So much has been written about Ray’s work, and whatever I say will be an inadequate appraisal of this extraordinary and innovative body of work. Naturally, I am a besotted admirer of his work, responding more deeply to the creatures that are inherently inanimate. Talos and the various skeletons thrill me more than the natural history-themed creatures. This is not surprising, as a huge bronze statue
coming to life appeals directly to the imagination, and exploits the craft of stop motion. If an elephant could be trained to act as dynamically as required then, possibly, a real elephant might have been easier, but bringing Talos to life through stop motion is so appropriate. Today, a sophisticated CG model might convey the scale better and fi t him into the environment more seamlessly, but I doubt that CG would have given Talos the quirky, ponderous movements that defi ne him one of the greatest animation characters. Thanks to the perfect marriage of sound eff ects, design and Ray’s restrained animation, you feel the metal straining as Talos begins to move. The pacing of the sequence gives you time to see the performance. The editing doesn’t tease you or apologise with glimpses, but there is Talos in all his glory, in an uncluttered environment, mostly shot full length, in dazzling daylight. It is breathtaking animation laid naked and looking stunning. The performance is full of little touches, he feels heavy and stiff , and in spite of the eyeless head, Ray manages to suggest some thought process going on. Important moments of stillness show decisions being made. Seeing Talos on the big screen caused many doors to open, and I thank Ray whole-heartedly that these doors have never shut. I am humbled that my puppets are sitting next to a cast of Ray’s Talos in the National Museum of Film, Television and Photography in Bradford. Smaller than I imagined, Talos is testament to Ray’s performance of a convincing giant statue.
Interviewing Ray Harryhausen and Medusa.
Musicals are a passion, and to some extent the fi lms featuring Ray’s creatures are much like musicals. Chunks of plot slot in between physical and musical set pieces, where the actors hardly speak as their combatants seldom have language. Talos, brilliantly, has no deafening roars, just that hollow creaking. These set pieces
develop in dance-like sections, choreographed, usually, to Herrmann’s astonishingly apt and colourful music. I’m not sure when the music was developed, but it’s an integral part of the scenes, perfectly complementing the animation, especially the skeleton fi ght in Jason; it is just right using rattles and cacophony alongside moments of stillness and tension.
Toys
I had cuddly toys, teddy bears and Action Men as a kid, and gave them adventures most defi nitely diff erent from other kids. They were imbued with strange and complex characters. My sister was more sensible and grounded in the real world, but the house was full of stuff ed toys and wonderful pets. None survived the way that Pooh, my teddy, has loyally stayed with me for over fi ve decades. There, it’s easy to say ‘loyally’, giving a lump of squashed battered cloth a personality and character traits, but I’d be mortifi ed to lose him. Alright, there’s a history associated with him and he has travelled as much as I have, but it’s not sentimental nonsense that keeps me looking after him, happily and naturally chatting to him. He has been a companion and, I feel, has absorbed part of my life and my experience, through some misty-eyed osmosis, so that he’s forever part of me, or an extension of me. To not have him around is odd. It’s not a security- blanket idea, but more a way of externalising thoughts, and by projecting ideas and character onto him, I can help make sense of what’s rattling around in my head. In this respect I understand the relationship between Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket. I have always found it terrifyingly easily to give inanimate objects a persona. Pooh is inanimate, but with a huge persona.
The indefatigable Pooh and similar sentiments from The Mitten by Katchnanov.
Many people think nothing of having apparently solid invisible friends. I didn’t, but perhaps puppets fulfi l this role. I understand anyone who makes friends with a six- foot invisible rabbit (Harvey) or a balloon (The Red Balloon). This French 1957 short fi lm of a bullied child befriended by a red balloon has been hugely infl uential for many animators, and both Mark Hall and Brian Cosgrove cite it as an inspiration.
It’s not hard to see why. A devastatingly simple story, told mainly by strong visuals, and at its heart a moving and private relationship between a boy and an inanimate object. What’s amazing is the amount of expression derived from that most simple of objects, a balloon. Its movements or lack of them convey more feeling than pages of dialogue. Surely this is what most animators strive for. Mark Hall remembers that ‘the intense emotions generated by an inanimate object in its death throes and the fi nal triumph so simply expressed have stayed with me for life. I was in tears then and would be now if I saw it tomorrow. I only learnt later how many people in our industry were infl uenced by that fi lm. Brian Cosgrove was at the same showing at Art College.