Death, rebirth and beauty in Disney's Firebird Suite

This has been a year fraught with fear, uncertainty and violence. Far, far too much violence. While there has of course always been conflict and unavoidable tragedy in life, to many it feels like we have crossed a line somewhere. That now, the violence and tragedy within which we so often find ourselves seems to all have been entirely avoidable and yet, despite the same signs and the same warnings, these tragedies are allowed to occur again and again, with alarmingly increasing regularity. And every time one strikes, it feels like the world becomes a little more ugly, cold and lonely.

These thoughts crossed my mind while watching the closing segment from Disney’s mostly-forgotten Fantasia 2000. Set to Stravinsky’s Firebird Suite, the animation charts the story of a playful nymph that brings a forest out of winter and into spring, only to cause its decimation by inadvertently awakening the destructive firebird through her celebrating.  Though from the turn of the millennium, it has a timeless feel, harking back to ancient Greek myths, as well as Disney’s own The Sorcerer’s Apprentice segment from the previous Fantasia, with its themes of discovery, hubris and the dire consequences of playing God. Like Pandora’s Box or the fables of Aesop, it functions as a parable, ‘Be careful what you mess with, because once the box is opened, you can never close it back up again.’

It is a beautiful piece of animation. Visually and musically, an absolute marvel, on par with anything from the original Fantasia or beyond. There is a sense of real life to it that very little animation truly manages to capture; very little art in general, for that matter.  Each frame bursts to life as if first appearing in the artist’s imagination. Perhaps that’s what’s so wonderful about it, that it has a power to touch us as if we are all experiencing it for the first time. Or maybe it’s just cos of how nice it’s painted. Either way, it is a wondrously untainted moment, and a gift, I think, that the animators give to us. It’s one that I cherish, in bad times and good.

Over 15 years later, this piece is still as touched with the joy of creativity as any great piece of art since the dawn of man. Its themes are eternal – death and rebirth, joy and fear, arrogance and shame. It shows us that no matter how high we fly, we have just as far to fall. But in turn, no matter how far we fall, we can always pick ourselves up from the ashes and fly again. The nymph sits in the ashes of what she has helped destroy, no longer able to see the beauty that she once helped create. With the help of her friend, the deer, she casts off her shame and looks to the future – to new life. There is beauty left in this world, after all, if we’re willing to see it and maybe, give it that little help it needs to flourish. I hope, in the face of everything, we can remember this.

What Happened To Eurovision?

When Belgium opened this year’s Eurovision Song Contest, I was pleasantly surprised. Having felt that the last couple years had been growing increasingly more dull and less energetic, this fun, silly, if slightly subdued disco-inspired number had me optimistic for the rest of this year’s offerings. That goodwill soon faded, however, after what followed was wave after wave of tedious, sappy, lifeless ballads, culminating in a win from yet another utterly uninspired and ball-achingly dull performance. This is a trend that’s been slowly emerging over the last few years, and now, finally, seems here to stay. Perhaps without many of us realising it, the campy joy of Eurovision has been displaced by a mawkish over-sentimentality and a laughably misplaced sense of self-importance. What happened to the camp? What happened to the fun? What happened to this? What happened to Eurovision?

Eurovision has always been famous for its colourful costumes, exaggerated staging, energetic choreography and corny, Europop music – best represented by acts like the charming and incestuous ABBA and the UK’s own Bucks Fizz, who appeared to be an attempt at creating a genetic hybrid between ABBA and the cast of Tiswas that went horribly right. Though these performances might seem a little tame in comparison to the levels of camp that Eurovision would reach in the 2000s, the same elements are there – the costumes, the colours, the choreography, the crap singing (okay, ABBA are pretty good but I wanted another word that started with c). The only difference is, this sort of fashion and style was commonplace in the late-70s and early-80s. What made Eurovision in the 90s-onward so unique, was that, even in the year 2007, it still looked like it was taking place in the late-70s and early-80s.

And so, Eurovision found its purpose and its place. Long-lasting accusations of the contest’s voting system being highly politicised and not really about the music has meant that Eurovision is rarely taken seriously as an actual music competition (at least, not in most of the major European countries). Therefore, instead of putting forward “real musicians” to represent them, many countries opt to put forward “joke acts” that are designed to catch the audience’s attention through bright, extravagant costumes and exciting choreography, rather than impress them with their musical stylings. Though this might sound like most acts in Eurovision are a bit of a write-off, on the contrary, this is exactly what makes them special. These acts take their performance seriously, but do not take themselves seriously. They are willing to go out and do things that most “real musicians” would refuse to do, out of a fear that it would make them look silly. As a result, Eurovision provides us with joyful musical performances just intended to entertain, rather than establish a brand, sell a product or make a statement, allowing us Brits to experience types of music we don’t hear very often and for the world at large to see types of entertainers that would not normally be deemed aesthetically appropriate. In no other musical event would a group of old Russian women dressed like Strega Nona be allowed to go on stage, but suddenly, in Eurovision, it becomes a possibility. They may not be the best singers, but they are fully committed to their performance, they have no sense of ego or pretention and their honest enthusiasm is infectious.

This is the charm of Eurovision – a weird, wonderful and unique experience you can’t get anywhere else that isn’t afraid to poke fun at itself and doesn’t feel the need to try to make a statement and change the world. At least, that’s what it used to be. But times have changed. Dramatic power ballads have been a staple of Eurovision for a while now, but they have remained buffered by a large collection of corny Europop music, allowing them to still maintain a sense of goofy likeability and not bleed into the style of the contest as a whole. In the last few years however, these ballads have come to dominate the contest. This culminated in the victory of Conchita Wurst in 2014, whose win not only sounded the death knell for the campy Eurovision of the past, but also began the rise of a whole new type of power ballad. Yes, no longer could Eurovision just be about fun songs and stage presence, now it had to make a statement.

The success of Conchita Wurst in the face of the great amount of homophobia that still lingers in Europe and, in particular, in the face of the violent homophobia in Russia that had been heavily publicised during that year’s Winter Olympics, lent the song a sense of political power. The overwhelming success of the song and the emotional chord it seemed to strike with people immediately affected the way in which Eurovision was approached, and the last two years have been replete with copycats attempting to replicate this success. Gone were the sweet old Russian women, now everyone had to look like a supermodel or member of a boy band. Gone were the goofy costumes, now the men must wear expensive suits and the women, luxurious dresses which we can hopefully project some kind of graphic onto. Gone was the elaborate staging and fun choreography, now everyone must stand perfectly still in the centre of the stage while we show some shitty effects on the screen in the background. Gone was the playful self-awareness and willingness to embrace the absurd, now we must all respect the force for political change that Eurovision can be and the sheer musical talent of all these performers, even though the vast majority of them still couldn’t carry a note in a bucket the size of Engelbert Humperdinck’s head.

While, of course, there are still a few holdovers from Eurovision’s former style, these are few and far between and it’s difficult to maintain enthusiasm for them and get excited when (or if) they finally do arrive when you have to sit through 20 identical, sleep-inducing ballads to get there. This year’s winning song, from Ukraine, displayed all these now tried-and-tested elements for success – an emotional power ballad with a politicised theme, a beautiful performer in a long, flowing dress, standing in the centre of the stage as rubbish effects that wouldn’t impress someone who enjoyed Batman v Superman swirl around the stage in typically lifeless fashion. Its strong win (at over 500 points) has solidified the way Eurovision has been headed for the last few years and says, perhaps a little sadly, with a mournful sigh as they take off their silly hats and put away their turkey puppets, ‘I guess this is the way things are now.’ This was even reflected in the show’s interval, which featured Justin Timberlake being...  Justin Timberlake, as if to say as loudly as possible that this is what Eurovision wants to be now – cool, hip, musically-respected, to be taken seriously and thought of as trendy and in-fashion, not corny, not unconcerned with its image and, perhaps most of all, not just good old-fashioned fun.

Is it over-dramatic to be so disappointed by the death of a song contest which featured talking turkeys, a person of indeterminable gender dressed as an aluminium Christmas tree and Jedward? Twice? Probably. But I don’t know, I think that’s kind of the point of Eurovision isn’t it? Jedward, an act so utterly reviled they weren’t even considered good enough for The X-Factor (the show which, bear in mind, gave us this swaggering prick) found a home here. Their tuneless singing, ridiculous over-acting and humourless shtick which would probably be rejected by Butlins, not only seemed suited to Eurovision, but was actually a lot of fun. This was the heart and soul of Eurovision. They didn’t need to clutch onto this purpose as a vehicle for political change in Europe, they already had a purpose – to give a home to acts that had nowhere else to go. The result was a colourful collection of refreshingly individual misfits and a night of honest and unpredictable entertainment that simply wanted to do that – entertain. And I think that, in this increasingly cynical, depressing and homogenised world, to lose that is a very sad thing, and representative of a much greater loss than many of us might realise.

R.I.P Eurovision. At least we’ll always have the memories.