Treasure Planet is a story that makes me incredibly sad. The film was released on November 27th, 2002. It was in development for almost two decades, nursed between two visionary and creative minds, John Musker and Ron Clements, legendary animation directors at Disney who first pitched the film in 1985. As told in James B. Stewart’s book “DisneyWar,” CEO Michael Eisner hosted one of his infamous gong shows within the animation studio. A man hellbent on efficiency and profit, he’d judge rapid pitches with a simple “yes” or “gong,” sometimes offering barely a sentence as an explanation for a rebuttal. This meeting landed Musker and Clements the green light for The Little Mermaid. However, Treasure Planet was always their North Star, the dream project they strived for. No matter the excellence of the films delivered, no matter how much they excelled under the turbulent reign of Eisner and Katzenberg throughout the Renaissance, Treasure Planet was always opposed. It wasn’t until they took their petition to Roy E. Disney, the head of animation in 1995, that their wish was granted. Upon Hercules’ completion, they could officially get to work.
Although seven years doesn’t seem like much time, animation as a genre and Disney’s place within it changed wildly between Treasure Planet’s long sought-after approval and its ultimate release. The latter half of the 1990s saw increasingly diminishing returns from the Disney Renaissance, both critically and commercially. Principal animation didn’t even fully begin until the year 2000, where things really took a turn for the worse. The massive Treasure Planet crew of more than 1,000 were completing the movie in between massive box office failures in several mediums, severe cost-cutting in the form of studio closures and layoffs, and incredibly contentious corporate struggles between executives. All of this is without mentioning just how different animation, and different entertainment itself, felt in a post-9/11 America.
On the whole, pop culture was outgrowing the childlike earnestness that encapsulated the Disney brand. Musker and Clements specifically served as primary architects of the Renaissance. They imbued the decade with their sincerity and levity, never really falling into the traps of tonal dissonance that plagued other films of the time that grappled with heavier material. Audiences, meanwhile, were beginning to turn their noses up at the notions of fairytales and “wishing on stars,” the essence of 2D animation tradition. They also didn’t much care for Disney, or any studio for that matter, trying their hardest to make 2D animation “edgy,” or, God forbid, “cool.” That distinction went to the increasingly popular 3D films of the time. They were modern and fresh, effortlessly cool. Films like Shrek and Ice Age featured pop songs, famous celebrity voices, and scripts laden with adult references and crass double entendres. There didn’t seem to be room for touchy-feely stuff. Kids were also growing up. The children of the ‘90s were teens now. Disney was for babies.
In the midst of all this, Musker and Clements deliver a swashbuckling adventure inexplicably set in space (!). It’s got aliens of all shapes and sizes and textures, character actors (not A-list celebrities) doing funny voices, and a teenage boy skateboarding in the sky. It’s so silly it makes me smile just typing it.
Jim Hawkins (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is a 15-year-old rebel. He’s got an impossible haircut and a handmade solar surfer, and is one mistake away from “Juvenile Hall.” We’re first introduced to him as a wide-eyed toddler, enthralled by the stories of Pirate Captain Flint and the mysterious planet where he hid his treasure. Years later, he’s surly and hurt by the abandonment of his father and the disappointment he feels rolling off of his mother. His chance at redemption comes in the form of a spherical treasure map that kick-starts his expedition to once and for all prove the truth at the center of the myth of Captain Flint, as well as prove that he’s not just destined for failure.
Treasure Planet is a lot to take in, visually. Musker and Clements’ fixation on developing “Treasure Island in Space” makes a lot of sense when you view the finished product. As they explain in their directors’ commentary, they approached the aesthetics of the film using a 70/30 approach: 70% of the world would look like a traditional pirate story, while 30% of it was imbued with futuristic elements. This is how they created such awe-inspiring imagery like a crescent moon that operates as a spaceport. The pirate ships are large and wooden, but also look incredibly graceful as they glide through the universe. There are slight touches that elevate them beyond simple ships; sails that glimmer with iridescent scales that reflect the lights of the stars, and engines glowing all sorts of hues of blue and purple. The animators were inspired by the Brandywine School’s style of illustration, most notable for its usage on storybook covers. The lush backgrounds, especially the images that compose the “Etherium” (we’ll come back to that), are plush and shadowy. The inspiration from the Brandywine School leads to deep, roiling frames filled with opaque pockets of dark black and indigo that further tether the vastness of space with the vastness of the ocean.
An aspect of this era I frequently praise is the character design, and Treasure Planet is no exception. By no means should it be understood that these animators shunned 3D animation and its advancements. Indeed, throughout this era, it’s notable that more and more CGI is used with each film. Treasure Planet’s Long John Silver (Brian Murray), is imagined here as an alien-bear-cyborg. He vacillates between boorish and friendly to domineering and intimidating. Notable character animator Glen Keane was Long John’s supervising animator, and he and his team sought to marry 2D and 3D animation within one body. In fact, footage of their tests still exists on YouTube; they mapped Silver’s arm onto archived animation cels of Captain Hook until they developed a seamless integration of the two styles. The results are Silver’s captivating mechanical arm, leg, and eyeball, CGI creations mapped onto a 2D body. His introduction in the ship’s kitchen puts Keane’s mastery of body language and movement on full display. Silver’s large frame is anything but awkward. As the camera glides and swirls around him, his arm is a flurry of constant motion, chopping and dicing vegetables while he throws his jaunty energy to and fro. Silver, representative of Keane’s signature style, is incredibly expressive and fluid, whether he speaks or not. Something as simple as a softening of his gaze when Jim isn’t looking is enough to invite us into the heart of this complicated character.
Captain Amelia Smollet (Emma Thompson), on the other hand, is a cat-like creature, lithe and swift. The details of how she moves and interacts with the world are a joy to behold upon every rewatch. Something as simple as how her pupils dilate when she’s curious is a testament to the effort put into this film. Despite being saddled with an odd romance towards the end, Captain Amelia is never relegated to a thankless role as a nag or damsel-in-distress. She’s a formidable captain, also capable of being kind and encouraging. Thompson’s performance is fiery and bouncy, the perfect pitch to imbue the film with an almost nostalgic energy, something akin to the adventure films from decades prior.
All throughout, there’s a delightful nerdiness to Treasure Planet, a giddiness to showcase the grandiosity of the world they’ve created. The film opens by diving headfirst into sci-fi jargon. The central element that facilitates these voyages, the Etherium, is tossed into a child’s bedtime story without a beleaguered explanation. Its pathways of oxygenated space that allow for spaceships to traverse the universe is a small bit of worldbuilding that conveys so much. The film would much rather relish in the fantastical nature of depicting space and all of its unknowns, rather than bog itself down with exposition to justify the events unfolding.
Musker and Clements, and by extension Treasure Planet, are a lot of things, but reserved is not one of them. The film wears its emotions on its sleeve. The emotional strength of the film lies within Jim. His arc isn’t as simple as longing for adventure or needing the treasure to pay back a debt; rather, his quest for the titular Treasure Planet is interwoven into a complex personal narrative. Midway through the film, we learn that Jim’s father abandoned him. Already this is a stark difference from other Disney protagonists, who only really lose parents in death. Jim was old enough to vividly remember his father’s departure, but we are seemingly left just as in the dark as he was as to any reason why. Jim doesn’t ever state out loud how much he longs for a father. However, that loss permeates his entire state of being. It colors his behavior, his callousness, and isolated nature. After all, if his own father refused to stick by him, what’s the point in ever trying to be better at all? In a film so distant from any kind of “grounded” reality, Jim’s character is a poignant depiction of the struggles that stem from the trauma surrounding an absent parent.
Like all the films I’ve covered in this series, Jim doesn’t grow to be the best version of himself through romance. The core of this film is Jim and Silver’s relationship. Even more than Kuzco and Pacha, Jim and Silver form a dedicated father and son bond by the end of their adventure. Musker and Clements are very careful about not delineating precise expanses of time throughout the journey, so the musical sequence that draws direct parallels between Jim’s father and Silver could span anything from weeks to months. The sequence should feel awkward, as a dramatic rock ballad is wedged into an adventure that is decidedly not a musical. While it definitely dates the film, it doesn’t stop the story dead in its tracks. It’s played as heartfelt without feeling saccharine. Through pure visuals interplaying with the lyrics, we learn so much about Jim and Silver, how each of them are pushed to grow as they come together. Earlier, some clunky exposition explained that Jim’s demeanor hides a bright and intelligent boy. A bit of this idea can be understood in watching Jim decipher the spherical map, kickstarting the adventure. The musical sequence finally fully displays this, as Jim masters complicated rope knots, dedicates himself to grueling work on the ship, and expertly pilots a small boat with Silver’s company. Even now, knowing the film like the back of my hand, the sight of Jim’s father’s retreating form being washed away by Silver’s encouraging grin brings tears to my eyes.
Silver isn’t a perfect father figure by any means. He deceives Jim, but by the time he reveals his turncoat nature, both we and Jim understand that he’s motivated by more than just sheer greed. A quiet moment between the two moves Jim to question the origins of Silver’s cyborg body. Silver offers only one sentence in response: “You give up a few things, chasing a dream.” It’s up to us to interpret that. Did he lose these parts of his body in fights or accidents across his quest for treasure? Did he willingly sacrifice them in exchange for money or information? We never find out. It’s enough, though, to lend Silver depth. Like Jim, his actions aren’t solely dedicated to hoarding Flint’s treasure. It’s been a lifelong journey to get to this point, and there’s an unspoken understanding that he would prove something immeasurable to himself should he succeed.
Silver and Jim’s relationship lends this film much more maturity than some might initially expect. Treasure Planet is another one of those instances of Disney trying (and failing) to aggressively market a film to young boys, with action sequences, explosions, and impressive setpieces taking up the most space in the promotional material. The more interesting aspects of the film, however, end up being what it has to say about what it means to transition from a boy to a man. Jim feels cast aside and abandoned, and it’s with Silver’s tutelage and overcoming obstacles on his voyage that he learns to value himself. The way Silver helps teach him how to be a man is not rooted in toxic masculinity, brute strength, or proving himself to be The Best™. It’s instead about valuing his intelligence, about learning from his mistakes. Despite Silver’s shortcomings, their relationship is remarkably healthy. He never teases Jim’s obvious anger at the absence of his father. Jim, being 15 after all, can be prone to a tearful outburst. Silver never belittles him, never demeans his tears. He allows Jim to cry and express himself while offering words of encouragement that prove sorely needed. The film draws the important distinction that Silver is not made uncomfortable in expressing affection to Jim, but worries that his attachment to the boy will jeopardize his quest.
Treasure Planet is not perfect. The first act feels a tad rushed, desperate to get us onto a spaceship into the great beyond. Musker and Clements also can’t help but fall into some of the more unpleasant trends that Disney animation coined throughout the ‘90s. Morph, a tiny, shape-shifting companion, thankfully does not talk, but the position of annoying talking sidekick gets filled in the third act by a robot named B.E.N. (Martin Short). He’s not in the film for very long, which helps, but his irritating, constant screams are incredibly grating. The film overall, though, does not fall into the kind of tongue-in-cheek cynicism that would go on to characterize American animation going into the 21st century, retaining its heart amidst laser blasts and explosions.
As corny as it can feel to say out loud, Treasure Planet doesn’t shy away from that sincerity in its message that the best treasure is loving and being loved. Jim and Silver’s love for each other proves infinitely more valuable than whatever treasure they could amass for themselves. Treasure Planet proves that it’s possible to be cool and sweet in equal measure. Musker and Clements’ dream project brings their fairytale wonder to a brand new environment, and it works. At the end of the film, Jim catches a vision of Silver in the clouds, a gleaming star winking in place of his mechanical eye. The final image of the film connects these two things, a star a young Jim probably wished upon, to a cyborg that taught him to believe in himself. It bridges the old with the new, paving the way for Jim’s shining future.
Treasure Planet opened to $12 million. The most expensive 2D animated film ever made, a film that cost more than $200 million when adjusted for inflation…opened to $12 million. It hurts to read that every time. Its failure was a foregone conclusion by the end of its very first weekend. Disney was forced to take a $74 million write-down, the most in animation history. It was the proverbial nail in the coffin for Disney 2D animation as it had been known for decades. Films that were in early pre-production were shut down, some eventually resurfacing as 3D ventures like Tangled and Frozen. Whatever was too far along to cancel, namely Home on the Range and Brother Bear, earned pitiful releases with similarly disappointing returns.
Thomas Schumacher, President of Feature Animation, jumped ship to another branch of the Disney company, Eisner accumulated another failure, and Treasure Planet became yet another point of contention between himself and Roy E. Disney. Animators’ spirits were the lowest they had ever been, and this was before the few studios still open were forced to pivot to 3D animation completely. The dominos fell in quick succession, leading all the way to Eisner’s resignation in 2005. This wasn’t solely Treasure Planet’s fault, but it was certainly a considerable factor.
Perhaps, in another universe, Treasure Planet could have endured as a mid-size summer blockbuster instead of an attempt at holiday family fare. In this universe, it’s one of the most ignored Disney properties in its canon. Plans for a sequel were quickly scrapped, and the characters and world faded into obscurity. Jim popped up in a theme park once or twice, and maybe you can find B.E.N. on a t-shirt on a clearance rack in a Hot Topic. One thing is certain: Disney doesn’t care much for one of the biggest box office bombs in its history.
It’s a great tragedy, really, that this era of animation culminated in a bomb so large it fundamentally killed Disney’s 2D animation department. Its last gasp wasn’t Musker and Clements’ own The Princess and the Frog in 2009, but the often forgotten 2011 venture Winnie the Pooh. Left to desperately fight for attention between Transformers and the Wizarding World at the box office, the film unceremoniously came and went. It was too late to turn the tide at that point. Disney had allowed the narrative to be set in stone: 2D animation was dead. These films, especially those of the early 2000s, were unique and interesting, exploring new settings and art styles. They incorporated all sorts of new animation techniques, playing with genres way outside storybook fantasies. Some of Disney’s most diverse films were released in this short span of years. Some of their most heartwarming stories are contained here as well, stories that broaden the definitions of love and family. They’re just as inspirational as any of the classics, but there’s a modernity to them that makes them fascinating to engage with, visually and thematically.
More than anything, these were the Disney classics of my childhood. They made me think and daydream in ways few other stories could. It’s heartbreaking that they’re downright disregarded today. I try not to let that dampen my love for them. It might not show in profits or merchandise, but I know that these films are special. Sharing them with others allows me to relive their beauty over and over again.
