Why Do Animated Movies Have So Many Talking Animals?
Updated: 7 days ago
Mickey Mouse. Bugs Bunny. Simba. Nemo. Po. Remy. Judy Hopps.
Animation has spent the better part of a century turning animals into movie stars. They talk. They fall in love. They raise families. They get jobs. They cook. They practice kung fu. Some of them even wear trousers.
But why do so many animated movies use talking animals?
The obvious answer is that audiences like them, but that reasoning, as they say, is putting the cart before the horse.
The answer lies in the flexibility that animals give storytellers.
Why Use an Animal Instead of a Human Character?
Consider Ratatouille.
Remy wants to become a chef. Pixar could theoretically have told a story about a young human who is supremely unqualified to work in a prestigious Paris restaurant.
But making Remy a rat transforms the idea.
A rat doesn't merely lack the qualifications to work in a restaurant. A rat is one of the last creatures anybody wants to discover in one. Remy's species creates the central contradiction of the movie: he has the talent and passion to belong in the kitchen, yet is biologically disqualified from entering it. It's a brilliant way for the filmmaker to explore the classic 'don't judge a book by its cover' theme in the most universal way possible.
The same principle works differently in Kung Fu Panda.
Po desperately wants to become a great kung fu warrior, but he's a large, clumsy panda surrounded by sleek, highly trained fighters. His physical nature is part of the joke, but it also becomes part of his journey of self-discovery and overcoming self-doubt. Something we all hope we can do one day.
Then there's Judy Hopps in Zootopia.
Making her a rabbit gives the filmmakers something a generic human character wouldn't provide. Other characters make assumptions about her because she's small and belongs to a species associated with timidity and vulnerability. Judy's determination to become a police officer immediately runs counter to those expectations. Like Remy in Ratatouille, Judy struggles to overcome others' low expectations, making her an underdog (underrabbit?) we cheer for.
Clearly, animals arrive in films with baggage. Lions seem powerful. Foxes have a reputation for cunning. Rabbits appear vulnerable. Turtles are slow. Dogs are loyal. Cats are independent. Rats are dirty. These are all useful preconceptions that filmmakers can exaggerate or deliberately turn on their heads to help the audience connect emotionally with the characters. And if you succeed in making that connection, people will love your movie and recommend it to their friends.
How Human Should an Animated Animal Be?
There's no single answer, and that's part of what makes animal characters so useful.
Finding Nemo keeps much of its world recognizably aquatic. The characters talk and behave emotionally like people, but they're still fish navigating reefs, currents, predators and aquariums.
The Lion King goes further into human behavior. Its lions have family relationships, political struggles, succession disputes and moral responsibilities, but Pride Rock is still an animal kingdom rather than a human society with paws attached.
Ratatouille creates an interesting divide. Remy thinks and feels like a person and understands human culture, but the fact that he's physically a rat remains essential to almost every problem he faces.
Then Zootopia pushes anthropomorphism much further. Its animals have jobs, clothes, transport systems, bureaucracy and technology. The entire human world has effectively been rebuilt around different species.
None of those approaches is inherently better than another. What matters is consistency and purpose.
If an animal suddenly behaves like an animal whenever the plot needs it and like a human whenever that's more convenient, audiences may start noticing the machinery. But when filmmakers establish the rules properly, we tend to accept almost anything.
Apparently, even a rat can control a chef by pulling his hair.
CATSAWAY: When Does a Cat Need to Behave Like a Cat?
Some of these questions arose while screenwriter Phil Parker was developing CATSAWAY, an animated feature project by Emirati filmmaker Fadel AlMheiri.
Fadel came to Phil with a short concept and rough character sketches of street cats in Abu Dhabi. Phil's job was to take that early material and develop it into a 30-page feature-film treatment.
That meant the cats obviously needed the things movie characters need: personalities, relationships, desires, conflicts and choices. An audience has to understand what they want and care about whether they get it.
But they're still cats. And that matters.
If Phil gave them completely human behavior, human problems, and human solutions, and then simply drew whiskers and tails on them, he'd be throwing away one of the premise's most interesting aspects.
Their size matters. Their physical abilities matter. Their vulnerability in a human city matters. Their relationship with people matters. The way they move through Abu Dhabi is fundamentally different from how a human character would.
That's where the best animated animal characters find their sweet spot. They become human enough for us to understand them without becoming so human that their species no longer matters.
Remy has to be a rat.
Judy Hopps has to be a rabbit.
Nemo has to be a fish.
And the heroes of CATSAWAY have to be cats.
Otherwise, why not just write humans?
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