Seasonal Tangibility, Cottagecore, and Stop-Motion Animation’s Role in the Cinematic Aestheticization of Autumn

For many, autumn is the time of year in which we begin craving something homemade. Between the leaf piles, pie bakes, pumpkin carvings, and ceremonious donings of long-sleeve attires in celebration of “sweater weather,” the visceral nature of fall brings out our inner child and reverts us back to simpler times, an effect that can be equally attested for by the fall movie-night. Indeed, during the off hours of fall festivities the movie-night has become something of a ritual, where we curl up beneath soft, pumpkin-patterned blankets with copious amounts of kettle corn and hot chocolate, and surrender ourselves in Nicole Kidman-esque fashion to the fall aesthetics glorified to us on a wide screen. The image of the ideal movie-night, however, differs for many; while some opt to reminisce in the autumnal motifs classic narratives like Knives Out (2019) or Good Will Hunting (1997), others may find enjoyment in the aptly themed Halloween-esque family film like Hocus Pocus (1993) or The Addams Family (1991).

Amidst the cacophony of fall flicks, however, stop-motion films seem to resurface within our collective cultural consciousness with great variety, ranging from the surrealist terror of Enda Walsh’s The House (2022), to the cartoon-esque whimsy of Richard Starzak’s Shaun the Sheep (2007) series. While occasional films hold obvious ties to the watered-down horror of the familial “spooky season,” as is the case with films like Chris Butler’s Paranorman (2012) or the repertoire of Tim Burton, most others minimally connect with the fall season, with some not even mentioning “autumn” as an idea within their wider narratives. This subsequently raises the question, why then is stop-motion so deeply engraved within the fall aesthetical canon? I argue it's the palpability of the stop-motion medium that embodies the aesthetics of fall itself.

Stop motion is an inherently tactile medium. As opposed to the digital renderings of computer-animated films, whose fabricated designs create a disparity between the films and the physical viewer, the worlds of stop-motion films are made from real materials, shot with real lights, and filmed on real cameras. Yet, they still break the same physical constraints of reality to present viewers with equally fantastic narratives. There’s a reassuring quality to stop-motion films in knowing their authentic, hand-crafted environments exist within our own; they’re animated stories derived from the same materials from which our own is crafted. In making these authentic worlds, visual imperfections that come with their constructions are inevitably highlighted, whether this be a notable finger-print smudged on a clay-characters face, or a broken tree branch caused by a shipping accident. While these lack the polished precision that comes with computer-designed animation, these imperfections are signifiers of the life put into their making. They’re pleasant reminders of the physical touch of the filmmakers in devising every movement, object, and shadow that culminates the world of the film.

For a time of year whose charm is similarly based on qualities of texture–the crunch of leaves, the howl of wind, and the nip in the cold air–no better cinematic medium mirrors those textures more appropriately than stop-motion. Much like how we feel the physical sensations of autumnal aesthetics, so too do we see those through the stories screened before us, equally crafted from the same materials as our autumn landscapes to deliberately entice viewers into the films’ spaces. The appeal of Wes Andeson’s Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009), for instance, greatly relies on the tactile qualities associated with its style. For a film whose narrative is set within the natural landscapes of the British countryside, Anderson spares no expense in highlighting these natural qualities through his medium. The world of Mr. Fox is crafted with real plants, sands, and soils, while the characters were designed with scaled down, cloth-made outfits to garnish the puppets made from actual animal fur. Anderson even elected for the voice performances to be unconventionally recorded in real-world settings that mirror those of the film, furthering the ties between the film’s animated aesthetic and its corporeal sources.

With this man-made production, however, the imperfections associated with its development are similarly highlighted. The tatters in characters’ clothes, and subtle discontinuities in the movements of plants or objects between shots, for instance, are emblematic of the physical manipulations of characters between shots by human hands. Rather than suppress this after-effect, Anderson leaned into these imperfections in enhancing his character’s vitality, highlighting the incorporations of the hand-made stop-motion medium into the actual aesthetic of the film. These efforts are exemplified by his preservation of the ruffles in the animals’ fur caused by their manipulation between shots, a bi-product which inadvertently conjures a wind-blown effect that further enhances the characters’ energized appearances. For a film whose visual creations demand slowed, careful attention to its presentations, so too do the tones of fall itself; it’s a time of year that begs us to slow down, notice the smaller details, and reminisce its visceral qualities before the credits role and the darkened chills of winter arrive all too soon.

That’s not to say, however, that the beautification of stop-motion through its texturized, hand-made characteristics is an objective effect for all. For the many who recognize a glamor in stop-motion’s artisanal appearance, there’s an equal number of those who discern the medium for its eerieness; the so-called lutumotophobics, as they’re labelled. There’s an unnerving quality to the doll-like features of stop-motion characters, who are given sudden life through their uncanny movements in a fashion that almost make them seem possessed. For directors like Henry Selick, however, this eeriness provides the perfect gateway to thrust a stop-motion film into the autumnal canon. Selick’s 2009 film Coraline employs the plastic doll-esque images of stop-motion figures in forging ominous new dimensions for its film. The world of the Other Mother features characters that are presented as fabricated dolls, complete with stitching marks and button eyes, to suggest a subliminal presence of something to fear in the anamorphic stop-motion character. In pitting these characters against an almost too-perfect world, one revoked of the aforementioned “imperfections” to exhibit a vibrant, more precise design, viewers are likewise unsettled as they are drawn into the film’s seemingly comforting world: one that demonstrates real-life horrors disguised within an authentically crafted environment.

Additionally, the artisanal, authenticated qualities of stop-motions texture further tie into the nostalgic sentiments that greatly boost autumn’s appeal. Stop-motion, as a medium, is essentially nostalgic: its slow, methodical process is reminiscent of artisanal periods of filmmaking, when patience and physical craft were central to its creation. To watch a stop-motion film is to momentarily step into the world and appreciate the influence of former filmic practices on modern day releases. This nostalgia equally conflates with modern day depictions of the cottagecore aesthetic, which centers on desires for simplicity, handiwork, and authenticity in a rapidly changing, fabricated world. No better season reflects the aesthetic charm of cottagecore than fall, where antiquated practices of knitting, baking, apple picking, and wood working are revived in ritualistic remembrance of an older, more modest time.

Subsequently, stop-motion becomes the ideal embodiment of that pathos. The works of Nick Park, for instance, provide visual depictions of cottagecore’s comforting attributes through childlike spectacle. Park’s 2000 hit Chicken Run features a farmland setting filled with images of knitted caps, wooden fences, and pot pies to evoke a rural labor and camaraderie that trademark the cottagecore aesthetic. Ginger and the chicken’s resistance against Mrs. Tweedy’s mechanized slaughter apparatus can even be interpreted as a move from the modern technical developments that usher in an end to cottagecore, thus making this elected aesthetic category not a preference for the film’s style, but a necessity for its overarching narrative.

The cottagecore style can continuously be seen in Park’s equally masterful 2005 hit, Wallace & Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. In this case, the humor and heart stem from its depictions of domestic scenes, ornamented with artifacts symbolizing antiquated suburban life (porcelain cookie jars, wood-framed photos, and greenhouses) and given life through portrayals of harvesting practices that are central to the film’s narrative. These details juxtapose themselves with Wallace’s elaborate machines, which (unlike those of Chicken Run), enhance the sentimental appeal of cottagecore practices to modern audiences, as seen through contraptions that dress Wallace in wool-knit sweaters and prepare him warm coffee, eggs, and toast in the morning. The small, humble pleasures that inherently characterize cottagecore are widely glorified through an alluring narrative centered on notions of home, comfort, and ritual: practices that are parallel embodiments of autumn’s most nostalgic benefits.

Although widely unrecognized, autumn and stop-motion animation share mutual ties down to a soulful level. As they celebrate all that's comforting, imperfect, and transient in the world, so too do they cast light on the childish nostalgia deeply rooted in the global consciousness. In a world dominated by forward progression and fast-paced advancements, we can take solace in the momentary peace autumn and stop-motion both provide us, as we’re reminded that what’s the most natural in the world also makes it the most alive. Hence, when the sudden chill returns to the air and the first tinges of orange grace the trees, we routinely turn to stop-motion to reflect on a moment of peaceful transition amidst our greater timelines, and become lost in the nostalgic comforts of these films that make us feel all the more alive.

Jackson Palmer is a junior at the School of General Studies at Columbia University majoring in Film and Media Studies. Outside of the classroom, you can find Jackson skiing, rock climbing, baking, spending time at the movies with friends, or performing alongside two of Columbia’s a cappella groups.

@jacksonhp123