If I used an
outside sound designer, I’d probably have a beautiful soundtrack, probably better than
what I can do, but I think it would lose that feel of what I have when I do it myself. How you
want something to look and sound is not necessarily how it will come out, but in striving
to do that, you can achieve your own unique style.”
This philosophy is especially relevant to the film work of PES, in keeping with the care-
ful approach taken with his animation, which we explored in Chapter 13. While the choice
of bric-a-brac and household objects used to represent, amongst other things, food prepa-
ration certainly goes a long way in terms of selling the film as believably surreal, the true
suspender of disbelief is the diligence when it comes to his sound design. It is a process
that appeals to both him and his audience.
“I think there’s a particular degree of fascination with the sound design that I do that
brings it together. It takes one thing and makes it believable. Very realistic sound design is
something of an unsung hero that makes the images come to life, and it really makes the
jokes come alive. It makes something happen in the viewer’s brain that I think is interest-
ing, which is that you’re seeing one thing—a grenade, for example, with someone cutting
into it—but hearing an avocado.”

Independent Animation 395

The combination heightens the authenticity of the scene tremendously—if heard on its
own, the sound would strike a listener as nothing more exceptional than standard kitchen
ambiance; similarly, if viewed while the audio is muted, the transformative quality of the
animation remains but doesn’t carry with it nearly as much impact. It speaks volumes
about the compensatory power of sound and just how much of a role it plays in how our
brains process our environment. We clearly see a grenade being sliced, but the sound of
an avocado instantly transfigures the reality of the film and makes it seem like the most
natural thing in the world.
“That’s an interesting thing. There’s a sort of mystery about it that is one of the beau-
ties of stop-motion, that everything is visually 100% realistic because it’s a photographic
medium, and the sound can be very realistic, yet the concept is completely fanciful, so
there’s a collision of the hyperreal and the surreal.”
One of the common audience reactions to work such as PES’s is an inherent degree of sat-
isfaction that comes with them (Figure 20.11). For reasons similar to the inexplicable neu-
rochemical responses that induce satisfaction when we pop bubble wrap, certain visual and
auditory combinations can prompt a certain sense of gratification. More often than not, this
works against us when we experience the opposite reaction triggered by bad sound design
(something we’ll explore later in this chapter), but in the films of PES, the execution makes for
a very fulfilling watch.*
“I don’t think about this while I’m shooting or creating sound; I only try to create the
most satisfying sounds to match the picture that please me. I was curious to see that there
was this whole community of people who study and look at my work, focusing on that one
element of the ‘satisfying’ sounds, such as the snapback of a slinky, the crinkling of this,
the crunching of that...I don’t really profess to do any more than match the picture with
the sound, but it’s funny to see the responses.”
Another example of a bold, visually driven film whose success ultimately hinges on the
sound would be Greg McLeod’s 365 project. As with Andy Martin and PES, sound is an
area of production Greg chooses to take on himself (Figure 20.12).
“I did the sound in general, every day, because I’ve always loved it. I’ve always been in
recording studios and have always enjoyed sound.”
Given the free-form nature of the project, and that literally each second of sound design was
isolated from whichever preceded or followed, a certain degree of international collaboration
came into play. Sound designers Tom Angell, David Kamp, and a host of others donated an
assortment of one-off noises that found their way into the mix, including vocal contributions.
“We had people like David Tennant and Adam Buxton who we were doing other work
with; we would just ask them to give us a word to use. I recorded things out and about,
so there were also some found sounds. I think the really important thing was that each
mini 1-second movie had its own 1-second soundtrack that was very specific, because if
there’d just been music over it all, I don’t think it would have had the same impact. If you
try to watch it without the sound on it, it’s almost impossible; your brain almost needs the
sound there to anchor the timing. With sound, you can actually make a second feel longer
than it is, which is quite interesting, so I had a lot of fun with that.”

* I could wax hypothetical about the possible neurochemical reasoning behind this, but I am no neurochemist,
for many reasons including that I’m fairly certain “neurochemist” is not a profession, or even a word at all.

396 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

Independent Animation 397

Another director who will actively seek to get her hands dirty when it comes to the
sound mix is Bottle and Move Mountain director Kirsten Lepore, whose films all boast
arresting soundscapes. In a similar manner to the work of PES, Bottle’s expertly crafted foley
work absolutely infuses the impossible sand and snow beings with life, not through audi-
tory anthropomorphization (such as adding humanistic sounds or voices) but by retain-
ing their material qualities. Despite the slight time-lapse judder of filming the animation
outside, the sound is authentic enough to sell the characters as “alive” instantly. Similarly,
Move Mountain embraces a highly considered approach to the exterior ambiance, though
with the addition of musical elements such as its acapella score and party sequence.
“I don’t know the exact quote,* but someone once said that sound is 70% of an animation—
which I think is true. It’s so disappointing when a good animation has a lackluster soundtrack,
or sound that was thrown in as an afterthought. You can describe a space and situation with
sound the way visuals cannot. Because of this, I always take great care with my soundtracks
and have always done all the sound design myself. I usually have a professional check my final
mixes and create my 5.1, but I do all the design and the rough mix alone, for the most part.
“I did, however, collaborate with my friend and former CalArts classmate Paul Fraser
on my first sound pass of Move Mountain and on several client projects. He always does
an amazing job and brings some really interesting sound work to the table (Figure 20.13).
“In terms of music, I also like to collaborate with my sisters—my sister Chelsea is a
really talented composer—mainly because they totally get and share my musical tastes.
Our mother is a music teacher, and we each grew up playing several instruments, so it
seemed to make sense to collaborate. I also have a hard time trusting other musicians
since I usually have a super specific idea of what I’m looking for musically. If you haven’t
already noticed, I’m a bit of a control-freak.”
Relinquishing control is hard for many, though if it is to someone you trust and have
built up a rapport with (as discussed earlier), sometimes it can be the best thing to pre-
vent burnout. Though Kirsten’s commitment is admirable—and clearly a successful
approach—having others take on some of the load does not automatically mean the film
has to lose your stamp as its director. With some variable experience under his belt, film-
maker Matt Walker has found that having a certain focus when directing is no bad thing.
“With sound, it’s always really important, but that’s not my strength, so unless I have
a very clear idea of how I want the sound to be, I’m usually happy to trust in whoever is
doing the sound or music, and usually, they’ve done a fine job of it, so I’ve been happy.
Operator is the only film of mine that I did the sound myself. With Astronauts, I was very
fortunate to have two guys from the film course offer to do the sound. But then, John and
Karen, Little Face, and all of my commercial work has been working with sound people
(Figure 20.14).
“I always pay attention to the sound, but until I’m actually doing it, I don’t really think
about it as much. I think Astronauts is the only film where the sound has been as impor-
tant, outside of just creating the right atmosphere. In that film, there are a lot of moments
that played with the sound, whether it’s the air being sucked out of the spaceship and it
going silent, or the timing of the beeping of when a button’s pressed. With the other films,
the sound was important, but not as critical to the humor, I guess.”

* “A truth whispered among animators is that 70% of a show’s impact comes from the soundtrack.” —Michael
Dougherty, The Animation Book (Ed. Kit Laybourne, 1998)

398 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

Approaches to Sound Construction

I shall not pretend for a moment that a comprehensive breakdown of how to tackle your
sound mix can be put across in a few paragraphs. As with other areas of this book that
refer to the hard craft of production itself, with sound, there is a great deal of territory to
cover for which further reading and research is highly advisable. That being said, as sound
design is something of a personal passion—and bad sound design something of a personal

Independent Animation 399

bugbear—there are certain key areas worth discussing as a springboard for further educa-
tion on the subject.
Think about the use of sound in wildlife documentaries, where you are witnessing ani-
mal activity such as lions engaged in a territorial scuffle that would necessitate filming
from much further away than normal. Beyond a certain distance, it becomes impossible to
record audio with even the most high-end equipment, yet in the documentary, the sound
of the fight can clearly be heard. So what happened there?
This will usually be the result of a clever combination of sound design and Foley art-
istry. The Foley artist’s role is to invent or replicate the landscape of sound, sometimes in
real time and with the aid of props (the name of the practise originates from its inventor,
Jack Foley, whose approach to sound production for film set a precedent as far back as the
1920s). For example, literally dragging objects or even oneself through a sandbox brought
into a recording studio would be timed to match the video of a lion being pulled across
the ground by its opponent. All sorts of different approaches can be used to create sound
that works on film, even if its source is wildly different than what is being seen onscreen.
Also worth mentioning, alongside the multitude of short documentary vignettes one can
easily search for online to observe the process, is Peter Strickland’s 2012 feature Berberian
Sound Studio, a wonderfully dark work of live-action fiction in which Toby Jones plays a
beleaguered Foley artist who reluctantly spends his days smashing up produce to create
sounds for a barbaric Italian slasher film. One moment of my own Foley work I’ll afford
some personal pride toward is, after much trial and error, happening upon the sound of
torn, cooked chicken flesh timed to a character getting out of a leather couch his bare skin
is stuck to. Just for the record, it doesn’t always have to be gross, but if it works, it works
(Figure 20.15).
In animation, there is always this potential to combine conventional approaches with
cartoonish embellishment, as there’s a little extra artistic license granted than when deal-
ing with live action. To illustrate this spectrum, take two obvious examples from popular
culture: On one end, The Simpsons uses, for the most part, genuinely authentic sound

400 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

design to ground it in a certain reality; when a character such as Homer is hurt, the thud of
his fall or the crunch of his bones is realistic enough to give you a very real idea of his pain.
On the other end, when a character from a classic Looney Tunes short is squashed, blown
up, or propelled in whatever manner deemed fit, the sounds chosen more often than not
have no grounding in reality, coming from props, instruments, or vocal performances,
sometimes with additional modifications such as being sped up, slowed down, or reversed.
If dealing with narrative, the approach you’ll wish to take with your film will most likely
be somewhere between these two camps, contemporary animation for older audiences
generally tending to lean more toward the former, more realistic end of the spectrum, with
children’s and preschool animation more the latter.

Out in the Field

Gathering your sounds online may not be the best route for your film, especially if you
are after specific audio that cannot be categorized by metadata alone. You can sift through
hundreds of footsteps, splashes, crunches, or creaks, and all the while, the exact sound
you’re after may prove elusive. The other complicating factor of gathering sound from
multiple sources is the likelihood that they will have been captured under fluctuating con-
ditions with equipment of varying quality. If your characters sound like they’re in an open
field one moment and a coffee can the next, audiences will notice instantly. It’s a very iden-
tifiable instance of lazy inconsistency yet remains a pitfall of indie animation to this day.
When dealing with a typical narrative short, good sound—as with good editing and most
of the postproduction process—carries with it the burden of being pretty much thankless. The
best response an authentic sound mix can get is none at all. Our brains are wired to always take
in the elaborate array of incidental sounds constantly around us, so if the sound mix has been
successful to the point of suspension of disbelief, your audience shouldn’t even notice it. Yet the
slightest mistake when it comes to quality or timing will stick out like a sore thumb. The dices
are not loaded in the sound designer’s favor, but that’s the way it’s gotta be, I’m afraid.
While there is a great deal of nuance and artistry that separates competent sound
design from expert sound design, the mainstays of incompetent sound design are far more
blatant. With that in mind, I’ll wrap up this chapter with three major hazards that should
be easy enough to sidestep from the get-go.

The Hiss Factor

All recording equipment will pick up a certain degree of hiss, which is usually a combi-
nation of ambient noise or even the internal mechanism of the microphone itself. In a
professional studio environment, this will be negligible, but if combining professionally
recorded dialog with an assortment of field-recorded or externally sourced sound effects,
the varying degrees of hiss accompanying each effect can be jarring. Ideally, you should
just toss a low-quality sound for one recorded under better conditions, but if that’s abso-
lutely not an option, there are some workarounds (Figure 20.16).
Noise reduction is an advisable first port of call and a function of most audio editing
software. The process essentially examines the waveform of the ambient hiss of selected
audio on its own when no sounds or dialog are present, and then, once identified, elimi-
nates it, leaving only the dialog or sound effects remaining. The drawback of this process

Independent Animation 401

Figure 20.16
The top audio track features an externally-sourced sound effect being added to the mix.
Note the visible auditory hiss that surrounds it—removing this will make the sound effect far
less jarring.

is that the remaining sound can be distorted as a consequence; if the hiss is quiet, the
difference won’t be too noticeable, but if filtering out loud ambiance, your end result will
wind up sounding horribly muffled or underwater. A combination of software capability
and the recording itself will be at play here, so it’s worth evaluating whether or not this is
the best solution on a case-by-case basis.
For very short sound effects, you may not need to filter out the hiss for its minimal
duration, but it’s crucial to take out any before or after hiss so your sound effect isn’t
essentially screaming out to the audience, “Oh, hi guys! I’m not from around here! What’s
shaking?” The hiss will be easily identifiable as part of the waveform itself and, as such,
easy enough to isolate and silence. To eliminate the risk of a pop effect (more on this next),
you may need to bookend the effect with a very brief fade-in and fade-out.

The Pop Factor

Another sound issue that will furrow your audience’s brows comes from splicing in audio
haphazardly. This, along with the aforementioned hiss factor, is a common issue for those
who create their soundtrack within the animation software itself, by just dropping effects
and dialog onto a timeline. I implore you, don’t do that.
This makes sense as far as getting your timing right, but if you don’t want to undermine
the hard work that’s gone into the visuals of your film, you’ll really want to export the
timed audio and give it proper mixing attention (Figure 20.17). One area is getting rid of
clicks and pops. So what are these, and what causes them?
They’re essentially the result of a waveform that has been hastily cut or edited, so the
sound will begin at a point when the waveform is not on the central amplitude line.
The point at which the waveform jumps in the preceding illustration will create a click;
the further apart the jump, the more aggravatingly noticeable.

402 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

Figure 20.17
The highlighted dip between points of a waveform denotes a hasty edit. If left as-is, this will
create a “pop” in the soundtrack.

This largely explains why the audio on a vinyl record will start to crackle and pop over
time—the frequent running of the needle over the groove of the record, whose shape has
been etched in based on the waveform of the recorded audio, will eventually cause physi-
cal wear and produce tiny gouges, which have the same auditory effect as the jumps illus-
trated in the previous figure. Okay, we get it—I’m old.
What’s most infuriating about this issue when left in is just how much of an easy fix
it is. Even if the sound required is sudden and abrupt, applying the smallest fade or even
manually editing the points of your waveform will take no time at all and have no auditory
effect save for eliminating the pop itself. Some software even has an automatic means of
detecting these pops and clicks and will do it all for you in one pass, so there’s really nil
excuse. Smooth out your pops, people!

The “Oh God, My Ears” Factor

Dynamic range. It’s a very gentle art, my friends. This is basically the difference
between your film’s quietest and loudest moments, and when done right, it can mas-
sively improve the authenticity of your film’s soundscape (Figure 20.18). When done
wrong, your film will have the comfort level of an Internet screamer video. There are
two main offenders in this arena. The first is nonambient sound effects, especially
when gathered from multiple sources, whose volume levels have no bearing on real-
ity. When taking on your own mix, really take the time to consider how prominent or
obscured each instance of sound should be and whether it carries across when viewed
with the animation.
The second major slip-up frequently comes with dialog. The volume difference between
a quiet, thoughtful rumination and an emphatically projected speech of passion will be
substantial, and you will most likely want to curb it depending on the quality of mic or
recording conditions. Applying compression to dialog is perhaps the best way to keep
these discrepancies curtailed so as to not be jarring (important point—compression and
normalization are not the same thing). In both instances, be sure to test that your dynamic
range translates to different listening scenarios, from the tinny speaker of your smart-
phone or laptop to the loudest studio/stereo equipment you can get your hands on. Most
crucially, don’t purely mix your sound with or without headphones—be sure to test it
thoroughly under both conditions throughout.

Independent Animation 403

Figure 20.18
The top audio track shows recorded dialog with a high dynamic range where the two
instances of louder noise will stand out too much. The middle track shows the same audio
after being highly compressed, giving the entire dialog track consistent volume. The bot-
tom track shows a medium level of compression, where a change in volume remains if the
impact of it is desirable, while not being so vastly different in volume as to give the audience
a heart attack.

404 20. Your Two Most Important Characters

21
Putting Yourself Out There

After weeks, months, perhaps even years of blood, sweat, tears, and whatever other bodily
fluids you may have sacrificed along the way, it finally happens. After every shot has slot-
ted into the project timeline; after every hair-pulling liaison with various members of your
postproduction crew has borne fruit; after the absolute, final, this-is-it, no-more-tweaking,
definitive render announces its conclusion with its life-affirming “ding”—you’ve done it.
You have yourself a film, my friend.
Bask in it. Give it a watch and revel in its completion. Show it to your folks, your friends,
that barista you fancy; prove that all this time, you haven’t just been making up that you’re
a filmmaker to appear bohemian. Or do none of the above and just catch up on what’s sure
to be a long stretch of much-needed and well-deserved sleep. Contented, blissful sleep.
Now wake up and get going, because it’s not over yet, not by a long shot. Thought you’d
make a film and the rest would all slot into place, did you? Ah, sweet delusion. Allow me
to bring you back to crushing reality.
Much as a curmudgeon like myself enjoys delivering bad news, in truth, this reality is
not especially crushing, nor does having a finished animation shackle you with obligation.
It is, after all, your film, and you can do with it what you wish. You may want to just gift it to
the world as a video upload literally minutes after its completion, which is certainly a route
many have taken and gone on to receive acclaim from. There are even advantages to this,
as touched upon in Chapters 13 and 14 and will be delved into further in the next chapter
from a distribution standpoint. Beyond the concept of distribution, however, is something

405
that many consider to be equally important (if not more so, creatively speaking). For many
contemporary filmmakers, their work may solely belong in browser windows or tablet and
smartphone screens, but to many others—yourself possibly included—the mileage a film
can have, not to mention the life it can lead once out of your hands and in the world, is
something you may wish to be present for. Seeing firsthand how the public receives your
art is one of the most beneficial experiences one can have when it comes to artistic growth.
I’ll ground myself before I start to overromanticize the notion, as my point is simple—
get your film in front of people and be there to see how they react.

Why Submit Your Film to Festivals?

In this day and age, the only response to this question is a predictable, “Why not?”
In the digital age, the festival landscape is ever changing, and with each iteration, the
process of film submission gets increasingly simpler and more streamlined. From a per-
sonal frame of reference that goes back to the long, long-ago days of the late-noughties,
submitting to festivals still proved something of a hassle. More often than not, it was a
requirement to deliver films on physical media, which involved a case-by-case grappling
with shipping costs and international customs parameters, not to mention handwriting/
signing entry forms and statements, labeling DVDs and CDs, and multiple trips to the
post office. Then, with a film having been accepted, screening formats were usually again
limited to the physical—a progressive festival would maybe play DVDs, while others were
still piecing together program from MiniDV tapes or the wonderful world of DigiBeta.
Going back less than a decade further, some festivals were still dealing with VHS. Bearing
all this in mind, the ease of filling in online forms, transferring high-definition (HD)
content, and the variety of organizations set up specifically to simplify the process make
festival submission something of a no-brainer today (Figure 21.1).
One such organization is Animation Festivals,* a website set up by Slurpy Studios pro-
ducer and managing director Aaron Wood in 2009. The site serves as a festival direc-
tory for filmmakers to browse events in order of name, event dates, submission deadlines,
territories, and entry fees. While similar such directories that group film festivals exist,
Animation Festivals prioritizes those that are exclusively animation or have animation as
a major category.
“Although you can submit your animated film to most festivals, we preferred the idea
of meeting like-minded people,” Aaron reasons. “Animators will most likely want to meet
other animators more than live-action filmmakers. So we put this list together, not just for
people to submit their film, but so they could actually look up festivals, even if they just
wanted to visit them.”
The directory began life as a database made up of information collated by Slurpy’s
creative director Katie Steed during the festival run of her multi-award-winning stu-
dent film Death by Scrabble (2007) (Figure 21.2). Keeping tabs on the performance and
progress of the film, Katie took the advisable approach of keeping an Excel spreadsheet
documenting every festival the film was sent to, with each event’s respective URLs,
contact information, and decision as to whether or not the film had been accepted.
As films are generally considered eligible for most festivals during the first 2 years of

* http://www.animation-festivals.com/

406 21. Putting Yourself Out There

Figure 21.1
A bygone era; various screeners for my films produced between 2008 and 2010, before fes-
tivals mercifully switched to digital projection.

completion, this approach is recommended so as to avoid resubmitting to the same

event 2 years in a row.
“At the end of the film’s festival run, Katie had an Excel spreadsheet of around 200
festivals. At the time, we considered just putting it on the company blog, as a useful list of
festivals for animators. We later realized that we could turn this into a more substantial
website and keep it updated, specifying that it was just for animation festivals.”
While daily maintenance of a 200-plus festival database would have proved unfeasible,
Aaron’s prior background in website design enabled him to build an open-to-all interface so
that anyone with a festival to add might register and submit it. With notifications in place to
let Aaron know if any contributors were abusing the system, the directory was able to grow
and stay up-to-date relatively simply. This system also ensured that festival directors could
edit and reedit details of their events should circumstances change from year to year.
“That’s probably why it’s still going today, because of that feature. Otherwise, there’s no way
that it would not have become outdated very quickly.”
As somebody who has personally been submitting films to festivals semiregularly
for nearly a decade, I can say that one sad fact is that not all festivals are everlasting.

Independent Animation 407

Figure 21.2
Still from Death by Scrabble (Dir. Katie Steed), the film whose festival run put animation-
festivals.com in motion. (Courtesy of Katie Steed/Slurpy Studios, ©2007.)

Sometimes, due to a lack of popularity or lack of governmental backing, events need to

become biannual or shut down altogether. Even some of the major festivals have been
known to take the odd year off when circumstances have been particularly tough. Though
it’s near impossible to implement an automated system that would track which festivals
go extinct or get put on hiatus, Aaron has a three-pronged approach to making sure
Animation Festivals stays on top of things and keeps its listings as relevant as possible.
“First of all, it can come from having a good rapport with festival directors, who will get
in touch personally and explain that a festival is no longer running and the reasons why.
The second way is similar in that festival directors can also go in and simply press a ‘delete’
button that will send an e-mail to me with their reason for removing it. Then there are
those types of festivals that do just disappear and nobody knows what’s happened to them,
and that’s a manual consideration. Once a year, I will go through and check the links for
each website to see if the festival is still running, and then it’s a matter of me just taking
it down manually if not. It’s a shame that some of them come to an end—it’s especially a
shame when it’s a purely animation festival that has closed its doors.”
As well as websites of festival listings such as Animation Festivals, online submis-
sion options have steadily increased, with virtually all major festivals presently accept-
ing digital submissions, either through their website or through submission portals they
have partnered with. Sites such as Shortfilmdepot, reelport, FilmFreeway, Festival Focus,
Withoutabox, FilmFestivalLife, and Festhome, among others, are specifically set up to
streamline the submission process, in most (but not all) cases charging small fees per
submission that roughly approximate the postage costs of physically sending materials
(Figure 21.3). Not all of these platforms will be the right fit for you, your project, or your
budget, so use your best judgment when it comes to taking this route, should you decide
to. Either way, it is definitely worth investigating all available options, as the more festivals

408 21. Putting Yourself Out There

Figure 21.3
animation-festivals.com site interface. (Courtesy of animation-festivals.com.)

you initially approach will increase the likelihood of an official selection early in your
film’s 2-year “life span.”
I’m also not suggesting that the perceivably old-fashioned festival route should be the
only one you adopt out of some Luddite principle, just that it should not be ruled out. The
response you may get from somebody you meet at a festival who had seen your film earlier
that evening may be able to provide uniquely candid feedback at the bar afterward, espe-
cially after a drink or several. Such interpersonal benefits of festival attendance are among
the main draws for Aaron Wood: “Part of my role at Slurpy is, if we have a film submitted,
to go and promote the film in person. Of course, you can do that online, but I don’t think you

Independent Animation 409

can beat festivals and events for being able to talk to people in person about your projects. So
I’m a massive fan of festivals.”
For Aaron, it isn’t even a matter of an event’s prominence or high standing so much as
what opportunities to make these new connections are available.
“I really like any event where I can meet other filmmakers in an easy environment. I
think you definitely get that with smaller festivals or local meetups, and it helps when that’s
an animation group as well because you’ve already got something in common. You can get
that at a major festival like Annecy or Encounters, if you’re going to a party with animators,
but I would say that a big benefit of smaller festivals and events is the ease of networking.
That, for me, is a major part of it—meeting new talent or meeting new filmmakers. So I am
always happy to go to a smaller event if there is an opportunity to network there.”
Discussions with festival programmers themselves can also prove enlightening. An
early indicator of just how disparate one festival’s identity can be from another’s occurred
during the festival run of my second film, Ground Running, a microshort that began life
as a series of animation exercises so as to cover ground I’d not managed to cover in my
preceding thesis film (Figure 21.4). Though it never took flight on the festival circuit in
the same way as my other films had done, it did get screened across the world and would
receive, for the most part, a positive audience response (think polite chuckles rather
than carrying me out on their shoulders chanting my name). While chatting with pro-
grammers of two UK-based animation festivals that took place a month apart from one
another, I was told by both that it had a very retro, cartoony feel. In the former instance,
this was intended as a compliment, though in the latter, it was, interestingly, presented as
criticism paired with an apology. In terms of one festival’s identity, the idea of a retro and
cartoony animated short was a refreshing harkening back to an era they wished to cel-
ebrate as an effective juxtaposition to the avant-garde contingent of their official selection;
to the other, retro was synonymous with archaic and somehow less artistically relevant.

Figure 21.4
Still from Ground Running (Dir. Ben Mitchell)—the troublesome second film. (Courtesy of Ben
Mitchell, ©2009.)

410 21. Putting Yourself Out There

Granted, the selection committee saw enough in it to include it, but the impression I got
was that my film stood out as far more of an oddity in the latter festival’s program than
the former. Of all the criticisms I would level at the film myself—and, trust me, they are
multitudinous—my personal artistic sensibilities will always see me defend the cartoony
side of animated film as something that has no reason to not sit alongside work deemed
more sociopolitically or culturally valuable.
If every festival shared this personal ideology, then the landscape would be a fairly dull
one; a sense of identity is important. Festivals that focus on films with a certain tone, or
have a clear idea of what they want to evoke when compiling a program of multigenre
films, are ultimately stronger and more memorable for their conviction.
It is sometimes the case that a festival’s definition of what your film is to an audience
might not necessarily line up with your own. When it came to the festival exposure of
Love in the Time of March Madness (first explored in Chapter 4), codirector Robertino
Zambrano would come to learn of a wider categorization than anticipated: “I’d always just
thought that we’d enter this into the animation category, and then people were telling us
to enter it into documentary categories. That made me think a little bit about, Okay, why,
and why animation?”
To refer back to points made in Chapter 7, the power of animation as a storytelling tool,
especially when dealing with nonfiction as its source material, is exemplified by the visual
approaches taken in Love in the Time of March Madness, not least down to Robertino’s
flair for conveying nonliteral and intangible concepts that writer and codirector Melissa
Johnson’s narration intimates (Figure 21.5).
“I feel like animation is almost more honest than a live-action storytelling approach,”
explains Robertino. “You’re not choosing the perfect depiction of this story; rather, you’re
providing some sort of medium for the viewer to bounce off what the narrator is trying
to tell. It leaves it open, like reading a book, but not as far as watching a movie of a book;
it’s somewhere in between. When a live-action movie of a book is made, it almost goes

Figure 21.5
Still from Love in the Time of March Madness (Dir. Melissa Johnson/Robertino Zambrano).
(Courtesy of High Hip Productions/KAPWA Studioworks, ©2014.)

Independent Animation 411

too far in its manifestation of a story, by trying to convince the viewer that this is how it
looked and happened. In opposition to that, an animation is honest about itself being a
pure depiction of an idea or event.”
The film itself definitely works on multiple levels that broaden its appeal—the drily
witty observations and musings present in the script delivered by Melissa’s narration give
it a great deal of comedic value, yet at the same time, its honesty about her very personal
struggles infuses it with subtle pathos. Given the fluidity of the animation and its lack
of boundaries, in some programmers’ eyes, it could even be considered experimental.
Certainly, that it has toured the States, played at major international festivals, and won
major international awards is indicative of a wider appeal, regardless of how the film itself
is categorized.
“A lot of people initially wondered how to program us and we didn’t really care.” Melissa
says, “We were happy to be included however the programmers saw fit for their showcases.
It’s definitely not just animation; we know that—but is it narrative; is it documentary? For
me, it’s like the filmic equivalent of creative nonfiction; it’s a true story told in a narrative
style, and the animation just amps that up. I love the gray areas between scripted and
documentary—I could talk about this stuff all day long.
“It’s kind of emblematic of the metaphor of the film itself; I may be pushing it here a lit-
tle bit, but what you see in our film is what you see in yourself, whatever you want to bring
to it. We’re quite open to however you want to categorize us; I’m not hung up on that at all.
But the perspective the audience brings to the film says, I think, a lot more about them.”
Of course, it’s fine to propose a whirlwind festival tour in which you charm peers, con-
temporaries, and industry bigwigs alike with your talent and assortment of personable
bon mots as your ticket to visibility, but as with so many areas of discussion presented in
this book, some pragmatism is required. Realistically speaking, it probably won’t be the
case that every festival will cover your travel and accommodation, and even if they do,
there are likely to be expenses accrued alongside the probability that, while you’re away
from your home turf, you won’t be working.
How you fine-tune your outgoings to best suit your circumstances depends on your
own judgment. If, after all, animation is the industry you’re enthusiastic to commit to for
the remainder of your professional career, then animation festivals, conferences and mar-
kets should definitely be given consideration from a professional standpoint. There’s even
cause to justify money spent on or at said events as business expenses, though it’s best if
you go ahead and run that sort of thing by your accountant first. If you get in trouble for
trying to pass off a weekend of cheeky pedalo racing in Annecy as a business trip, then
waving this book in an auditor’s face and saying “Ben told me it was okay!” probably won’t
help you out much as an excuse.

Rejection: How to Deal

Everybody who takes a shot at something that runs the risk of rejection will agree that it is
never fun. You’re being told, in essence, that your film is bad and that you as a filmmaker
should pack it in, right? Wrong.
Not to condescend, but I have found myself aghast at the number of sincerely tal-
ented filmmakers who gave up not only on getting their project seen but on filmmak-
ing altogether, simply from having been rejected by the first handful of festivals they

412 21. Putting Yourself Out There

submitted to. I cannot stress enough how important it is to not be discouraged by an
initially slow response. Even flat-out frostiness or hostility only defines the tastes of
whomever it’s coming from; it needn’t be taken as a fair and rounded assessment of
the quality of your work. Context is all, so bear in mind that while sifting through
submissions, programmers will have a very limited context for the circumstances and
directorial intent behind your film. Trash to some is treasure to others, as the saying
goes, though in the world of subjective film appreciation, we could say that amateurish-
ness to some is playfulness to others, maudlin sentiment to some is heartfelt poignancy
to others, caustic juvenilia to some is refreshing edginess to others, and so on and so
forth (Figure 21.6).

Figure 21.6
House Guest poster—though oft-rejected, with perseverance it eventually accrued enough
official selections to fancy up the layout a tad. (Courtesy of Ben Mitchell, ©2008.)

Independent Animation 413

As outlined in Chapter 1, the primary intention of this book is for filmmakers to be able
to take the lessons learned from the case studies and apply them to their ongoing/future
projects, so as to stand out in the crowd. As such, you, the reader, may be wondering why
the notion of rejection is even being brought up. The fact of the matter is, as strong as your
film is, it’s statistically impossible to achieve 100% success,* even for established veterans
of the animation world. Films that have been rejected from the most prestigious of com-
petitive film festivals have gone on to win Academy Awards and cement the future careers
of their directors—but that can only happen with persistence and not being dissuaded by
the first bumps in the road. Even for those who seem to have the world handed to them
on the proverbial platter have, in all likelihood, been put through the ringer a fair few
times. The fact is that we are all of us far more inclined to share our successes than our
failures and setbacks, so for every festival inclusion you see attached to a film, it is entirely
possible that there have been the same number of—or even more—rejections.
Even when considering the earlier point about the gamut of festival identities, when
putting factors such as personal taste and artistic misalignment to one side, we are still left
dealing with a numbers game. One important discovery I made during the early days of
both my freelance animation and indie-director careers was that a studio I briefly interned
at had somebody on staff whose duties included researching and submitting films to inter-
national festivals on a daily basis. This demystified the process tremendously—while the
studio’s in-house films were performing well on the festival circuit and winning awards,
when weighed against the sheer volume of submissions, their success rate would have been
somewhere between 30% and 50%.

Film as Discourse
The festival environment can prompt not just new filmmaking but also active discussion
on the topic. Many festivalgoers will walk away from a film screening or presentation
feeling inspired in the moment, and the hope remains that there will always at least be a
small percentage of those who will act on it and follow through with new work of their
own. Steven Woloshen, whose output would already be considered prolific, was moved to
create an abstract film in the vein of his established style as a reaction to Spiral, a parody
of the abstract film genre directed by Bill Plympton in 2005. Spiral was allegedly inspired
by a screening at the Stuttgart Animated Film Festival of Film-Wipe-Film (1984), a near-
half-hour abstract short by Paul Glabicki, in which the audience grew visibly impatient.
In Bill’s film, the artistic expression of the animated shapes is met with hostility by an
unseen cinema audience, who eventually resort to violence despite the pleas of the shapes
themselves, who insist that they only wish to entertain.
Though the film serves as light satire on a subsection of festival culture rather than any
kind of malicious condemnation of the abstract film genre, Bill initially used the moniker

* In truth, success is such a subjective term that it would be disingenuous to present it as a realistic goal by
everybody’s definition. I define the success of my own work as films that have made people laugh, been sold
for broadcast, and been a tremendous boon to my freelance career; to some, however, the fact that they’ve
not won major awards from certain institutions or achieved online viral success would, by their definition of
success, make them failures. But why you gotta hate?

414 21. Putting Yourself Out There

W. P. Murton* so as to not upset experimental filmmakers he knew and respected. Steven
elected to counter Spiral with a piece of his own, using similarly good-natured chicanery.
“Us experimental filmmakers are kind of at the bottom of the heap; we don’t have a lot
of people standing up for us. So what I did was I created a fictitious film archive and con-
tacted Bill Plympton for a copy of his film Your Face to be part of it. So I paid for the film;
he mailed it to me; and I took a pair of scissors, cut it into little bits, glued it onto film, and
made an abstract film out of it.”
The end result, titled Rebuttal, was later screened at the Ottawa Animation Festival,
under the pseudonym Luther Cartier (“Luther being the name of our cat and Cartier the
street we lived on”).
“I open up the floor to anybody who wants to talk about the subject. I think there are
a lot of people like myself who work in an experimental way, who don’t want to be ridi-
culed for trying something new. He takes it in good stride because he knows the debate’s
more important than what side you take. So sometimes, his film Spiral plays with my film
Rebuttal, so the audience can get a sense of what both sides of the story are. It’s a way to
open up a debate so we can talk about these things (Figure 21.7).
“Does experimental film belong in a competition setting? So many festivals recognize
that you can’t judge an experimental film in the same way you can a narrative film; there
are all these issues that have cropped up. We should look at things a little bit differently, we
should let people explore in workshops, let people talk about these things, let debate hap-
pen. So maybe it’s going on, slowly. Annecy now has an award for nonnarrative, experi-
mental work, so that means it’s opening up. Already, there are so many festivals around
the world that already recognize that there are so many different types of filmmaking.
Thank goodness!”
Show Me the Animation’s Jake Hobbs, himself heavily involved in both online curation
and screening events, has a similarly positive outlook on festival culture: “They’re great
for the community itself, bringing the people who work in that community together and
providing knowledge and inspiration to people within the industry. If you’re working in
animation, then it’s great to be able to see other people’s films; it’s great to be able to see
the big keynote names that festivals tend to bring in, who tell you about the amazing stuff
they’ve worked on; and it’s nice to be able to get your stuff on the big screen.”
When it comes to the notion of exclusivity, Jake finds himself casting a more critical
eye on the festival experience, however. “I think the way festivals are set up, some of the
process—such as the limits that some of them place on films being available online—
I don’t think is fair on the filmmaker; it’s quite limiting. If you put your film online, any-
one can see it, and while obviously, anyone can go to a film festival, it is restrictive because
you’ve got to be able to afford to get there. There’s a tendency that the people who’ll see
your films at a film festival will be other filmmakers, which is good, but if you’re wanting
to engage with wider audiences, then online is the only place to do it.”
While several major festivals still have this regulation in place, by and large, it is becom-
ing less and less of an essential caveat as the years go by. Some festivals have recognized
that online hosting is indeed the best means of generating buzz for a film in this present

* This pseudonym was also used in the independent documentary Adventures in Plymptoons (Dir. Alexia
Anastasio, 2011) as the name of a film critic—played by Plympton, who also appeared as himself in interviews,
enthusiastic to condemn the work of Plymptoons.

Independent Animation 415

Figure 21.7
Still from Rebuttal (Dir. Steven Woloshen), featuring manipulated footage from Bill Plympton’s
1987 classic Your Face. (Courtesy of Steven Woloshen, ©2005.)

climate of audience engagement and word of mouth via social media. Even if an audience
is familiar with a film already online in full that has achieved a measure of viral success
or significant media attention, that does not automatically mean that the opportunity to
see it in a theatrical setting won’t be a draw (every screening I have seen of the long-online
Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared films, for example, has never failed to get a strong reaction from
a festival audience). Bringing it around again to a positive note, Story from North America
codirector Garrett Michael Davis has a reassuring take on the long-term ramifications of
a solid festival run and its associated exposure.
“When I was in school, an artist I was acquainted with gave me some really great advice:
Spend your last year of school making something you can ‘take around’ for a while. In
terms of animation, that’s pretty clear—just make a good animation. There are so many
animation festivals that are not as competitive as full-blown film festivals where people
are showing projects that cost thousands or millions of dollars. People should know that
it’s not hard to get your films screened, even if it’s only 5 seconds long. Festivals and events
are always looking for things to screen, and if you make something good, it will continue
to work for you for a long time.”

416 21. Putting Yourself Out There

22
Distribution: A Brave New World

As we near the end of our examination of the independent animation scene and the mul-
titude of lessons that can be learned from its artists, our last stop will be the matter of
distribution itself. Throughout the book, a number of options have already come up, such
as online platforms to showcase and potentially monetize your films. For some, that is a
realistic option, as indie legend Don Hertzfeldt has found through the online release of
recent projects such as It’s Such a Beautiful Day (the 2012 indie masterpiece that accompa-
nied the launch of Vimeo On Demand) and his 2015 short World of Tomorrow. Speaking
with Skwigly* (in all lowercase, as he is wont to do) in 2015, Don weighs up the primary
digital distribution options available to independent filmmakers thusly:
“i think vimeo genuinely cares about quality of presentation, and their 90% revenue
share to the filmmakers was unprecedented. independent filmmaking is in a constant
state of ‘evolve or die.’ which is good, it probably keeps us from getting too comfortable.
a question that everyone in the industry will constantly be asking from now on is, ‘how
do people want to watch movies these days?’ there are so many different methods to see
something now and they will always be changing with new technology. it’s such a beautiful
day had a long and healthy life in theaters, we did the DVD, it’s on netflix, vimeo, itunes
and, in some countries, television. as long as the quality stays high i want to give people
every possible option.”

* http://www.skwigly.co.uk/hertzfeldt-world-of-tomorrow/

417
Don Hertzfeldt’s vantage point is from perhaps the most conceivably popular end of the
independent animation spectrum, so while it is healthy to aspire to be as accomplished a
filmmaker as he, in terms of an early project paying immediate dividends, one should keep
expectations grounded when approaching such a distribution platform. Observationally
speaking, the pattern a majority of independent animators and filmmakers alike have
fallen into goes roughly along the following lines:

1. Finishing a film (kind of crucial)

2. Aiming to premiere it at a major festival
3. Submitting it to festivals en masse (a process made easier should stage 2 have
proved successful and your film been received well) to increase its award pros-
pects and international visibility
4. Releasing the film online, for free, following its 2-year festival-eligible period and
pending any contractual obligations to distributors et al. who may have purchased
rights in the interim
5. Next project!

It’s not exactly red carpets and champagne, but it can be immeasurably valuable to your
reputation, career prospects, and likelihood of producing more work down the line with a
wider array of resources, so as to drive your art and passion even further forward.
Mind My Gap creator Rosto is a perfect example of how one’s self-funded roots in
independent animation can, with perseverance and genuine creativity, translate over
time to becoming a valuable commodity in the eyes of funders and distributors alike.
He benefitted from a decade-plus of personal work and auteur projects that made a name
for him with online audiences, a string of bizarrely compelling and successful animated
films bringing him to the attention of the festival circuit and France-based film produc-
tion company Autour de Minuit, an organization founded by Nicolas Schmerkin with a
keen eye for visual innovation and mixed-media projects.

418 22. Distribution

“My film (The Rise and Fall of the Legendary) Anglobilly Feverson [2002] gave me
a lot of new contacts, and I met a lot of people,” Rosto recalls. “It was the first film
where I started to travel the world, and that’s how you meet kindred spirits. So around
the time of Anglobilly and certainly the next film Jona/Tomberry [2005], I met with
Autour de Minuit. They were doing very interesting things, and we immediately liked
each other and started a brotherhood. So right after Jona/Tomberry played at Cannes,
Nicolas and I started to collaborate on projects. They also distribute all my work and
take care of me as an artist, and ever since The Monster of Nix, they’ve been involved
in all of my projects.”
As well as taking on distribution of his films, from 2011’s The Monster of Nix on,
Autour de Minuit has maintained an active involvement in Rosto’s output, ambitious
films that tick all the boxes of the company’s mission statement and plenty more. The
logic of the pairing should be considered. When approaching—or being approached
by—a company that can help facilitate funding and distribution, the most impor-
tant scrutinizing factor is whether or not you are both an artistic or ideological fit.
In many respects, this should be easy enough to determine—a production company
known for its success in producing for preschool audiences will most likely have no
interest in a film project with adult themes, and so forth—though it is always worth
researching a company’s overall remit. Even if, on a surface level, producers and dis-
tributors boast a broad canvas of projects, as Autour de Minuit could be seen to at first
glance, a thorough examination of their project portfolio will reveal enough recur-
ring elements and give you a sense of their overall standard of quality. A little bit of
research can ultimately save you a lot of time in the long run if you are in the market
for a serious partnership.

Unexpected Developments
You’ll recall that Aidan McAteer’s first attempt at making a short film since college, A
Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy, was a success as far as its immediate purpose of winning
the annual DepicT! online microshort contest was concerned. This also brought with it a
number of additional perks that afforded him an entirely new perspective on the life of a
short film once it’s in the world.
“I was suddenly a ‘director,’ which I hadn’t really been before! I mean, there was my
graduation film, but everyone has one of those, and I hadn’t really done any real directing
since, just bits and pieces. So that was the first thing, and then it won awards, so I became
an ‘award-winning director’—happy days!”
Thus began a snowball effect that saw the film being selected for a number of high-
profile festivals, such as Annecy. In contemplation of the film being awarded right out of
the gate, the question has at times played on Aidan’s mind whether things would have ever
been able to pan out the same way but in a different order.
“In theory, one shouldn’t have a bearing on the other, but you do wonder whether other
festivals take a film more seriously if it has won awards at a previous festival, if you know
what I mean? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I was thrilled for it to be in
Annecy.”
Realistically speaking, it’s highly unlikely a film will be looked at with complete
impartiality by every single festival selection committee it reaches, especially if it

Independent Animation 419

comes with a degree of buzz attached. As with everything, popularity and word of
mouth will have a role to play in whether or not a film stands out—in many respects,
the entire function of the book you are holding now is to assist in your own film being
exactly that kind of film. Although there are no hard-and-fast rules decreed by the
gods of independent filmmaking on the matter, some festivals are even known to take
the opposite approach, favoring films that have not had a premiere elsewhere so they
can be associated with a promising offering’s debut. Also, while options for distribu-
tion are not completely out of reach for anyone tenacious enough to pursue them, the
process is certainly made a lot easier if your film is the talk of a major festival, while
potential distributors, curators, and prospective funders for future projects are mill-
ing about the Bonlieu* with their ears pricked up.
Returning to Aidan McAteer—acknowledging he had a hot property on his hands saw
him enter The Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy into other similarly structured online con-
tests as DepicT!, one being Atom.com (now CC Studios), for which it was selected by Bill
Plympton to win another cash prize and accolade.
“Another Bill Plympton story is from a talk he gave at Annecy where people were ask-
ing how he made money out of his films, to which he explained that he sold them to differ-
ent TV stations,” recalls Aidan. “I was sitting there in the audience thinking, Well, maybe
if you’re Bill Plympton, you do, but who’s gonna come to my door? The idea of selling was
so crazy to me. Then 3 days after Annecy, I got an email from Swiss television saying they
wanted to buy my short film to show on TV!”
This seemingly surreal turn of events is, if not readily available to everyone who has
ever made a film, not as uncommon as you might think. Festivals partnered up with
film markets would not exist were there not accredited buyers in attendance, and even
if independent films don’t seem to be a valuable commodity where you live, chances
are they might be to some other parts of the world. Depending on your territory, there
may also be short film distributors and sales agents that actively solicit precisely the
type of independent short you have made. Though bear in mind that such businesses
won’t appreciate having their time wasted, i.e., if they state in their remit that they are
on the hunt for documentary shorts, nobody will benefit if you slide an animated music
video under their noses. Also, you should keep your wits about you as regards anything
involving a contract—it may seem like an old cliché, but relinquishing ownership of your
intellectual property is not something to be entered into hastily. Even “nonexclusive”
agreements that have caveats that, while reasonable and most likely beneficial to your
project’s overall exposure, may be easy to overlook and accidentally breach. Remember
that no matter how laid-back (obviously, when it comes to animation, there’s really no
such thing, but you know what I mean) an independent animation project’s production
might have been, things will become exponentially more formal the moment that dis-
tribution deals are in place.
In Aidan McAteer’s case, once The Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy’s TV contract and
festival exposure had run its course, it joined its animated short film brethren online, its
most valuable upshot being clear to the director: “It just gave me confidence to say, ‘Now
I’m a filmmaker!’”

* The main venue of the Annecy festival—for the record, other major festivals can provide equally valuable
exposure; I just enjoyed typing the phrase “milling about the Bonlieu.”

420 22. Distribution

Bill Plympton, whose words of seemingly out-of-reach advice proved true to Aidan, has his
own thoughts on the matter of distribution in the wake of his 2013 feature Cheatin’ (Figure
22.1):
“I’m a little old school on this, but I’ve come to the realization that digital distribution
is a much more democratic and profitable way to make money. In the past, you always had
a theatrical release, then a DVD release, then—way down the line—video on demand or
a digital release. Now people are just going straight to the digital release stage, and they
make their money that way, through YouTube, Vimeo, or Netflix. It’s really changed for
the better for younger people, or people who are independently minded. They don’t have
to deal with Hollywood, which is a godsend because Hollywood is such a rapacious place
that they will take your film, distribute, it and make lots of money you will never get to see.
It’s really a very scary position to be in, to spend 4 years of your life and all your money
on a film that becomes a success but then you don’t get any of the funds from the movie
theaters or TV sales.
“With Cheatin’, if we would have gotten a million-dollar—or even half a million-
dollar—advance, then we probably would have made a deal, taken the money, and ran—
forget about royalties! Since we never did get a really big advance, we decided to do what’s
called a service deal, in other words, paying a distributor to get it out to theaters, to get
publicity, the chance for some good reviews and some good word of mouth. Then we take
the film back and do the DVD and the Internet sales ourselves—that’s where we hopefully
cash in and make a profit. It’s all theoretical, and it depends on if it’s a good film, if you get
good distribution on the Internet, find the right home for it. That’s the important part to
make money, is to get a good home for it.”

Independent Animation 421

Similarly, Bill’s protégé-turned-independent feature director in her own right, Signe
Baumane, learned some hard truths when it came to getting Rocks in my Pockets out into
the world:
“Looking back, I could say that making the film was the easy part! When you’re making
a film, you’re doing something that you are good at; you know what you’re doing; you have
experience; you have ideas; it’s a creative process. It’s challenging, and there are hard days
and easy days and all that, but when you come to the stage of distribution and marketing,
that is something I’m not good at—and I found myself having to do it, day in and day out,
for a year and a half, when I should have been making another film.
“We have different distributors for different territories, so strictly speaking, we don’t
have to do anything, because there is a publicist for when we had a theatrical run, and the
distributor takes care of the business side.”
What was most important to Signe and the Rocks in my Pockets team was the opportu-
nity to use the project to connect with people, person-to-person. As indicated by the film’s
social media following, there was a sizable interest from people who were willing to come
out and see the film theatrically (Figure 22.2).
“These are people who wouldn’t know that the film exists if it wasn’t for social media.
So we felt compelled to try to reach out to those who might be interested, and it turned out
to be a very effective marketing strategy. Even if the New York Times gives a film the kind
of big approval that a lot of people see, they won’t necessarily go to a movie after they read
it, because the next day, it’s about another movie. When you go home, open Facebook,
and see a friend saying, ‘I’m going to see Rocks in my Pockets,’ it becomes more personal,
so that was our strategy. No distributor can do this type of person-to-person marketing.”
Bill Plympton frequently insists that the most advisable way of profiting from a short
film is to keep production costs at a minimum. From firsthand experience, I can confirm

422 22. Distribution

that you needn’t be as established and internationally revered as the Bill Plymptons of the
world for this to be true. My 2010 short The Naughty List, produced over a quiet, 2-month
period when commissioned projects were sparse, received some negligible financial sup-
port to assist with the postproduction and coloring, but could largely be considered an
unpaid, entirely auteur affair (Figure 22.3). Though the process of getting it out in the
world was a slow-burn one, eventually, it sold to enough territories for broadcast to make
back more than what my income would have been during the time it was made, as well
as the various postage, submission, and transfer fees incurred. If I had devoted, say, 6
months or more to the production and subcontracted a crew to make it a slicker, more
polished affair, it’s certainly possible that the more professional production values would
have increased its salability, but the risk would have been far greater. Looking at your film
as an investment in this way and from the get-go can be a very helpful determining factor
when it comes to the budgeting phase, not to mention your approach to the production
itself. Assuming you as the director or main contributor to an independent film or passion
project will not be paid, the time and skill you put into it still has value, and it’s completely
reasonable to want to recoup this investment.

Independent Animation 423

Pixar have more than proved that a short animated skit can be a success when made
with a big budget, while many an independent animator has equally proved that it can
function just as well when scribbled on a napkin if the premise, timing, and execution are
properly thought through. Admittedly, the low-budget approach to filmmaking is not for
every artist, and definitely not for every film. In the case of Thomas Stellmach and Maja
Oschmann’s filmic tribute to Louis Spohr’s Virtuos Virtuell, a level of visual sophistica-
tion was required, not to give it a superficial glossiness, but to treat its subject with respect
and fully immerse the audience into its illusory world (Figure 22.4). As a consequence,
the project required significant financial backing (as discussed in Chapter 9), which in
turn was a significant motivating factor when it came to approaching distribution. With
over 25 streams of financial support in total, Thomas could determine in hindsight that
approximately half of the film’s budget had been covered.
“When producing this film, I counted every hour, and at the end, I knew exactly how
many hours I worked on the project. I counted from this the cost, which was €114,000. We

Figure 22.4
Cover art for the Virtuos Virtuell (Dir. Thomas Stellmach/Maja Oschmann) DVD/BluRay, sold
via the film’s website virtuosvirtuell.com. (Courtesy of Thomas Stellmach, ©2013.)

424 22. Distribution

had managed to get half of that from funders; the other half came from the time I spent
working on the film.”
Given the film’s experimental qualities, higher budget, and the ever-changing land-
scape of short film sales, a more targeted and traditional approach was warranted to
achieve significant financial success. On the heels of the first leg of Virtuos Virtuell’s fes-
tival run, Thomas released the film on DVD and Blu-ray, purchasable online via the proj-
ect’s official website.*
“I sold 1400 DVDs, which was a successful outcome. I also took the time to send it to
350 festivals, out of which 180 chose the film for competition. Doing that was also a huge
job, and a major reason for the film’s success was because of the time—over 2 years—that
I put into the process. It seems to me that usually, filmmakers won’t invest quite so much
time for that side of things. Of course, there are companies that can take on the work of
sending the film to festivals as a service, but I didn’t use that option; I chose to do it by
myself. It might seem to be bit crazy, to take so much time to do this, but I’m an enthusiast!
I love my products, I love my films, and I try to send them out so that people can see them.”
Thomas Stellmach’s sentiment is one that I certainly hope all of you reading can
relate to. Whether or not your film proves to be profitable or propels you to international
stardom, that you followed through on creating a piece of art is a success story in itself.
Hopefully, through the array of case studies, personal stories, master classes, and tips
this book has gathered together, you will have come away with a film that is something
even more—a standout animation project that makes a significant mark on the ever-
inspirational independent scene and leads to the exciting first step of your next creative
journey.

* http://www.virtuosvirtuell.com

Independent Animation 425

Animation: The Mechanics of Motion

Author: Chris Webster
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240516660

Timing for Animation

Authors: John Halas and Harold Whitaker
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240521602

427
Action Analysis for Animators
Author: Chris Webster
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240812182

Action and Performance for Animation

Authors: Derek Hayes and Chris Webster
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240812397

Acting for Animators

Author: Ed Hooks
Routledge
ISBN: 978-0415580243

Stop-Motion: Craft Skills for Model Animation

Author: Susannah Shaw
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240520551

Prepare to Board! Creating Story and Characters for Animated Features and Shorts
Author: Nancy Beiman
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240818788

Dream Worlds: Production Design for Animation

Author: Hans Bacher
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240520933

Ideas for the Animated Short

Authors: Karen Sullivan, Kate Alexander, Aubry Mintz, and Ellen Besen
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240818726

Make Toons That Sell (Without Selling Out)

Author: Bill Plympton
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240817798

Directing for Animation

Author: Tony Bancroft
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240818023

428 Recommended Further Reading

The Game Narrative Toolbox
Authors: Tobias Heussner, Toiya Kristen Finley, Jennifer Brandes Hepler, and Ann
Lemay
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-1138787087

Digital Storytelling
Author: Carolyn Handler Miller
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0415836944

Hybrid Animation
Author: Tina O’Hailey
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0415718707

The Foley Grail

Author: Vanessa Theme Ament
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0415840859

Designing Sound for Animation

Author: Robin Beauchamp
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240824987

Voice-Over for Animation

Authors: Jean Ann Wright and M. J. Lallo
Focal Press
ISBN: 978-0240812182

Page numbers followed by f indicate figures.

A Anglobilly Feverson, 293, 419
Anijam, short film concept, 262
Aardman Animations, 25, 112
Animago conference in 2011, 314
Abstract film, 54
Animated documentarian
Academy Award for Best Animated Short, 18
about, 111–113
Adaptation
anecdotal value, 117–122
about, 61, 62
animation advantage, 128–132
Polish, of Tove Jansson’s Moomins series,
animation and storytelling, 122–123
77
career of Jeff Chiba Stearns in animation
Chris Shepherd and, 65
filmmaking/teaching, 127–128
of James and the Giant Peach, 162
oral histories, 113–117
The Ramayana, 137
self-reflection, 123–127
Adventure game, 318
Animation
Adventure Gamers, 327
and art degrees, 218
Adventure Hedgehogs, 339
and audience’s emotions/expectations, 216
Adventures of Bertram Fiddle, The, 2f, 223, 224f
as full-package deal, 253
character turnaround assets for, 329f
historian, 159
cover art, 324f
important in Rosto’s process, 289
creation of, 325
and normality, 216
Dan Emmerson as technical artist, 327,
Animation Domination High-Def, 160, 161
328f
Animation Festivals, 406
gameplay footage, 325f
Animation-festivals.com site interface, 409f
storyboard excerpts, 326f
Animation filmmakers, full potential of
Adventures of Prince Achmed, The, 136
attitudes about filmmaking, 236–245
Alchemist, The, 206
limitations for animation filmmakers,
Allegri, Natasha, 101
252–253
Allen, Andrew S., 249
online sharing, 249–252
Alpocalypse, 92
overview, 236
Amidi, Amid, 159
standout animation, 245–249
AMX London, 95
Animation For Hire, 247
Anderson, royd, 333

431
Animation hobbyists, 4 Autostereoscopic projection, 301, 302
Animation Sans Frontieres, 324, 325 Autour de Minuit, France-based film
Animation students, 4 production company, 418, 419
Animator, 18
B
Animator In Residence scheme, 36
Annecy festival, 92 Bacon, Francis, 286
Annecy International Animation Festival, 77 Badger Badger Badger
Anthology film, benefit of, 368 original and redesigned, 101f
Apocryphal story of supernatural cat, 36 Badgers, 99
Arcand, Benjamin Barker, Cordell, 265f
Wackatdooo by, 352 Baumane, Signe, 124–125, 134, 147, 149, 422
Armikrog BBC sketch show, 67
crowdfunded projects, 164 Beck, Jeremy, 223
gameplay footage, 320f, 321f, 322f Bee and Puppycat, 101
independent approach to, 320 Behar, Albert, 382
still from, 165f, 167f Beheaded (Dir. Rosto)
Art director, 32 musical piece, 292
Arthur Christmas, 269 still from, 293
ArthurCox (studio), 25 Being Bradford Dillman (Dir. Emma Burch)
Arts Council England, 68 about, 168, 371
Arts University Bournemouth, 269 poster, 372f
Aschim, Bjørn-Erik, 269 still from, 373f, 374f
Assassin Babies (skit from web series Wobble Benson, Scott, 195
Box), 98f Berberian Sound Studio, 400
Astronauts (Dir. Matthew Walker) Bertram Fiddle (Dir. Seb Burnett)
about making of, 25–27, 25f character’s eventual Rumpus design, 224f
importance of music in, 398 Bigelow, Colin, 194, 195
minimum animation requirements, 26 Big Train, 67
nastiness/subtlety of humor, 29 Bike Race (Dir. Tom Schroeder)
storyboard to final film comparison, 29f dope sheet, 118f
Attitudes about filmmaking, 236–245 still from, 119f
Audience, 131, 252 technology for, 121
to 3-D films, 308, 310f Bike Ride
feedback, 309 about, 117
and stereoscopy, 308 Dave King recording drums, 118
Audience–artist solidarity, 132 success of, 119
Audience Award, 247 Bike Trip, 120
Audience interaction Birch, Emma, 371
flexible plan, 328–329 Birdbox, 103
laws of tradition, defying, 329–339 Blades, Ant, 102, 107, 109f; see also Chop Chop;
overview, 317–318 Wildebeest
spirit, adventurous, 318–327 Blanchet, Claire, 71
technical realities, trial and error, 327–328 Bleaker Predicklement, A, 326
Audio editing software, 401 Blog culture, 149–154
Audio track, recorded dialog with a high Blue Heelers, 232
dynamic range, 404f Blue Sky Studios, 32
Auditory anthropomorphization, 398 Bobby Yeah (Dir. Robert Morgan)
Australian drama series, 232 about, 8f, 36, 39
Auteur short films, 43 about characters, 41–42
Autism, 25 character sketch and film still, 38f

432 Index
concept sketches, 40f, 198f Carpark (Dir. Ant Blades)
exterior sequence thumbnail board/ about, 107
concept sketch, 200f stages of production for, 108f
idea generation, 42–43 still from, 93
poster, 37f Cartoon, Joe, 92, 95
Robert Morgan on, 199 Casiokids, Norwegian band, 77
still from, 41f, 201f Casting and performance, 219–233
storyboarded characters to final film Cat Face (Dir. Sarah Darling), 100f
comparison, 42f Catfish, 112
Bonham, Helena Cat Piano, The (Dir. Eddie White and Ari
successful performance in The Grufallo, Gibson)
225 Alex as animator on, 360
Boom Town, 135 Cat With Hands, The, 36
Bottle (2010), 43, 44, 185 Cat with Hands and Invocation, The (2013), 199
Boxhead and Roundhead, 221f Cauwe, Jérôme, 213
Brave New Old (Dir. Adam Wells) Channel Flip, 97
about, 344 Chapman, matt, 97
press shot, 348f Character development in animation, 14–18;
shot render, 347 see also Story development
stills from, 345f Characters played by animators, 220, 223
Brazil, 347 Charles, Craig, 77
Bristol animation production studio, 223 Charlie the Unicorn, 102
British Academy of Film and Television Arts Cheatin’ (Dir. Bill Plympton), 92
(BAFTA), 36, 246, 280 drawn animation to final film comparison,
British accent, 220 152f
British nightmare-weaver, 36 still from, 133f, 136f, 153f, 421f
Brookes, Phil Chop Chop (Dir. Ant Blades)
composing for But Milk Is Important, 383, background colors in Photoshop, 104f
384f, 387f character animation in Flash, 103f
composing for live action, 386 compositing in After Effects, 105f
interaction with sound engineer, 386 still from, 102f
interview with, 383–388 time taken for making, 106
involvement with Three’s a Crowd, 386 Circle Line, The (Dir. Adam Wells)
musical background of, 384 about, 349
Brother (1999), 18 shape of characters, 350
Brown, Parsons, 92 still from, 346f
Brown, Tom, 214 Claymation film, 22
Bru Ha Ha! (2002), 53 Clayographies, 20
Budget option for film viewing, 300 Codswallop, 277
Burnett, Seb, 223 Collaborative projects, 358
But Milk Is Important (Dir. Eirik Grønmo Collonge, Stéphane, 199
Bjørnsen/Anna Mantzaris) Comedic animation, 238
music composer for, 383 Comedy Central web series, 62
poster, 384f Comedy–tragedies, 19
Commissioned work, 107
C
Commitment factor, 140–145
Camus, Albert, 121 Communication with audience, 252
Canadian animation, 262–263 Composer, perspective of, 383–388
Cannes International Film Festival, 293 Compositing software, 210f
Capote (2005), 230 Computer-generated (CG) images, 62, 74, 183

Index 433
Coombs, Melanie, 19 Digital cameras, 184
Count Fulchmuckle, 224f Digital puppet system, 336
Cousin (1998), 18 Digital release, 421
Cowan, Elliot, 221 Digital storytelling, 291
performance as Roundhead, 223 Dinner
Cowan, Philip, 199 digital painting, 106
Creative collaborations, 85–91; see also Music Discipline, 251
and animation Distribution of animation films, 417–425
Creative partnership, 58, 67 Distributors, 422
Creature Comforts, 112 Documentary filmmaker, 112
Credits, 252–253 Don’t Hug Me I’m Scared, 212, 313
Crossing Victoria (2013), 54 3-D projection, 300
Crowdfunding, 164–170, 177; see also Funding DreamWorks Interactive, 319
Cube-headed characters, 348 Dresinen, 77
Curator, role of, 246 Driver, The
Cyanide and Happiness, 107 Savlonic music video, still from, 80f
Czech animation, 81 Drunker than a Skunk, 92
3D Studio Max, 313
D
Dubbing, effects of, 251
Dad’s Dead (Dir. Chris Shepherd) Dub of a Preacherman
about, 284, 285 about, 74
still from, 284f artwork demonstrating visual development
Dam Keeper, The (Dir. Robert Kondo/Dice of, 6f
Tsutsumi) character designs, 75f
animation review during production, 378f still from, 73f, 78f
early development by Robert Kondo, 34f Dubplate Iko, 77
early development drawing by Dice Duffy, Eoin, 251
Tsutsumi, 33f Dumb Ways to Die, 337
reviewing, 376–377 DVDs, sale of, 425
sculpts, 378f
E
still from, 35f, 36f, 377f
visual success of, 35 Eagleman Stag, The, 363
2-D animation, 319 Early PLUG & PLAY concept sketch, 330f
3-D animator, 271 Earthworm Jim, 319, 319f, 323
2-D animators, 344 Eldon, Kevin, 69
Danny and Annie, 115 Elliot, Adam, 134, 162f
Darling, Sarah, 98 as animator, 18
Davis, Garrett Michael, 160 awards won by, 18
about works of, 85–87 Brave New Old (first film), 344
original lyrics for The Spider Song by, 88f casts for films, 230
on Story from North America, 188 character sculpt for Mary and Max, 21f
Dearden, Holly, 80 character sculpts for trilogy by, 18f
Death by Scrabble (Dir. Katie Steed) The Circle Line, 344
multi-award-winning student film, 406 with Ernie Biscuit character sculpts, 19f
still from, 408 Fake Expectations, 344
DepicT!, 259–261 as “golden crowbar,” 18
Der Alchymist, 206 humanity of narration, 20
DeStefano, Stephen, 159 involvement in production of Ernie Biscuit,
DigiBeta, 406 181, 182f
Digital animation processes, 48, 211 national identity in films, 19

434 Index
Risehigh, 344, 348 Feature-length independent animation project,
on set for Ernie Biscuit, 182f 221
works of, 18–25 Feedback, for story development, 145–149
writing process, 21 Festival
E-mail communication, 170 environment and filmmakers, 414
Emmerson, Dan opportunity at, 262
as technical artist, 327–328, 328f and screening categories, 245
Encounters, 259 Festival 2015 edition, mascot in, 248f
Encounters Festival, 246 Film as discourse, 414–416
Endersby, Andrew, 13, 191 Filmmaker Grand Prix, 71
End of Pinky, The, 71 Filmography, 52
Endtrip (Dir. The Outpost), 304 of PES, 243
concept visual for, 304f, 305f Film submission to festivals, 406–412
poster, 306 Flash cartoons, 94
still from, 307f, 308f, 309f Flash iOS publication, 257
English orchestra, 389 Flash SWF file format, 79
Entertainment media, 1 Flat, two-dimensional characters, 350
Eraserhead (1977), David Lynch, 36 Flatworld (1997), produced for BBC, 280
Ernie Biscuit (Dir. Adam Elliot), 20, 23, 23f Fleischer Brothers films, 91
about, 162 Florian nores, 310
aspects of production, 181–183 Flying House, The (1921), 268
Ernie’s character sculpt for, 343f Folman, Ari, 134
experiment with, 203 Food Trilogy, 173, 238, 242
still from, 163f, 183f, 203f Free-form approach, 292
Ernie Biscuit puppet, Adam Elliot with, 162f Freeform of film, 353
Escapism, 24 Frei, Michael
Estonian Academy of Art, 331 first film, 331
Everything I Can See from Here (Dir. Bjørn- and issues with traditional approach to
Erik Aschim/Sam Taylor) animation production, 329–331
character concept sketch to final design works of, 331–336
comparison, 270f Fresh Guacamole (2012), 175, 238, 240, 244
character turnarounds, 273f Friendship is Magic, 261
shot list, 274f Frog in a Blender, 92, 95
still from, 271f, 272f Full-high-definition (HD) masterworks, 249
Expenditure for music, 389 Funding
Experimental film, 54 collective effort, 164–170
External World, The, 369 combined resources, 172–179
customer etiquette, 170–172
F
overview, 155–156
Fake Expectations (Dir. Adam Wells), 346f self-funding, 162
Fantasia, 91 snowball effect, 156–161
Fearsome Beastie, The sources, 156
about, 58
G
concept designs, Katie Steed’s first, 59f
concept visual, 58 Gabriel, Peter, 74
visual development and early CG modeling Game designer, 333
on, 60f Game Over, 238, 241, 243
visual development of children’s house Gentleman’s Guide to Villainy, The (Dir. Aidan
from, 61f McAteer), 261, 261f, 419, 420
voice performer, 225f Germans in the Woods, 115

Index 435
Ghost Stories High-definition (HD) gaming, 319
about, 358 Hinton, Chris, 266
Late Night Work Club artists and, 362, 363 Hobbs, Jake, 256
project, 195 Holbrooks portrait: Tom Brown and Daniel
Gilliam, Terry, 347 Gray, 215f
Glabicki, Paul, 414 Homestar Runner, 95, 97
Gladwell, Malcolm, 98 Horn Dog (2009), 13
Goddamn George Liquor Program (1997), The, Hot Dog (2008), 13
94 House Guest (Dir. Ben Mitchell), 220
Google Cardboard, 300 poster, 413f
Gordon, Seth, 112 rotting antagonist of, 213
Government funding for animation, in still from, 400f
Switzerland, 333 Humor, 22, 29
Grant, Richard E., 216, 226–227 Hypnagogic computer-generated visuals, 304
Gravity (Dir. Alfonso Cuarón), 303
I
Gray, Daniel, 214
Greaves, Daniel, 168, 279, 283f Illusionist, The, 269
Grieves, Robert, 21, 47–51, 390; see also Sausage Incompetech, 391
(Dir. Robert Grieves) Independent animation, 36
Grigg, Alex, 358–360, 359f Adam Elliot on, 5
Grime City P.D. (Dir. Sam Morrison) poster Bill Plympton on, 6
artwork, 17f Chris Shepherd on, 10
Gross, Milt, 115 future of, 2
Ground Running (Dir. Ben Mitchell) Garrett Michael Davis on, 9
about, 410 Kieran Argo on, 7
still from, 410f Kirsten Lepore on, 9
Gruffalo’s Child, The (Dir. Johannes Weiland Nina Paley on, 6
and Uwe Heidschötter), 61 Robert Grieves on, 10
Guard Dog (Dir. Bill Plympton), 13 Robertino Zambrano on, 9
Academy award-nominated, 266 Robert Morgan on, 8
drawing from original film, 268f Ruth Lingford on, 6
Shots from original, 267f Sam Taylor on, 7
Guard Dog Global Jam Signe Baumane on, 6
counterparts, 267f Tom Schroeder on, 8
success of, 268 Tünde Vollenbroek, 8
Guide Dog (2006), 13 Independent animation, journey of
balancing ambition, 189–191
H
manual labor, 183–188
Happiness, 230 outside assistance, 191–197
“Harvie” character sculpt for Adam Elliot’s overview, 181–183
Harvie Krumpet, 231f wisdom in hindsight, 201–204
Harvie Krumpet, 18, 23, 162, 184n, 341–342, work ethic, 197–201
388 Independent animation and mixed-media
Heard ‘Em Say, 91 approach, 279–284
Hersey, jack, 177 duality, 284–289
Hertzfeldt, Don, 13, 175, 247, 417, 418 example from Netherlands, 289–297
Herzog, Werner, 132, 188 Independent films, contemporary examples of
Hesitation, 269 Late Night Work Club, 358–363
High-definition (HD) content, 94, 406 overview, 341–343

436 Index
series by Adam Wells, 343–352 Lebel, Edith, 354
Wackatdooo by Benjamin Arcand, 352–358 Lepore, Kirsten, 43, 43f, 85, 90, 191, 398;
Indiegogo, crowdfunding alternative, 169 see also Move Mountain
Interactive media, 318 collaboration with Garrett Michael Davis, 188
Interactive PLUG & PLAY app, 317f set of Move Mountain, 185f
International animation Festival 2012, 315 works of, 184
Internet audiences, 109 Lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT)
Internet sales, 421 campaign, 375
Licensing terms, 257
J
Life is Full of Ups and Downs, 107
Jackson, Michael, 74 Limitations in animation film making,
James and the Giant Peach (1996), 162 138–140
Jansson, Tove, 77 Lingford, Ruth
Japanese animation artists, 188 attitude, 129
JellyBug, 99 filmography of, 122
John and Joe, 116 Harvard animation professor, 122
John and Karen (Dir. Matthew Walker) Lip Synch series, 113
about, 26 Little Deaths (Dir. Ruth Lingford)
film’s visual development, demonstrating, about, 122, 124
30f still from, 123f
still from, 399f Little Face (Dir. Matthew Walker)
thumbnail board excerpts, 28f about, 189, 189f
Johnson, Louise, 130 costume designs for, 190f
Johnson, Melissa, 62 on location for, 191f
Johnson, Tony, 80; see also Marzipan Reindeer Live-action documentary films, 62
(Dir. Tony Johnson) Live-action films, 289
Joost, Henry, 112 Live-action point of view, 304
Judge, Mike, 174 Live-action video, 91
Lole, Benjamin, 189
K
Lonely Bones (Dir. Rosto)
Kaboom! (Dir. PES), 238 about, 157, 294
still from, 240f still from, 291f, 295f, 296f
Ka-Chew, 119 Lord, Peter, 113
Kaempfert, Bert, 389 Lost and Found (Dir. Phil Hunt), 61, 61f
KAPWA Studioworks, 192 Love in the Time of March Madness
Kassel’s Spohr Museum, 300 (Dir. Melissa Johnson/
Kickstarter model, 166 Robertino Zambrano), 62
King, Dave, 117 about source materials, 63–66
Kocanaogullari, aziz, 259 nonfictional stories and observations, 124
Kondo, Robert poster, 63f
The Dam Keeper early development by, 34f sketch by Robertino Zambrano, 64f
works of, 32–33 still from, 124f, 382f, 411f
Kricfalusi, John, 94 storyboard excerpts, 66f
KZ Animation, 117 textural effect applied to animation of, 67f
LucasArts, 318
L
Luigis’ Pizzaride (Dir. Florian Werzinski)
Labor-intensive sequences, 26 about, 311–313
Language, 208 authenticity of film’s eventual design and
Late Night Work Club, 358–363 environment, 312f

Index 437
poster, 311f Merwe, Max James van der, 271
stereoscopic animatic still, 313 Messages of story, 18–25; see also Story
still from, 299f, 314f, 315f development
Lynch, David, 36 Metronome, 393
Mexican Stand-Off, 92
M
Miller, Bennett, 230
MacLeod, Kevin, 391–392 Mind My Gap, 227
Macromedia Flash, 94 artwork for Rosto’s, 290f
Madame Tutli-Putli (directed by Chris Lavis online web series, 289
and Maciek Szczerbowski), 282 Rosto’s confidence to progress, 292
Magic Light, 69 self-funded project, 418
Magic Light adaptations, 60, 61 Miss Devine, 116
Mainstream television shows, 184 Mister Plastimime
Man in Lower Left-Hand Corner of Photograph, crowdfunding backer poster, 168f
The, 36 fundraising of, 168
Manipulation, 279, 284 Mixed-media approach, 289, 306–307
Manual labor, 183–188 Money For Nothing, 74
Marcel, King of Tervuren Monster of Nix, The, 227, 419
(Dir. Tom Schroeder) Monsters University (2013), 32, 33
about, 120, 122 Moomins, 77
still from, 120f, 121f Morgan, Robert, 36–37; see also Bobby Yeah
Martin, Andy, 276, 366 (Dir. Robert Morgan)
as musician and animation director, 392, by-products of Bobby Yeah’s improvised
394 story development, 198
Martini, Pink, 389 The Man in the Lower Left Hand Corner
Mary and Max (by Adam Elliot), 18, 21, 21f of the Photograph, 197
Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA), 43, self-determination of, 197
85 Morrell, Sam, 249
Mary & Max (Dir. Adam Elliot) Morrison, Sam, 13, 177, 191
about, 134 Motion graphics (mograph), 366
puppet in, 342f Motivation, 275
Marzipan Reindeer (Dir. Tony Johnson) Mousquet, Pierre, 213
animated music video, 80 Move Mountain (Dir. Kirsten Lepore)
character designs scale sheet, 82f about, 9f, 43
“Holly” character turnaround and assets, armature building for, 186f
85f casting and molding characters for, 187f
opening shot background art, 86f characters for, 192
still from, 81f made out of food, 44
storyboard/shot list, 83 music for, 398, 399f
Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), pre-production phase, 186
123 still from, 43f, 192f, 399
Maverick, 59 Mr. Plastimime (Dir. Daniel Greaves)
McAteer, Aidan, 260, 419, 420 campaign page promo image, 281f
McCay, Winsor, 268 hybrid of stop-motion puppet animation
McElheron, Maureen, 91 and digital 2-D, 281
McInnes, William, 232, 388 still from, 280, 282f, 283f
McLaren’s Workshop, 255 use of Flash to animate facial expressions,
McLeod, Greg, 396 283f
Merry Circus, The, 81 Musical accompaniment, 391

438 Index
Music and animation O
animation majors, 91–92
Off to the Vet campaign, 171f
complementary, 78
Oh, Erick
creative collaborations, 85–91
animation supervisor, 33
individual creatives, 80–85
One Big Hapa Family (Dir. Jeff Chiba Stearns)
music, 74–78
poster, 130f
overview, 74
still from, 131f
Music and sound
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, 24
composer, perspective of, 383–388
O’Neill, Heather, 71
noise reduction, 401–402
Online Audience Award, 262
outsourcing, 381
Online community, 249
selection of music, 388–392
Online distribution, 258
self-sufficiency, as musician, 392–399
Online personalities, 78
sound, with editing, 401
Online sharing, 249–252
sound construction, approaches to, 399–401
Online web series, 289
timed audio, 402–403
Operator (Dir. Matthew Walker)
Music and visuals, 51
about script of, 26
Music composer, 382
mockup and final layout for, 27f
Musician, independent, 384
one-sided phone conversation between man
Music videos
and God, 26
advantage of, 75
with restraint and understated humor, 27
Annecy International Animation Festival
Optical printer, 54
official selection, 77
O’Reilly, David, 369
and creative experimentation, 84
Original source text, 60
as promotional tool, 74
Orsini, Daniella, 372–373
N Oscar nomination, 135
Oschmann, Maja, 301
Narration, 20
blowing ink with an air brush tube, 211f
Narrative animation, 82
Ottawa Animation Festival, 415
Narrator, 231–232, 285, 388
Out Holding Hands, 375
Narwhals, 79f
Outpost
National Film and Television School (NFTS), 122
collective of animation and visual effects
National Film Board (NFB) of Canada, 71, 255, 282
artists, 303
National identity in films, 19
interview with, 303–
Naughty List, The (Dir. Ben Mitchell), 220,
Outside assistance, 191–197
still from 220f
poster, 423f
P
Nestelaar, Nina, 294
Neverhood, The, 165, 319, 320, 323 Paley, Nina, 137
Newland, Marv, 262 Paley-Phillips, Giles, 58, 59
Newport International Film School, 26 Paquin, François-Xavier
Noise reduction, 401–402 composer and drummer, 394
No More Questions, 115 working on Wackatdooo
Nonambient sound effects, 403 (Dir. Benjamin Arcand), 394, 394f
No Place Like Home (Dir. Rosto) Paradise Lost trilogy, 112
about, 293 Park, Nick, 112
still from, 294f Parker, Trey, 100
Norwegian band, 77 Patsy, The (Dir. Sam Morrison), stills from 178f
Not about Us, 331 Patton, Mike, 36n

Index 439
Pencil art and digital color layers, 146f Planet Two
Pencil Test Studios, 320 character-based mograph extravaganza, 368
Perseverance Character sketches for, 366f
Andy Martin’s The Planets, 366–371 Plasticine animation, 18, 19
commitment of filmmakers, 371–375 1000 Plateaus (2004-2014) (Dir. Steven
obstacles to production, 376–380 Woloshen)
Personal work, 107 release of, 55
PES, animator, 172 still from, 54f, 55f
Pesapane, Adam, 237 Platforms to independent animation
Peterson, James, 118 group effort, 262–269
Phantom Limb (Dir. Alex Grigg) new perspectives, 269–277
about, 4f, 193 overview, 255–258
Alex’s contribution to, 360–361 remodeling, 258–262
character designs for, 193f PLUG & PLAY (Dir. Michael Frei)
character sketch, 360f about, 331, 332f
color boards by Colin Bigelow, 194f still from, 332f
end result of, 197 PLUG & PLAY app
excerpts from storyboard, 362f concept sketches, 334
notes on, 197f prototyping interactive, 337f
production spreadsheet, 196f in Unity, constructing interactive, 335f,
still from, 361f 336f
Phelps, Sarah, 174 Plympton, Bill, 13, 91
Phone Home, 277 animating “Thug” from Cheatin’, 144f
Photoshop, 65, 161, 360 animation to final film comparison, 152f
Picking, Jonti, 78, 95, 95f blog of, 150
Pierre Poire Productions, 125 own thoughts on matter of distribution, 421
Pixar, 424 Poe’s law, 214
Pixar Animation Studios, 32 Point-and-click games, 325
Pixilation film, 44 Polanski, Roman, 36
Placeholder voices, 222 Portal (video game), 347
Planet Eight Postproduction work, 182
still from, 379f Preadolescent characterization of children, 220
Planet Eleven Preproduction, importance of, 305
character cutouts and still from, 371f Pre-Raphaelite composition of kids, 216
inhabited by frantic alien cyclopes, 367 Puppet animation, 84, 166
Planet Five
Q
cover image, 370f
Planet Nine Quasi-robotic characters, 350
character concepts for, 367f Quest (Dir. Tyron Montgomery, 1996), 205
destructive, childlike superheroes QuickTime files, 249, 259
in, 367
R
Planet One
character sketches and still from, 369f Radclyffe, Dan, 51
Planets, The (Dir. Andy Martin), 3f, 276, Ralph Donald
366–371, 379 by Rauch Brothers Animation, 158f
Planet Six Ratatouille (2007), 32
Claymation society in, 367 Rauch, Mike, 113, 114f, 116f
stop-motion animation for, 365f Rauch, Tim, 113, 114f, 116f
Planet Twelve Rauch Bros., 158
still from, 393 Real life and animation filmmaking, 240

440 Index
Rebuttal (Dir. Steven Woloshen) S
about, 415
Salad Fingers (2004–2013), 97
manipulated footage from Bill Plympton’s
Sapporo Film Festival, in Japan, 71
Your Face, 416f
Sausage (Dir. Robert Grieves)
Recording equipment, 401
about character, 48
Reiniger, Lotte, 136
about film, 44
Rejection of film, risk of, 412–414
audience, 48
Ren and Stimpy, 94
backgrounds before and after coloring/
Repulsion (1965), by Roman Polanski, 36
texturing, 202f
Rickenbach, Mario von, 333
character design sheets demonstrating
Ringer, The (Dir. Chris Shepherd)
poses and actions, 50f
about, 284, 286
duration of, 47
still from, 287f, 288f
early sketches, 47
Risehigh (Dir. Adam Wells), 256f
lobby card art, 45
about, 10f
original storyboard excerpts, 46
CG sets constructed in cinema 4D for, 352f
revised storyboard excerpt, 49f
shot render, 349f
still from, 51f, 389f, 391f
still from, 353f
Vimeo Staff Pick/Cartoon Brew and Short
Rocket Science (Dir. Sam Morrison)
of Week Picks of Day, 250f
about characters, 13–15
Savlonic music video, The Driver, 80f
character sketches/concept for, 14f
Scanline VFX, 311
feedback, 16, 18
Schroeder, Tom
illustration, 15f
hand-drawn animator, 117
lobby card design, 16f
Schulman, Ariel, 112
Rocket Science trilogy, 177, 191
Science of Stage Fright, The, 65
Rocks in my Pockets (Dir. Signe Baumane)
Script revision, 60
about, 7f, 138
Scriptwriting, 29
background elements for, 142f
Secrecy, 122
backgrounds for character animation
Selection of music, 388–392
reference, 143f
Self-funding, 162; see also Funding
demonstrating 2D character animation
Self-sufficiency, as musician, 392–399
against constructed backgrounds,
Selick, Henry, 162
144f
Separation, The, 198
exposure sheet, 151f
Service deal, 421
poster, 135
Sesame Street, 98
script excerpt with notes on timing, 139f
Shepherd, Chris, 67, 284
still from, 149f, 422
Short films, 13
thumbnail boards to final stills comparison,
at Wonky, 257
147f
Short-form animation, 135
Roof Sex (Dir. PES)
Show Me Animation app, 256–257, 256f
about, 237
Shrigley, David, 67–68
still from, 238f
Silent comedy, 104
Room on the Broom, 61
Simon’s Cat, 101, 167
Rosto, 227
crowdfunding campaign image, 110f
works of, 289
decals perks for Off to the Vet backers, 172
Rosto project, 156, 157
long-running series, 110f
Rotoscoping for A-ha’s Take On Me, 74
plush reward for Off to the Vet backers,
Rumpus Animation, 323, 371
169f
Bristol-based studio, 74
success on Indiegogo, 169
Rush, Geoffrey, 230

Index 441
Singing Christmas Hedgehogs, 107 Spohr compositions, 206
about, 338 Spot coloring in Mary & Max, 342f
interactive experience of, 339 Standout animation, 245–248
one possible outcome for, 338f State Orchestra of Kassel, 212
Sita Sings the Blues (Dir. Nina Paley) Steadman, Alison, 225
about, 137–138 Stearns, Jeff Chiba; see also One Big Hapa Family
demonstrating the variety of design and and animation meditation, 127
animation styles, 141f attitude, 129
feedback, 148 Canadian animator and documentarian, 127
poster, 1137f for collaborative effort, 262
Sketchbook Archives, 166, 321 follow-up to Yellow Sticky Notes, 128f
Sketchtravel, 32 views on animation, 127
Skit show, animated, 98 Steed, Katie, 59f, 225f
Skwigly, 112 Steele, Jason, 102
Sledgehammer (Dir. Stephen R. Johnson), 74 Stellmach, Thomas, 205, 210f, 301
Slurpy Studios, 58, 59, 225, 406 Stereoscopic motionride movie, 310
Snowball effect, 156–161 Stereoscopy
Snowden, Alison, 265f as driving force of film’s conception
Social media and execution, 310–315
animators and, 96 interview with filmmaking collective
for communication, 149–154 The Outpost, 303–310
for directly soliciting funds, 170 overview, 300–303
experimenting with, 273 Stone, Matt, 100
Social messages in animation, 18 Stop-motion animation, 184, 282, 365f
Solondz, Todd, 230 Stop-motion film, 43, 44, 74
Sondhi, Jason, 249, 258 StoryCorps, 115, 116, 158
Sound Story development
construction, approaches to, 399–401 character development, 14–18
designers, 396 character-driven approach, 13–14
with editing, 401 combined approach, 25–29
effects, externally-sourced, 402f messages of story, 18–25
Source material overview, 11–13
adaptations Story From North America (Dir. Garrett
The Fearsome Beastie, 58–61, 58f Michael Davis/Kirsten Lepore), 160,
The Gruffalo’s Child, 61–62 160f, 161
like-mindedness/creative partnership, about, 87
67–71 still from, 89f, 90f
Love in the Time of March Madness (2014), Straight Outta Lynwood, 92
creative aspects of, 62–67 Streaming HD content, 94
overview, 57 Stressful Adventures of Boxhead and
South Park, 100 Roundhead, The (Dir. Elliot Cowan)
Space Invaders, 241 about, 222
Speed Demon (Dir. Will Vinton), 74 still from, 222f
Spider Song, The, 87 Strickland, Peter, 400
Spiral, 414 Student filmmaker, 388
Spirit of Christmas, 100 Student films, 44
Splintertime (Dir. Rosto), 5f, 294 Student short, 184, 185
about, 157, 293 Studio pipeline, advantage of, 188
still from, 157f, 418 Stuttgart Animated Film Festival, 414

442 Index
Submarine Sandwich (Dir. PES) Trilogy, 13, 14
about project, 172 Tsutsumi, Dice
backer rewards, 176f as art director, 32
concept artwork, 241f The Dam Keeper early development drawing
crowdfunding promo image, 173f by, 33f
poster, 244f Tune, The, 135, 136
still from, 177, 235f, 237f, 242
U
Sweet Dreams, 43, 44, 90
Swinging Safari, 389 Uncle, 184
Uncle in 1996, 18
T
United Kingdom’s Encounters Festival, 246
Take On Me (Dir. Steve Barron), 74
V
Tandem and Prism Entertainment, 102
Taylor, Sam, 269 Video game, 318, 347
Taylor, Terry, 390 Video on demand, 421
Teat Beat of Sex (Dir. Signe Baumane) Vimeo, video website, 249, 250
about, 124–127 Vimeo Staff Pick, 331
poster, 125f Viral film, 107
success of, 134 Virtual reality (VR) headset, 300
Technical realities, trial and error, 327–328 Virtuos Virtuell (Dir. Thomas Stellmach/Maja
Technology, accessibility of, 188 Oschmann)
Technology and economy, 2 about, 205
Teen Girl Squad, 97 concept sketch, 206f, 207f, 208f
Teeth (Dir. Tom Brown/Daniel Gray), 216 cover art for DVD/BluRay, sold via film’s
from Holbrooks Films, 226 website, 424f
poster art, 217f exhibit, 301f
still from, 217f, 218f, 226f, 376f stereoscopic test footage, 302
TenNapel, Doug, 165–167, 319–323 still from, 156f, 303
on music composition, 390 Visual effects (VFX) studio production, 312
Testolin, Lindsay, 119 Visual script, 110
The Circle Line, 344 Visual storyteller
Thee Wreckers, 293 abstractions, 51–56
The Goddamn George Liquor Program (1997), 94 idea generation, 42–44
The Gruffalo (Dir. Jakob Schuh and Max Lang), nightmare visions, 36–42
60 scenes/narrative animation, 44–51
The Human Voice, 115 works of Dice Tsutsumi, 32–36
The Patsy (Dir. Sam Morrison), 17f works of Robert Kondo, 32–36
The Planets, 392 Voiced incarnations of Boxhead and
The Separation (2003), 36 Roundhead, 223
Thomas Beale Cipher, The, 249 Voice for kids, 225
365 (Dir. Brothers McLeod) Voice-over (VO) for project, working days
still from, 275f, 276f, 277f, 397f required, 229
Timed audio, 402–403 Voice performer, 225–226
Time required for creating animation, 134 Vollenbroek, Tünde, 252–253
Tofield, Simon, 101, 109
W
T.o.m. (2006), 215
Tourette’s syndrome, 25 Wackatdooo (Dir. Benjamin Arcand), 1f
Toy Story 3, 22, 32 about, 352–358
Transformers, 109 animatic sketch, 357f

Index 443
background layout by Benjamin Arcand/ Wildebeest (Dir. Ant Blades)
background painted by Edith Lebel, about, 105
356f stages of production for, 106f
character animation, 393f Williams, Ken, 318
demonstrating impactful use of color Williams, Robert, 318
during sequence in, 355f Williams, Simon, 47
jump sequence, 358f Williamson, Peter, 371
poster, 354f Willy meets Virgil (voiced by Tom Waits)
production of, 354f in The Monster of Nix (Dir. Rosto),
still from, 358f, 394f, 395f 339f
Waits, om, 228 Wind of Share, 213
Walk, The (Dir. Robert Zemeckis), 303 Wizard and the Princess (1980), 318
Walker, Matt, 189–190, 189f Wobble Box, 98
Walker, Matthew, 25; see also Astronauts; Woloshen, Steven
John and Karen; Operator Canadian experimental film artist, 51
Waltz With Bashir, 134 documentaries by, 53
War Story, 113 film making, 52–53
Watworth, Lizzie, 226 formative years of, 51–52
Waveform and “pop” in soundtrack, 402, 403f making of 1000 Plateaus (2004-2014),
Webisodic 54–55, 54f, 55f
animation on web, overview, 94 making of When the Sun Turns into Juice,
Chapman brothers’, 97 54
ideas and characters, 98 scratching on film, 52f
independent webtoons, popularity of, 97 Wonky films, 257
metaphysical universes within universes, 97 Wood, Aaron, 225, 406
viral short, 100–110 Work ethic, 197–201
Webtoons, life in, 95–97 World of Tomorrow, 417
Web series, 101 World Stare-out Championship Finals, The,
Websites of festival listings, 408 67–68
Webtoons, 97 Worst Speeches of All Time, The, 62
Weebl, 79, 80 Wray, Bill, 115, 159
Weebl and Bob shorts
Y
about, 96
online animation superstars, 96f Yankovic, Weird Al, 92
Wells, Adam, 12 Yellow Sticky Notes, 127
Werzinski, Florian, 310 Yellow Sticky Notes: Canadian Anijam
West, Kanye, 91 Chris Hinton (with assistant) works on, 266
Western Spaghetti (Dir. PES) Cordell Barker works on, 265f
about, 174, 238, 239 David Fine and Alison Snowden work on,
still from, 239f 265f
still rom, 397f online collaboration for, 266
When the Sun Turns into Juice (Dir. Steven poster, 264f
Woloshen) Your Face, 91
making of, 54 Oscar nomination, 135
still from, 53f YouTube, 99, 102, 107, 338
Who I Am and What I Want (Dir. Chris
Z
Shepherd/David Shrigley)
about, 68 Zambrano, Robertino, 62, 63, 123
still from, 68f, 69f, 70f Zombie Street, 98
Why We Got the Sack From the Museum, 68 Zurich University of the Arts, 333

444 Index

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Independent Animation

Uploaded by

Independent Animation

Uploaded by

INDEPENDENT

Boca Raton London New York

CRC Press is an imprint of the

© 2017 by Taylor & Francis Group, LLC

No claim to original U.S. Government works

Printed on acid-free paper

International Standard Book Number-13: 978-1-138-85572-4 (Paperback)

Library of Congress Cataloging‑in‑Publication Data

Names: Mitchell, Ben, 1983- author.

Visit the Taylor & Francis Web site at

and the CRC Press Web site at

Recommended Further Reading 427

Wackatdooo (Dir. Benjamin Arcand). (Courtesy of Benjamin Arcand, ©2014.)

What Exactly Is “Independent Animation”?

I think it could be summarized as filmmaking without the commercial or financial con-

Risehigh (Dir. Adam Wells). (Courtesy of Adam Wells, ©2013.)

To some, story development can be broken down as a methodical process, predicated on

The Character-Driven Approach

In substitution of a writer’s bible, the universe of the films is largely predicated on

Telling the Harder Truths

* Source: Mary and Max press kit.

John: "And your swimming! I didn 't mean

32 3. The Visual Storyteller

34 3. The Visual Storyteller

36 3. The Visual Storyteller

38 3. The Visual Storyteller

40 3. The Visual Storyteller

42 3. The Visual Storyteller

Returning to the Scene

* Vimeo synopsis, Sausage (Dir. Robert Grieves).

44 3. The Visual Storyteller

46 3. The Visual Storyteller

48 3. The Visual Storyteller

50 3. The Visual Storyteller

52 3. The Visual Storyteller

54 3. The Visual Storyteller

56 3. The Visual Storyteller

58 4. Consider the Source

60 4. Consider the Source

62 4. Consider the Source

64 4. Consider the Source

66 4. Consider the Source

68 4. Consider the Source

70 4. Consider the Source

Still from Dub of a Preacherman. (Courtesy of Rumpus Animation, ©2011.)

74 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

76 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

78 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

80 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

82 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

84 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

86 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

5. The Beat of a Different Drum

90 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

Playing with the Majors

92 5. The Beat of a Different Drum

The Virility of Virality

100 6. Going Webisodic

Independent Animation 101

* Skwigly—An Interview with Ant Blades of Birdbox Studio: http://www.skwigly.co.uk/ant-blades-birdbox/

102 6. Going Webisodic

Independent Animation 103

104 6. Going Webisodic

Independent Animation 105

106 6. Going Webisodic

* Skwigly—Ant Blades Launches His Latest Short Carpark: http://www.skwigly.co.uk/ant-blades-carpark/

Independent Animation 107

108 6. Going Webisodic

Independent Animation 109

110 6. Going Webisodic

112 7. The Animated Documentarian

Independent Animation 113

114 7. The Animated Documentarian

Independent Animation 115

116 7. The Animated Documentarian

Independent Animation 117