THE STORY – Arnold, a mouse in midlife crisis, sees his world as artificial theater set. As personal troubles mount, his suspicion of living in a fake reality leads him to search for what’s authentic.
THE CAST – Asier Hormaza, Aintzane Gamiz, Ander Vildósola, Alberto Vázquez & Iñaki Berartxe
THE TEAM – Alberto Vázquez (Director/Writer) & F. Xavier Manuel (Writer)
THE RUNNING TIME – 95 Minutes
There is always a crowd out there that yearns for more than what comes from animation. That is to say, many believe in the medium’s ultimate potential, using it to push engaging storytelling that isn’t always confined to a particular arena and can so easily be jettisoned into a section of the cinematic landscape deemed solely for immature perspectives. It’s where the “Animation is Cinema” mantra tends to cry the loudest for recognition. For audiences not routinely exposed to such daring feats, it can be a jarring yet rewarding experience. On the surface, a film like “Decorado” might seem to lull one into a more disarming sensibility. Its quirky landscape of talking animals might make the less discerning viewer believe it is more akin to the family-friendly offerings that are often in abundance. However, this one chooses a darker exploration of societal woes and offers an intriguing commentary through its quirky setting. Despite an uneven execution, it’s a venture that is mostly engrossing.
This tale is set in a mythical land where anthropomorphized creatures find themselves living through a banal existence in an oppressive cityscape. Arnold (Asier Hormaza) is a middle-aged mouse suffering from an identity crisis after being unable to find work for an extended period. It puts pressure on the relationship with his wife, María (Aintzane Gamiz), who is fighting her own depressive episodes and wondering how to continue under such strain. Every facet of their town is under the control of the giant corporation ALMA (Almighty Limitless Megacorporative Agency), an all-encompassing organization that micromanages its citizens and suppresses dissent. For Arnold, it’s a way of life that is increasingly becoming unbearable. With an eviction notice looming, he takes a stroll out to the forest, a forbidden zone that is rampant with other outcasts and a dangerous owl that prowls the skies. But while with some friends, he learns of a possible escape. A hidden avenue leading to a new destination beyond these restrictive barriers may be reachable, but not without considerable danger. Arnold is now on a mission to salvage his relationship, find a way to leave the city, and uncover a reality that is destined to break apart the suffocating mundanity he’s become so accustomed to tolerating.
It’s a uniquely odd world that director Alberto Vázquez has created here. There’s a sheen applied that can register as a bit silly, given the array of talking animals that seem fit to slide into several conversations that expose the existential crises they are all facing. Sometimes, that juxtaposition can be humorous, like watching a famous actor, obviously modeled after Donald Duck, who has now been reduced to street begging. Yet the emotion that flashes when one sees the empty needle beside him triggers profound sadness in this landscape. The emotions displayed here are all relatable, with corporate overlords seeking dominance over a population’s existence to the point of suppressing any dissent, being particularly potent. The difficulties in the marriage at the center are genuinely heartbreaking to watch unfold. The marginalized creatures in the forest long for a place of acceptance but are tossed aside by an uncaring society whose own productive members feel isolated and abandoned. It’s a bleak portrait painted by Vázquez through a simple yet expressive art style, one that resonates deeply when mirroring our own broken society. The tonal shift that can occur in violent moments, like an annoying pigeon gleefully run over by a car, plays quite differently from an endeared character being snatched by a carnivorous owl during a heroic act. It colors this arena with a precise melancholy, lending emotional weight to the scenario.
For as effective as the melancholy is deployed, one wishes the details of this created universe felt a little more consistent in the screenplay from Vásquez and F. Xavier Manuel. Talking animals are one thing, but the personification also extends to flora, such as mushrooms, and their inclusion seems at odds with the established rule. Speaking of rules, there really isn’t an explanation for why most of the citizens appear as small figures with human characteristics, while the menacing owl retains a more animalistic size and features. At one point, María’s depression manifests as a taunting fairy, which just feels like a step too far into an already fantastical arena. It’s a contributing factor to a messy narrative that only gets even more out of control as the finale approaches. The profound discussion on a crumbling world that exploits the welfare and fragile mental health of individuals is a moving thesis to dissect. Yet as the borders of this universe unravel and surreality becomes more exposed, the power of that underlying message is muddied by an anticlimactic ending. There is still much to glean from this captivating tale. Still, the storytelling is diminished by its attempts at escalation, which ultimately sacrifices the greater thematic value.
Hormaza captures all the pain and struggle within Arnold and communicates that anguish effectively through his vocal performance. There are moments when he can tap into histrionics, but it’s a mostly subdued role that is meant to expose the inner turmoil that such a tortured existence has been inflicting upon him. You get the sense of a broken spirit that wants to keep foraging ahead but is anchored by so many roadblocks put in place to avoid such happiness, and it’s felt in his portrayal. Gamiz has a similar sentiment to her, though María, as a character, has far less depth, serving either as a flashback device to reveal the backstory of her relationship or as a device to introduce another conflict with a suitor. On that note, Gregory, the company’s director with an all-controlling eye on the town, is also an undeveloped antagonist with few compelling layers. There’s more fun to be had in the eccentric characters that give flavor to the city, like Arnold’s friend Ramiro (Ander Vildósola), a crazed mouse yearning for freedom who supplies an unexpected emotional heart to their friendship. The voice ensemble adds a nice texture to this place, even if not every character they inhabit has equal impact.
The English translation of “Decorado” refers to the arrangement of elements that make up a particular scene, items that adorn a setting, and can communicate a sense of a set being assembled. It speaks to an artifice that can drape around one’s eyes, and the story here is attempting to smash those constricting frames and force one to look towards a better life. Many aspects of the narrative are profoundly relatable, and what lingers is an incredibly tragic account of a fractured emotional state desperately trying to soldier through difficult circumstances. Hard to imagine why that would seem so relevant to a modern audience (gestures sarcastically), but it’s effective here nonetheless. That is, until the storytelling escalates the stakes, indulging in even grander plot machinations that undercut the power of the more personal introversion. The final notes are disappointingly underwhelming, but the emotional journey leaves a lasting impression. It’s yet another example of the wide scope that animation can embody, and this effort is well worth seeking out for those who would like a little grey mixed into their animated landscapes. It’s a fitting description for the difficult life most have to endure, and what is provided is an appreciated analysis.
