Whenever I bring up Napoleon in conversation, I introduce it as “that talking dog movie,” as though it is the only film in the history of cinema where canines converse beyond barks. I feel the need to use that label so people won’t chime in with, “You forgot the Dynamite!”, or mistake it for the Abel Gance epic from 1927. But, in reducing the film to a “talking dog movie,” I am doing it a major disservice, and contributing to its rapid descent into obscurity. Napoleon deserves to be seen. Some may dismiss it as a children’s movie, but this tale of wildlife wanderlust imparts valuable lessons about challenges and ideas prevalent throughout our entire lives. I think all of us want to be in a place that we aren’t in right now. This film is about finding that place and then coming to terms with reconciling the mythic and the tangible.
Something you’ll notice on your first viewing is the absence of people. This is a film where there is a collective noun for 95 per cent of the characters. The opening scenes depict a children’s birthday party in the backyard of Napoleon’s owner. We see kids swarming about the place, but not a single one is named. The camera never lingers on a face. Eyes, noses, and mouths dot the screen. Rarely have extras had so much foreground space. A woman’s feet are seen walking down concrete steps, and then director Mario Andreacchio cuts to the back of her head as she says, “Come on, kids. It’s time for birthday cake!” The delivery of this line is so disconnected from any notion of emotional investment or intimacy, and it is obvious that it materialised in the form of post-production dubbing. Outside this party scene, we see the head of a taxi driver while Napoleon zooms past in a makeshift hot air balloon attached to the front of a Sydney Monorail. And that’s where human involvement in onscreen proceedings ceases. This eschewing of people is vital in lending the film an escapist air. Younger audiences need movies like this. The temptation to compare oneself to a child protagonist and ask, “Why isn’t my life this idyllic?” is all too real. People can be overbearing when you’re a kid and sensory stimulation feels so raw. This film provides a break from all the noise.
In Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, there’s an important quote that underpins much of the film’s discourse. Mrs. O’Brien (Jessica Chastain) says, “The nuns taught us there were two ways through life: the way of nature and the way of grace. You have to choose which one you’ll follow.” In Malick’s film, nature and grace are embodied by the parents of Jack (played as an adult by Sean Penn). Jack’s father represents the way of nature. He is a jaded, strict disciplinarian who has been wearied by life’s pitfalls. Jack’s mother is the embodiment of grace. She is a gentle soul whose motherly touch puts her children at ease. She sees life as something we participate in rather than something we possess.
In Napoleon, we can recontextualise this dichotomy to represent the apathy of vast wilderness and the haven of domestic warmth. ‘Napoleon’ is the name the canine protagonist gives himself. His “real” name, given by his owner, is ‘Muffin’. Muffin wants to be Napoleon because the name exudes bravado. This golden retriever puppy wants to escape his mundane suburban existence and become one with the “wild dogs” that prowl the outback. He gets his wish when he hops into a basket tied to balloons which becomes untethered. After a scenic journey over city and sea, he lands on the head of a beach where dense forest lies ahead. After a warning from new galah acquaintance Birdo, Napoleon rushes headstrong into the deep, dark woods. The film argues that the two entities of nature and grace are not as disparate as they appear on paper, and that you can even find grace in nature. Take, for example, a scene where Napoleon encounters a tawny frogmouth. The frogmouth cautions him about the effect the wild can have on former house pets, citing a cat that became malicious once exposed to nature’s ruggedness. Moments later, said cat stalks Napoleon and pounces on him. The tawny frogmouth’s grace shines through when he rescues Napoleon by pushing the cat into a pond.
The most beautiful, timeless message in the film is that most of our personal discoveries are serendipitous. Napoleon envisioned his trek to consist of battle after battle, of licking wounds and evading predators. And, while there is the occasional brush with danger, Napoleon realises that The Wild is merely an idealised concoction of his imagination. It’s a familiar hole to fall into, and it’s so damn tantalising. We reject the perfectly ideal situation before our eyes, and hold out hope for a majestic “other” that will Solve All of Our Problems. This applies to both places and people. The “wild dogs” found by Napoleon are not bloodthirsty beasts that commandeer the dusty plains. They are a placid family of dingoes. When Napoleon saves one of the dingo puppies from drowning in a flood, this is his moment of self-actualisation. Again, we have a valuable lesson for children that will benefit them for life: you don’t have to be the biggest or the strongest; selflessness comes from within. We also see that intersection of nature and grace once more, with an instance of sacrifice amidst an uncaring deluge. Napoleon’s maturity is further cemented when, trying to make his way back home, he meets Pengi, a cocky penguin on “vacation” from the United States (going by the accent, at least). When Pengi introduces himself as Conan, we immediately recognise the Muffin/Napoleon parallel. Pengi wants “more from life than tundra,” and when Napoleon tells him to go back home, he comes full circle. This is what life is all about: learning a lesson, and passing the figurative baton onto someone else.
A major reason this film has remained important to me as other movies from my childhood have fallen by the wayside is that it achieves that rare quality of being at once otherworldly and homely. Andreacchio’s landscapes, framed exquisitely by cinematographer Roger Dowling, are barren yet earthy; sprawling, yet always threatening to envelop each creature that assumes centre-frame. They evoke shades of Namatjira’s ghostly gums, and of water cascading over a canopy in a Ken Duncan Panograph. There’s a perfectly good explanation for this simultaneous feeling of security and displacement, and it’s that Napoleon is set in Sydney, yet was filmed primarily in South Australia. A sense of unease washes over you when Napoleon floats over Sydney Harbour and lands at Kangaroo Island. This is the type of continuity issue that, when picked up, makes you wish you were a kid again.
For the majority of this article, my preoccupation has been with theme and technique, but I haven’t really mentioned the simple fact of how delightful it is to just listen to this film. I’m talking about both the music and the voice acting. The film is scored by Oscar winner Bill Conti (Rocky), whose compositions manage to tug at the heartstrings without being saccharine. How Far I’ll Fly and My Hills to Climb are the standouts. All lyrics were written by Mark Saltzman, who never condescends to his primarily juvenile audience, peppering songs with slick rhymes like audacious and voracious. The cast of voice actors mostly consists of unknowns, but you may be surprised to see names like Blythe Danner, Wallace Shawn, Joan Rivers, and David Ogden Stiers in the mix. Barry Humphries’ voice comes in at just the right moment, providing comic relief after several sombre scenes. All the animals’ voices grow on you throughout the film’s duration, and when the end credits arrive, you have to pinch yourself that the characters you just invested in were seldom bipedal and had feathers or fur in place of human skin.
I hope I’ve convinced you that Napoleon doesn’t belong in bargain bins. Of course, I may have had a completely different opinion on this film if I first saw it during my teenage or adult years. And I understand that some of you might watch this movie for the first time based on my words here, and its magic will be lost on you. But the magic of Napoleon will always stay with me. I see it when I head towards Mosman on a ferry, and it echoes in my mind whenever the allure of a mirage almost wins out against reality. This is the point where I leave you. I have my rainbows waiting, and you have your hills to climb.
Movies and Musings 