An Ostrich Told Me the World is Fake and I Think I Believe It, or Animation, Life and Flux

RESEARCH STATEMENT

Neil is bewildered. Painfully aware of his own fabrication, his facetiousness and conceit, Neil traverses the nether-world between sentience and zilch / nothing / the gaping chasm of his in-animacy. Such is the awful truth of any self-aware animation character. Better not to know.

Neil is the protagonist of independent animator Lachlan Pendragon’s doctoral film An Ostrich Told Me the World is Fake and I Think I Believe It (2021). Pendragon’s research is about testing the degree to which he can push reflexive elements, meta-narrative strategies, nods and winks to the audience, while retaining enough suspension of disbelief, enough investment in character and plot, to keep the audience engaged, and along for the ride. Pendragon prods at the membrane between the illusion of life and its backend mechanics, but only so as much as not to upturn the whole apple-cart; and sad to say, mostly at Neil’s expense.

Excruciatingly bored at his job of selling toasters over the phone (“They come in white, and um... off... white ...?”), Neil notices cracks appearing in the world around him. His boss’ lower face pops off momentarily as he berates Neil for his poor sales, while the view from the office window glitches green, and poor old Gav, Neil’s only confidant, appears to have no lower half at all. Such are the mechanics and expediencies of low budget stop motion animation.

Exhausted by these challenges to his sanity, and by no means distracted by the demands of his job, Neil falls asleep at his cubicle, as the rest of the office departs for home. He wakes and makes for the lift, only to be confronted by the unlikely sight of a pink ostrich levelling up. After the initial shock and surprise, a conversation ensues in the dim office ambience, with the ostrich advising Neil about the fabricated nature of his universe: “It’s a shamm…”

As supervisors of this research project, Louise Harvey and Peter Moyes are of course hugely proud of Lachlan’s achievements. We remain amused at its droll humour; our sympathy for Neil is unabated after repeated viewings. But why? It is the aim of this research statement to unpack this surprisingly complex character and reflect on its role in unpicking the fabric of Animation, and by extension, life’s illusory veil.

Neil operates on a number of levels ... actually: three. The first, at the narrative level, has Neil as a hapless character, who probably still lives with his mother, is gentle, unassuming, a lovable loser. Neil probably should have left his job a long, long time ago, to follow his real passion for archaeology, or trains, or butterflies, but lacked the confidence and gumption. We tend to like this kind of Neil, happy we’re not him. We feel pity.

Second level Neil is reflexive, providing entrée into the back end of animation, giving us back-stage access to the wheels and cogs of the animated universe. We’re hanging in the green room, with the (umm... hip?) animators. Our enjoyment is in seeing the trick played out, the craft, the performance; we feel a certain privilege, a belonging, from being in the know… a kind of swagger.

And the third operator is existential Neil. Close kin to reflexive Neil, existential Neil has us thinking ... perhaps too much. Indeed, you have to dig a little deeper for existential Neil, but ultimately it is this Neil that most subtly, and powerfully, engages us as he clicks into some pretty fundamental thoughts, feelings, concerns about the nature of us, our being, and the flip-side: our non-being. As Neil stares at the green glitching scenery through the office window, as he falls into a tray of his own faces, as he desperately tries to prise the dumbfounded look off dear Gav, we too are facing our own mortality. As we look beyond the veil of the illusion of life, of moments strung together by a determined ego preoccupied with daily distractions, by habitual hum drum, some see (hope for) white light, others infinite darkness, while Neil sees the limits of the set, finds an armature stuck up his arse, and is confronted with many more Neils, should a leg fall off in production or a grimace get stuck. Poor Neil. Poor us. In our (shared) fear, and recognition, as a last resort... we laugh.

Animation is an excellent allegory, explanatory apparatus (?), a performance (?), of the flux of life. Animation’s fundamental paradox is that it exists only in its transience, its going by... only in movement is there (the illusion of) “life.” The real bits, the tangible assets, each participating unit, are in and of themselves, lifeless. Life is only in the movement, the bits passing, ungraspable. Life (liveliness) is in the gutters, between the frames. In (trying to) hold onto the physical, we stifle and stem the flow, but ultimately to no avail. Life slips through our fingers like water, like animation. Until those discreet images are run past our eyes, past our perception, they amount to very little, they only have meaning, coherence in flux, in passing, in their performance. Like music.

In Animation – Process, Cognition and Actuality, Dan Torre applies process-based philosophies to his interrogations of Animation towards a more inclusive and “fuller understanding of the form” (2017, 8). Torre refers to Rescher in describing process philosophy as a “discourse that envisions process as a fundamental aspect of everything that exists, that places emphasis on the concepts of time and flux, diminishing the importance of material objects” (1996, 7). Further, Torre explains that processual philosophy regards the world in terms of verbs rather than nouns: “A river, for example, is conceived, not as an object, but as an ‘endless and uninterrupted flow’” (8). With reference to Deleuze (1987), Torre observes that “all things are continuously becoming other, and within this concept it is difficult to recognise any one thing” (9).

The Buddhist notion of “emptiness,” as we understand it, proposes that the physical reality we so passionately invest in is, essentially, an illusion —no one thing, in and of itself, has fixedness, autonomy, persistence —us too (aargh!). Rather, we, and stuff, are all part of an interdependent tapestry/matrix/mashup, constantly arising, and only making sense in relation to the whole. Like the animation still, the motion blur, each discreet thing has no integrity, no meaning, on its lonesome own. When strung together, when viewed as a whole, some meaning can be derived, but even then, in flux, ungraspable, as ephemeral as ... animation.

Back to Neil. Having run from the clutches of the faceless animator/God, leaping off the extremities of his known world, passing through the sea of (his) faces, and surviving the extrication of aforementioned armature, Neil’s ultimate fate is to meet his maker, to be returned to the puppet cupboard along with numerous other, or same, Neils. The Neil that we have come to love, have rooted for, have journeyed with and through the various bardos, is now lost to us, indistinguishable and lifeless.

And yet, in a compassionate pay-off and curious epilogue, Pendragon re-animates Neil, or a series of Neils, as they jitter back to life via the mechanics of the zoetrope, archetypal animation apparatus. Lachlan brings Neil back from the metaphysical wastelands, and yet in presenting him in quadruplicate, his liveliness is so clearly manufactured, uncertain; our deep-seated anxieties remain unassuaged.

PEER REVIEW 1

The animation An Ostrich Told Me the World is Fake and I Think I Believe It (Pendragon 2021) is a well-crafted and engaging short film that deconstructs the filmmaker’s creative process through a highly self-reflexive and absurdist narrative. The accompanying statement seems to be written primarily by the animator’s doctoral supervisory team and connects the film’s narrative gestures to wider metaphysical discourse highlighting the world as constant flux and movements. Referring to process-based philosophies, the authors sketch out several broad concepts from Deleuze’s writing around coming to Buddhist notions of emptiness which tie in with the animation’s self-examination. The result is a thought-provoking exploration of the nature of animation and, by extension, life itself.

Neil, the animation’s inquisitive protagonist, is central to this meta narrative with his growing realisation of the maquette world serving as a parable for the illusion of life and its backend mechanics. While not referenced explicitly in the statement, this could be seen as a witty and humorous reimagining of Plato’s allegory of the cave which proposes a theory of knowledge based on distinctions between appearance and reality and is well-rehearsed in relation to cinema, for instance by Nathan Andersen (2014), Christopher Falzon (2002) and Stanley Cavell (1979). Moreover, the animation’s self-reflexive narrative stance is a strong example of “metacinema” which David LaRocca (2021, 14) describes as works that compel the audience to reflect on creation and authorship in relation to their cultural context and the history that contains it.

The animation at the heart of this research is accomplished, however its framing in the accompanying writing could more explicitly connect this work to existing scholarship in the field. At present, the statement reads like a review or critique of the short film, rather than a full scholarly explanation. While this makes for a compelling writing style, more engagement with the central question/inquiry behind the animation and clarification of its contribution to the field(s) may help to realise the potential of the project.

The statement suggests this work seeks to question the limits of reflexivity in animation and to explore the possibilities of meta-narrative elements in plot driven films that foreground audience engagement. This central question warrants further discussion and could be contextualised to a greater extent in relation to existing creative practice and ideas in the field of animation studies. For instance, Maselli (2024) gives a highly relevant account of the way recent scholarship has recognized puppets’ materiality in stop-motion films as a narrative tool. Similarly, Birgitta Hosea’s (2019) writing analyses discourses of craft and the handmade in animation production. By reflecting on this work, and specifically its unique framing techniques, the animator seems well positioned to further these debates which may provide a more specific research contribution to complement this broad suggestion of animation as flux and ephemerality through process-philosophy.

There seems to be a slight disconnect between the animation process and accompanying writing here [in the exposition of practice as research], which may be caused by the shared authorship of this submission. At present the film is explored as a narrative illustration of ideas, but a greater insight from the animator’s perspective and further contextualization of the work could help to articulate practice-research insights arising from the creative process.

PEER REVIEW 2

This submission offers multiple elements that are of interest and relevance. The subject of the short film is the story and plight of the central character Neil. Ultimately this prompts the viewer to reflect on the animation process and think about what it means for the animator to “bring a character to life.” And then what it means for the character to be brought to life.

The potential of this submission is fully realised. Indeed, I would say that it is a very difficult task to articulate with limited words a statement that fully captures what is represented in the final animated film. The short film has a “replayable” quality which is thanks to the many layers of meaning which arise from the story and unique utilisation (and elucidation) of stop motion animation.

This submission explores the unique qualities of animation (to bring something to life) by exposing its inner workings to the viewer and by exposing the central character to those same inner workings. The audience gets to see the practice of animation exposed on screen as it is weaved directly into the story.

The short film demonstrates a very high level of animation expertise and understanding. Evidence of this is articulated clearly in the statement, with links to relevant literature. 

The creative work is excellent! Animation has a legacy of short films that break the fourth wall and Lachlan Pendragon’s film carries that tradition excellently. It is a joy to watch this film multiple times and appreciate its craft, story, and characters.

The statement articulates the provocations for the work and provides literature to support it. The description of the three levels of Neil is particularly insightful. 

I have no hesitations in recommending this work for publication. 

RESPONSE TO PEER REVIEWS

Firstly, many thanks to both reviewers for their thoughtful engagement with An Ostrich Told Me the World is Fake and I Think I Believe It, or Animation, Life and Flux. We are heartened that Reviewer 2 appreciates the strictures of speaking to this project as “a very difficult task to articulate with limited words a statement that fully captures what is represented in the final animated film.” It is for this reason that we chose to take a somewhat alternative approach, as discussed below in our response to Reviewer 1. That Reviewer 2 was happy with such an approach is also affirming: “The statement articulates the provocations for the work and provides literature to support it.”

That Reviewer 1 appreciated the work as a “highly self-reflexive and absurdist narrative” and judged the results as “a thought-provoking exploration of the nature of animation and, by extension, life itself” indicates to us a strong alignment with our objectives.

Reviewer 1 is correct in assuming that the research statement was written primarily by the animator’s doctoral supervisory team, which may account for the “slight disconnect between the animation process and accompanying writing.” All three of us did have input into the research statement. However, given that the film has attracted much attention in festivals and the press, we chose to adopt a novel approach that focused on the machinations of the protagonist rather than speaking to the film’s achievements more broadly. As co-writers of the film, we have all enjoyed the irony of a very ordinary and unassuming protagonist capable of providing insight into the complexities of animation practice, and by extension, occasion for ruminating on the unfathomable operations of life itself.

The references which Reviewer 1 cites and which speak to the project’s meta-narrative frame are certainly apt; Lachlan addresses meta-narratives and reflexive animation in his forthcoming PhD dissertation. While the references to metacinema and Plato’s allegory are all welcome suggestions, Lachlan has also considered discourse like Erwin Feyersinger’s (2010) model of metalepsis in animated works and Jennifer Barker’s (2009) examination of tactility which has helped shape the project.

We believe it is in the crafting of a narrative that holds its own on the various levels we describe (i.e. narrative, reflexive and existential), that draws humour from across and betwixt these disparate realities, and that capitalises on the materiality of the stop motion technique in particular, wherein our contribution to research lies.

REFERENCES

Andersen, Nathan. 2014. Shadow Philosophy: Plato’s Cave and Cinema. Abingdon: Routledge.

Barker, Jennifer. 2009. The Tactile Eye: Touch and the Cinematic Experience. Berkeley: University of California Press.

Cavell, Stanley. 1979. The World Viewed: Reflections on the Ontology of Film. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.

Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. 1987. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press.

Falzon, Christopher. 2015. Philosophy Goes to the Movies: An Introduction to Philosophy. Abingdon: Routledge.

Feyersinger, Erwin. 2010. “Diegetic Short Circuits: Metalepsis in Animation.” Animation 5, no. 3: 279–94. https://doi.org/10.1177/1746847710386432.

Hosea, Birgitta. 2019. “Made by Hand.” In The Crafty Animator: Handmade, Craft-based Animation and Cultural Value, edited by Caroline Ruddell and Paul Ward, 17-43. London: Palgrave.

LaRocca, David, ed. 2021. Metacinema: The Form and Content of Filmic Reference and Reflexivity. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Maselli, Vincent. 2004. “Narrating Fabrics: Nostalgia in Animated Puppets’ Skin.” Animation 19, no. 1. https://doi.org/10.1177/174684772412332.

Rescher, Nicholas. 1996. Process Metaphysics. New York: State University of New York Press.

Torre, Dan. 2017. Animation – Process, Cognition and Actuality. New York: Bloomsbury Academic.