But the strong feminist themes of the series are built on a foundation of political contradictions. The most fantastic element of the show is not that ponies can talk or that dragons exist; it is the illusion that an egalitarian society can be maintained among groups with massive biologically inherent gaps in ability and economic utility. By even the most cursory of sociological and economic analyses, the society in MLP: FiM should be highly stratified along class and racial lines. And there are clear signs of that stratification, except they are obscured by a propagandistic focus on the power of “friendship”.
Solidarity is Illusion: The Political Economy of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
>Catena Ex Situ
What if I told you they were preparing us for the future? What if I told you Pixar’s films will affect how we define the rights of millions, perhaps billions, in the coming century? Only by analyzing the collection as a whole can we see the subliminal concept being drilled into our collective mind. I have uncovered the skeleton key deciphering the hidden message contained within the Pixar canon. Let’s unlock it.
Now here’s an overanalyzation! Written by bona fide Drs. Robert Patterson (general surgeon) and Charles Weijer (bioethicist) in 1998, it’s a comparison of the methodology and practical philosophy of Springfield’s most prominent medical professionals. Published in the Canadian Medical Association Journal, no less! Exclamation point!
I’m afraid Dr. Marvin Monroe isn’t considered one of Springfield’s most prominent medical professionals. But Dr. Julius Hibbert is:
Deeper analysis, however, reveals that Hibbert is no Semmelweiss. He treats the health care system like his personal cash cow by taking time to talk to his patients and distributing lollipops to children. No wonder the US system is so expensive. Worse yet, he stocks his office with patient education materials that either contain value judgements or are poorly written.
Bonus points for a Semmelweiss reference. Of course, the other prominent medical professional is Dr. Riviera:
…he’s no shill for the medical establishment. Knowing that physicians’ fees are the real cause of the health care funding crisis, Dr. Nick produced a TV ad in which he offered to do any surgical procedure for just $129.95 (Can$193.95 at time of writing [Can$140.87 today. -Ed.]). Cost-effective and consumer conscious, Riviera would never let quality of care interfere with discount-rate fees.
Topical!
An analysis of the medical care provided to the family of Homer J. Simpson
> Catena Ex Situ
[Editor's Note: I found this Ex Situ via the indispensable The Disney Blog.]
Mr. Michial Farmer at Ladder on Wheels has written an excellent two-parter about themes of darkness and anxiety in Disney and Pixar movies (including Up). It’s practically a survey of disturbing things in Disney and Pixar movies. The first part is all about how dark the early Disney features were, and how they lost some of that darkness after (roughly) World War II:
…All of the early Disney features—for our purposes, let’s define “early” as prewar, which would allow us to work with Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Pinocchio, Fantasia, Dumbo, and Bambi—are shiny and beautifully drawn, but all of their prettiness only serves to hide the deep, existential dread at their cores.
While Mr. Farmer has a good point, I do think he neglects some of the darker imagery of The Rescuers, The Black Cauldron, The Lion King, or even Lilo & Stitch. Though the darkness in these films isn’t quite as fundamental or thematic as most of the pre-WWII examples he gives.
His second part is all about how Pixar’s stories are successful partly because they have embraced those mature themes which have been largely absent from the post-war Disney films. Here’s part of his discussion of Finding Nemo:
Finding Nemo, on the other hand, begins with a reference to and amplification of the central terror in Bambi. Here Marlin’s wife dies a terrible death just as they’re planning their life together, and the Barrucuda who eats her also goes ahead and takes out all but one of her eggs. Marlin—understandably, although the film doesn’t seem to acknowledge that!—becomes a picture of anxiety, protecting his disabled son (a nod to Dumbo, though Nemo doesn’t get the brutal mocking that his elephantine counterpart does) from the world that took his wife with little to no warning.
It’s very true that Pixar does not shy away from including more sophisticated and mature themes. It’s certainly part of the reason why Pixar movies resonate strongly with both kids and adults. Pixar also does not make the mistake (common among the filmgoing public) of mistaking “dark/edgy” for “dark/mature.” A lot of cartoon and comic fans seem to think it validates their love of the artform if disturbing stuff is haphazardly included, whether or not it actually adds anything symbolically or thematically. Pixar probably learned its lesson after that first disastrous “edgy” draft of Toy Story.
It seems to me rather easy to claim one’s writing to be Freudian by simply peppering with “id,” “ego,” and “superego,” and perhaps throwing in “cigar” or two. This is much in the same way that episodes of BraveStarr can be repurposed into Law & Order scripts by replacing all musical cues with “chung-chung” and/or Jerry Orbach.
So I am unqualified to testify as to the verisimilitude of the following Ex Situ, which is a review of The Cat in the Hat that appeared in The Koala, the student humor magazine of UCSD.
After pooh-poohing the righteous rantings of the waterlogged Christ figure, the Cat begins to juggle several icons of Western culture, most notably two books, representing the Old and New Testaments, and a saucer of lactal fluid, an ironic reference to maternal loss the two children experienced when their mother abandoned them “for the afternoon.” Our heroic Id adds to this bold gesture a rake and a toy man, and thus completes the Oedipal triangle.
So what’s the deal with Sugar Bear (you know, that seemingly cute character that always terrorizes his victims by chanting the “you can’t get enough of that Golden Crisp” jingle), is he a good guy or a bad guy? While the traditional response is that he’s a good guy, I propose that he is pure evil. He’s constantly stealing the cereal from Granny Goodwitch, and doesn’t her name suggest that she’s a “good witch?” She goes all the way back to the old wild west in an attempt to escape him, but he’s always there, he’s always one step ahead, waiting to crush the hopes and dreams of an old lady. And if he is a good guy, is this encouraging kids to steal? - Contributed by Joshua L.
Hmm, actually Sugar Bear has constantly walked the line between good and evil. In all of his early commercials he was that defender and not the aggressor. Alligators and other animals would constantly try to steel his Super Golden Crisp and he would eat it and smack them around (think Popeye with cereal). But in his more recent commercials he does indeed steel cereal from Granny Goodwitch, so the question is, what caused Sugar Bear to fall from grace? -Contributed by Karmacide
Reading this stuff about Sugar Bear’s transformation from good guy to bad made me think that this change was brought about by society’s view of sugar! Originally, the cereal was known as Post Super Sugar Crisp. Somewhere in the 1980′s, society decided that all things sugar were bad (note that Tony the Tiger once sold “Sugar Frosted Flakes”). Sugar was demonized, and dropped from the names of cereals everywhere – Kellogg’s Corn Pops and Honey Smacks were once Sugar Pops and Sugar Smacks – thus the transformation to Super Golden Crisp. Unable to change the name of an established and possibly possible character, the powers that be probably changed the animated ursine’s personality traits to make them more in line with the view of sugar in American society. - Contributed by Rich S.
Actually (at the risk of dating myself) Sugar Bear was part of a trilogy of cartoons that used to run on ABC in the late 60s/early 70s (?). He appeared in his own episode along with a postman that represented another Post cereal, Alpha-bits, and a lion that represented yet another cereal I have forgotten. In his cartoon, he was a good character. - Contributed by Ken G.
We are thankful here at J. Cart. Overanal.: thankful that a picture is worth a thousand words.
Take, exempli gratia, this still from A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving (1973 C.E.):
Two immediate items of note:
Linus Van Pelt, acting in his customary role as spiritual leader, is sitting at the head of the table.
Franklin, the sole African-American member of the Peanuts ensemble, is sitting all by himself on one side of the table.
Here is a passable video of the sequence, including anightmarish Guaraldi-seasoned tête-à-tête between Snoopy and a beach chair:
The scene in question is, in fact, somewhat questionable itself: the numbers of chairs and servings fluctuate throughout, giving the meal a disorientating Kubrickian quality. This produces in the scene a sense of unease and tension which reflects the viewers’ discomfort at the casual racism on display. Indeed, Franklin is seated in the malicious beach chair, which humiliatingly places him at an eye level below that of the others.
Though this segregation is not limited to racial issues only: Marcie, though eccentric and possessing of an ambiguous sexuality, is caucasian enough to be allowed to remain close to the rest, but is still seated at the end towards the left side of the table. Linus chooses to seat Marcie as far away from himself as possible, separated from the larger group by the dog. Indeed, the beagle is deemed a more fit companion than any heterodox humans. (Though, perhaps Snoopy is allowed to sit with the elite in due respect for his cooking prowess. It is also noted that Snoopy, in an act of defiant compassion, serves Marcie and Franklin first.) Furthermore, to extrapolate, the only characters exempted which could reasonably join the table next are the obsessive-compulsive Schroeder, the filthy Pig Pen, or the unloved and sadistic Lucy, who, if arriving late, would be forced to sit in one of the chairs next to Franklin and Marcie. Thus, the entire left side of the table would be relegated to odd, unhygienic misfits and belligerent, racial outcasts.
The characters are not evil: Peppermint Patty shows genuine remorse for embarrassing and bullying Charlie Brown, and Linus is often a beacon of compassion and temperance. But the point is made: the virus of casual discrimination is insidious and unaware, and can manifest itself at an early age.
Nota bene: this troubling issue uncovered via Super Punch >Catena Ex Situ
Has anyone else noticed how the main villains in both Aladdin and The Lion King look like Jonathan Harris, the actor who portrayed Doctor Smith on the TV show Lost in Space?
-Contributed by Ora S.
Popeye seems to be a curious meld of Zen and absurdist philosophies. The Zen nature of Popeye is obvious: “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.” Popeye sees himself as existing neither in contrast nor comparison to any other entity, he simply is. His relationship with Olive Oyl can be read as absurdist. In many episodes, Olive willingly leaves Popeye for Bluto (or Brutus). Popeye goes to great lengths to “rescue” her when the relationship goes bad. The memory of these rescues never impresses Olive because we know she will leave Popeye again and again need to be rescued. (“Who are we waiting for? We are waiting for Godot.” Repeat ad infinitum.)
-Contributed by Chris B.
In Muppet Babies, I feel there are two main reasons why Nanny was only shown from the knees down. These are: 1. to make a running gag 2. to make the show seem to be even more from a child’s point of view.
-Contributed by The Editor
Of course this is pointless, but I used to notice frequently on Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids that if they were chasing a member of their group, the ensuing crowd of pursuers would also include the one who was being chased. For instance, if Rudy had committed some offense and Fat Albert and the gang chased him across that junk yard, Rudy would also be in the crowd that was chasing him! C’mon guys, spend a half-hour and ink a new cel.
-Contributed by Ken G.
What is the concept of Pokemon? People capture these wild animals, and use them to battle other people who engage in this activity with a hope to have the strongest creatures and the title of “Pokemon Master.” Now let’s pretend this is real. You would go out and capture wild creatures and force them to fight each other. Now aren’t cockfights and dogfights illegal? And if animals were smart enough to do what they were told, I think most people wouldn’t want to do such a horrible things to them! When you think about it, the whole concept of Pokemon is wrong and evil. So I think. -Contributed by Xwonka
[Editor's Note: This article was submitted in 2001, but was never added to the site.]
Contributed by Bess G.
Even as a child, I found it curious that I sympathized with Jerry in the Tom and Jerry cartoons, while rooting for Coyote in the Roadrunner and Coyote cartoons. The premises of the cartoons were similar, were they not? Desperate carnivore fruitlessly pursues cute prey. Why did I cheer when Jerry got the best of Tom, but share Coyote’s frustration when he was yet again thwarted by Roadrunner?
I think I’ve figured it out.
Jerry is more than just cute. He is smart, resourceful, brave, and kind to friends and family who occasionally drop by. He may tease Tom from time to time, but usually we see him acting in self-defense to protect his home and his life. We like him. We don’t exactly hate Tom. He’s merely acting on basic cat instinct. But it’s always satisfying to see him get what’s coming to him for picking on Jerry. It isn’t Jerry, after all, who thought it would be a good idea to run around the house with a loaded rifle, or rig up a bunch of explosives in the living room. Tom gets hurt through his own foolishness. And he has no real reason to persecute Jerry other than his own petty malice. Sure he may get swatted on the rear with a broom, or get put outside for the night, but that’s not so bad in the grand scheme of things, especially compared to what he had in mind for a decent fellow like Jerry.
Coyote, on the other hand, is in a desperate situation. He and Roadrunner appear to be the only living organisms (besides cacti) in the vast desert expanse they inhabit. If Coyote wants dinner, Roadrunner is his only option. The cartoon takes place entirely from Coyote’s perspective. We see the painstaking research and planning that go into his intricate Roadrunner traps. We see his utter conviction that this time his plan will work. We see the pathetic fear on his face as he plummets yet again from that blasted cliff. We identify with these feelings. Roadrunner, on the other hand, is barely a character. He merely runs around, pausing occasionally for some bird seed, with a vacant expression in his eyes. He never exhibits fear, or relief, or joy, or cunning, or bravery. He is one of the least “human” animated characters I can think of. Why should I feel sorry if Coyote gets him?
Posted by The Editor 
