2013 CZ Advent Calendar: December 3rd

These are the only words spoken in the short animated film “The Snowman,” an adaptation of Raymond Briggs’ 1978 children’s book of the same name. Though there are a million stories about the magic of this time of year, The Snowman is notable for truly capturing the feeling of waking up to find that the world has been replaced overnight by a whole new snow-filled universe, and the potential for magic within that universe, all without a single line of dialogue. It may be about a child’s snowman coming to life, but The Snowman is much closer to another wordless children’s book, Owl Moon, (a story told through such arresting illustrations that it is actually considered a visual poem) than it is to any version of Frosty the Snowman you’ve read or seen. The story, in which a young boy builds a snowman that takes him to the North Pole but cannot outlast the winter, is more about appreciating the beauty of December and the bittersweet ending of the season than about Christmas. (The original tale contains no holiday-specific imagery, and only a few nods were added for the film.)

The Snowman was initially so well-received that Briggs’ 24-pages of illustration were brought to the screen only four years later. The film’s beautiful colored-pencil animations perfectly replicate the soft, dreamlike quality of the source-material; snow filters peacefully down through almost every frame, and the absence of sound effects helps recreate the feeling of being completely surrounded by a landscape made frozen and white. The Academy Award-nominated animation is only about 20-minutes long, and I highly recommend you go watch that version HERE rather than viewing the one with the sort of creepy David Bowie introduction.

When we first see our main character, the boy is awakening to find that the countryside he previously knew (most likely near Brighton, where Raymond Briggs taught illustration) has been covered in a blanket of snow.

In the hurry to get outside for a new adventure beyond his doorstep, the Sinfonia of London’s music does as much of the storytelling as the visuals here, hopping along with a trumpet as the boy tosses on his winter clothes. British composer Howard Blake’s score weaves perfectly through each shot, taking its time to support little character beats and ensure that no dialogue or sound-effects are necessary, such as in the scene of the boy stomping his first path of the day through the snow with the musical accompaniment of a conquering hero.

The boy spends all day building a snowman even taller than himself, and despite being called inside for lunch, he never stops staring out the window, deciding how best to perfect his creation. This kid means business - the snowman’s not going to have twig arms or a three-sphered form, and he better have a hat, scarf, and fruit nose to keep him respectable. As soon as he’s given coal eyes and a smile, the framing of the snowman begins to make it look like he might blink or start to move at any moment.

Night falls and the boy is eventually sent to bed, but being too excited to sleep, he pads downstairs in his PJs at midnight for one more glance outside, just as the snowman is brought to life in a swirl of magic. Thrilled that his creation is now real, the boy rushes up to shake the snowman’s hand, and invite his new friend inside.

It’s enormously fun to watch the curious snowman explore the indoors, startling the family cat, trying on all the other noses that could have been chosen from a fruit basket (why does no one make snowman with pineapple noses instead of carrots!), sweating in front of a fireplace, and cooling himself next to a refrigerator. Eventually the two return outside, and it isn’t until they escape into the countryside on the dad’s motorcycle that the framing starts to adopt fun angles and perspectives to reinforce the scary excitement of their midnight journey.

The snowman soon realizes it’s time for him to return to his own world, and it seems as though the story might be at its end. But as the snowman begins to walk away, the boy dashes after him to say something the audience doesn’t hear, and the snowman grabs his hand before running so fast that the two launch, flying, into the night sky.

As they soar over the wintry world, the boy and snowman are gradually joined by a whole flock of other snowpeople on their way north, passing over foreign waters and countries, all while young chorister Peter Auty sings “Walking in the Air,” the most recognizable part of the film.

When the snowman and boy finally touch down at the North Pole, it’s revealed that snowpeople from all over the globe have come together for a dance-party under the northern lights. Have you ever seen a Scottish snowman dance a highland jig? Well, now you have.

Before the evening ends, the host, a chubby red-nosed Father Christmas, gifts the boy a scarf with a snowman pattern. Back to their hometown they go as the morning sun rises, and landing in the backyard, the boy shakes the snowman’s hand before heading back to the house while the snowman waves goodnight. Almost to the house, the boy turns around to look at his friend, and realizes he can’t end the evening without a hug, dashing back across the snow. Finally the boy goes in to bed while the snowman keeps watch in the yard, dawn fast approaching.

When the boy wakes the next morning, excited for another day of exploration with his friend, he opens the door to sunshine and a melting landscape. The hat and scarf of his companion lay in the snow, no figure beneath them. Heartbroken, the boy reaches to the pocket of his coat, and finds the snowman-patterned scarf still inside. Their adventure really happened. But the snowman is gone.

“The Snowman,” like “The Wizard of Oz” calls to our desire to experience a magical adventure just beyond our front door that returns us to the real world a little bit wiser. But Briggs’ story recognizes how painful that return to reality can be. Sure, “The Snowman” is mostly about the beauty and the sadness at the end of the season, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve also felt that in some ways it’s a little bit about growing up. Eventually you’ll overhear your siblings whisper that Santa isn’t real or have to come to terms with opening more clothes than toys each winter evening. Getting together with family or friends at the month’s end as you get older helps make the darkest part of the year festive (or at least tolerable). But can anything quite take you back to the time when December was the most magical time of the year? As the audience, we know what happens in the real world to any snowman caught still standing when spring is bearing down. And the boy seems to sense some of this in his last goodbye to the snowman. But it doesn’t make it any less of a gut-punch to see him walk out to an empty, melting landscape the next morning. Was it all a dream? (That’s one of the cheapest conceits in all of fiction.) The point is that the scarf, the imagination, the memory is all still there, even if time eventually melts the idea of “magic” itself away.

(I’d like to add that “The Snowman” was a ridiculous piece for me to pick to talk about – I’ve now spent more time blathering about this lovely program than it could have possibly taken you to just watch the 20-minute film. So if you haven’t yet, go do so now!)