Illustration by Siena Laws
You know a movie is good when the trailer doesn’t do it justice. As soon as I came home from watching Pixar’s Coco, I watched every single teaser and clip available, looking for the euphoria I’d experienced while watching the movie. I came away disappointed: the trailers were simple and straightforward, lacking the visual and emotional richness I so hungered for. Then I realized: a trailer is only designed to show a movie’s premise. And it is a testament to Coco’s storytelling and worldbuilding that it goes so far beyond that premise as to nearly eclipse it altogether.
Coco takes place in Mexico, on the final day of Dia de los Muertos, both in the land of the living and the land of the dead. Its protagonist is Miguel, a boy from a family of music-hating shoemakers who, naturally, longs to be a musician. When Miguel’s family discovers his secret and his grandmother smashes his homemade guitar, he becomes stuck in between worlds — those of music and his family, the living and the dead. Accompanied by a hapless, hairless street dog named Dante, Miguel sets off on a quest for his great-great-grandfather, Ernesto de la Cruz, the nationally beloved musician who left his family and caused them to hate music in the first place. But all is not as it seems among the corkscrewed streets and extended family networks of the underworld. And if Miguel can’t make it back to the land of the living — separated from him by a bridge made of constantly falling marigold petals that will vanish at dawn — he will be trapped in the land of the dead forever.
Unlike many other child protagonists, Miguel feels real, in part due to the realism of his animation. When he plays his homemade guitar, he is suffused with his own kind of light, and you feel like you are right there, listening. His character is shown simply through his enthusiastic interactions with his world: a kid with a guitar, a dimple, and a red sweatshirt, navigating the land of the dead without ever losing his unapologetic, wide-eyed aliveness.
Moreover, it is hard to overstate how visually beautiful Coco is. Numerous visual homages are made to Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away, and even the skeletons and the curling tattoos on their faces are immensely expressive. The reflection of fireworks on pavement puddles, the suntanned face of Miguel’s great-grandmother Coco, the intricate embroidery on women’s dresses — it’s the kind of beauty that socks you in the gut. The visual beauty is never wasted — it directly influences the emotional heft of Coco’s scenes and its full depiction of Mexican culture.
Given that this is a masterful movie with musical themes, would it be possible for it to have terrible music? Coco’s main musical theme, “Remember Me” (“Recuérdame”), is used to convey the infinite types of remembrance, from Ernesto de la Cruz’s narcissistic final performance of the national hit to Miguel’s heartbreaking rendition of it to his great-grandmother. And the counterparts of “Recuérdame” had many in the audience dancing in their seats. Coco’s music is suffused with the same light that fills Miguel, and is used to both fully explore the film’s themes and complete its sense of place.
Coco is, in every aspect of itself, a celebration of Mexican culture. The movie’s set up — the musical great-great-grandfather’s rejection of his family — is told in animated frames of papel picado, a brilliant take on the backstory animation. Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera appear, making art even in the afterlife. And alebrijes — chimera animals created by artists in Oaxaca — are reimagined as spirit guides to the underworld, appearing in brilliant colors and myriad species. One alebrije — a cross between a rabbit and a frog — ribbit-hops on and off screen in the blink of an eye, leaving Dante the Xolo dog with an expression of abject “What was that?” It’s a moment that makes complete and beautiful sense within the internal logic of the film: The rabbit-frog fills you with unadulterated happiness.
It took six and a half years to make Coco, during which Pixar communicated with cultural consultants at every screening and researched Dia de los Muertos customs over different regions. Those involved with the project embedded themselves within families from across Mexico during Dia de los Muertos celebrations several years over. Pixar, as well as Coco’s co-writer and director Adrian Molina, have stated that the movie is intended to be an authentic representation and celebration of Mexican culture — without being the “definitive Mexican movie.” Six and a half years ago, the makers of this film had no idea what our current political climate would be like. Yet Coco is the opposite of the charged debate happening our country. It is a breath of fresh air, filled with music and light. There is an immense satisfaction in the fact that so many people believed in this film.
Coco is everything it has worked to be. It is a celebration of Mexican culture, family ties, music, death, and remembrance. It is transcendent of cultural boundaries. It is fabulously funny, beautiful, and musically brilliant. To quote the skeleton of Frida Kahlo: “Darkness. Then, from the darkness … a giant papaya.”