Four of my favorite TV shows currently running are “silly cartoons”. But behind their apparent silliness is some of the deepest, most complex, emotionally, philosophically powerful art I’ve seen on television, up there with any prestige drama you could name.
The first two both feature alcoholic, narcissistic anti-heroes struggling to fix their lives, or at worst, reveling in their own filth. And it’s not Don Draper sexy-filthy either. One’s a reckless, constantly belching, grandfather mad-scientist who’s known as the smartest being in the multiverse. The other is a washed up actor who also happens to be a horse. I’m speaking of Rick and Morty and BoJack Horseman of course. Rick and Morty has a cult like following and is given heaps of praise, deservedly so, but I’m honestly not sure if many people watch BoJack, probably because it’s an even harder sell. Both shows are hilarious and billed as animated comedies. But both shows also routinely remind us of the meaningless of life and the existential dread that seeps into our everyday lives and actions. Rick and Morty is certainly nihilistic, while BoJack painfully depicts what it is to be human (or horseman), struggling to try to fix ourselves when we’re already so far gone. BoJack’s most recent fourth season featured one of the most harrowing psychodramas I’ve seen in just 30 minutes, as we watch BoJack try to right his life while cutting back to the absolute horror-show of his mother’s upbringing, threading the trauma through the generations. Our trauma may be our parent’s fault, but we’re reminded that they were also traumatized as children, in even more brutal a fashion than we may have been. In the most recent episode of Rick and Morty, Rick once again espouses the meaningless of life to his daughter Beth, as she comes to realize how alike she is to her monster of a father. These seemingly silly cartoons actually grapple with the darkness we all live through, in even more creative, poignant ways than some of the best cable dramas of the last 15 years.
While those two shows are absolutely aimed at and are primarily made for adults, the next two are absolutely not, which makes them even more impressive and profound.
I’m speaking of Adventure Time and Steven Universe. Each show follows a young boy as he comes of age, trying to be the best person they can be, defending their homes from evil, facing off against aliens and cosmic entities right alongside the constant challenges adolescence throws at us. Both air on Cartoon Network (not Adult Swim) and both certainly started out as just kids’ cartoons, and can still definitely be enjoyed by kids. But as they’ve progressed, they’ve both managed to confront similar themes: the struggles of growing up, recognizing how trauma shapes us and can morph into evil, and the forces we can use to fight it, including empathy, compassion and sometimes force.
I’m lucky enough to have had my brother Sean basically force me to watch these. While I’d heard of both, and thought they looked cool and interesting, I doubt I would have ever really invested the time to give them a proper viewing. There are usually anywhere from 30 to 50 episodes in a season, but episodes of both shows are only 11 minutes long. The emotional power, the depth of narrative, the laughs that are packed into just 11 minutes is truly astounding and I still have trouble wrapping my head around how they pull it off. I could write whole essays on each of these shows, but I’ll try to just pitch what I find so enthralling about each.
Adventure Time has one of the deepest mythologies and world building I’ve ever seen in any form of storytelling. It’s set on Earth, roughly a thousand years after a nuclear explosion wiped out (almost) all of humanity. Now all sorts of messed up creatures, including slime princesses, candy people, and an evil entity named the Lich roam the Earth. And Finn the Human does his best to answer the call of adventure and protect his community from harm, and when he’s not busy doing that, he’s playing around with his best-friend/dog/shape-shifter Jake and trying to find love. It’s hilarious and heartbreaking and has some of the weirdest, off-beat little moments of strange beauty and melancholy sprinkled throughout each episode.
Steven Universe, as Sean pitches is it, can be described as “3 lesbian aliens raising a half- human, half-alien boy”. Steven Universe was created by Rebecca Sugar, formerly a writer on Adventure Time, and the composer of the best songs done on that show. She brings her gift for music (and more) to Steven Universe. The way she ties songs into the emotional arc of the story is sublime. This show primarily focuses on the power, transcendence and toxicity relationships can bring into our lives. What also makes this show so beautiful to me is how Steven deals with people (and aliens), whether they’re friend or foe. Apparent threats, who state their malicious intent, are usually turned by Steven into allies. Not through manipulation or force, but with empathy and kindness. He asks them questions and his charm and compassion shines through. This is another show that deals deeply with trauma and how that trauma infects our entire worldview. Yet grand speeches, demands, and threats are never how you actually change a person. You change them by your own example, by asking questions, and listening with an open mind to the answers.
I’ve teared up more times than I can count while watching episodes of Adventure Time and Steven Universe, and I wonder how they are able to get to me in such deep ways, in such short amounts of time. I know it’s because of the strong emotional depth they explore with each character and the long standing narrative arcs they continue to return to. But why are they so god damn affecting? Pixar movies certainly deserve a mention here, as they’re the prime example of complex animated storytelling pulling at your heartstrings. I still remember seeing Toy Story in theaters, absolutely crushed when Woody and Buzz just miss getting on the moving van. Or, of course, the first 15 minutes of Up. For some reason, I think it’s easier for us to let our guard down and empathize when we’re watching animation. Whether it’s a child, an alcoholic grandpa, or a narcissistic horseman, as we watch them struggle, overcome, and struggle again, through joy and pain, victory and defeat, the story is removed just enough from reality that we allow ourselves to become fully absorbed by it. As we grow older we may scoff at the idea of sitting down to watch a cartoon to be moved, but it may be the best thing we could do to maintain that relationship with our inner-child, to maintain a sense of awe and curiosity towards the world. And it only takes 11 to 22 minutes an episode to get that shot of wonder, joy, and catharsis we so rarely get elsewhere.