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The cartoon revival was dramatic on the big screen as well. Disney, which slumped after Walt Disney's death in 1966, regained its touch in the mid-'80s under the urging of Jeffrey Katzenberg, the new studio boss, and Walt's nephew Roy Disney, who godfathered a new generation of animators. The Little Mermaid (1989) not only proved that joy could again be a component of movie craftsmanship, it earned $84 million in its North American theatrical release. Last year's Beauty and the Beast outgrossed Mermaid by $50 million and was the first cartoon feature nominated for an Oscar as Best Picture.
Such acclaim breeds competition, and in the past year half a dozen non- Disney animated features were released (Ferngully: The Last Rainforest, An American Tail: Fievel Goes West, Cool World, Rock-a-Doodle, Bebe's Kids and Little Nemo: Adventures in Slumberland). Some of these had charm to spare; others were what industry analyst Art Murphy calls "spinach pictures -- family films that are good for you." Popeye eats spinach, kids don't; the six films together managed just over half the take of Beauty and the Beast. It all proves the difficulty of matching either Disney's financial commitment to animation (about $40 million a feature, compared with $12 million to $20 million for the others) or its artists' mastery of a storytelling form that the studio invented, misplaced and then, spectacularly, rediscovered. Walt meets Mickey; Disney loses touch; Katzenberg & Co. find Aladdin's lamp.
This Aladdin is no prince in disguise. He is an anonymous thief, a homeless ghetto kid in the imperial city of Agrabah, ruled by a flustery Sultan and his Vincent Price-y adviser Jafar. On the streets Aladdin meets the Sultan's daughter Jasmine, who has rejected every royal suitor in the Middle East. Love and ambition smite Aladdin; a thirst for adventure seizes Jasmine. In fact, each of the main characters seeks freedom: Aladdin from poverty, Jasmine from her regal confinement, the Sultan from Jafar's silky domination, and the Genie from an eternity in the lamp.
From the first moments, when a merchant (voiced, as is the Genie, by Robin Williams) offers to sell the viewer a "combination hookah and coffee maker -- also makes julienne fries," Aladdin is a ravishing thrill ride pulsing at MTV-video tempo. You have to go twice -- and that's a treat, not a chore -- to catch the wit in the decor, the throwaway gags, the edges of the action. Blink, and you'll miss the pile of "discount fertilizer" Aladdin's pursuers land in; or the fire eater with an upset stomach; or half of Williams' convulsing asides. Chuck Jones' verdict is judicious: Aladdin is "the funniest feature ever made." It's a movie for adults -- if they can keep up with its careering pace -- and, yes, you can take the kids. It juggles a '90s impudence with the old Disney swank and heart.