Ratatouille: A-

The work of Pixar Animation Studios is legendary. An obvious statement, to be sure, but one worth noting for its inherent strain of irony; after all, this is a studio founded not even 20 years ago, and above all else it specializes in animation - once thought the sole realm of Disney musical theater. Yet Pixar's work speaks for itself. Not only that, it tends to speak fluidly, humorously, sweetly, and with an unmatched level of glimmering philosophical grace. As for their animation? To say that the plasticized sheen of Toy Story, the elastic slapstick of The Incredibles, or the murky phosphorescence of Finding Nemo is beautiful seems almost an insult - Pixar's skill with animation is trascendant. It is then the studios' skill with these two elements that have combined to form such lasting legacies in cinema (or, at least, legacies for a growing child) and it is a bright day indeed when an acknowledged master of the Pixar Studios steps out again to do a new movie. That master is Brad Bird and his latest, Ratatouille, floats in a saucy-sweet bubble of its own romantic Parisian design.

Admittedly it would be tough to make a movie about a rat (wait...you didn't know?), so kudos are deserved for writer-director Bird for crafting a such a lithe delectable fable around such an unseemly creature. But, is Remy (Patton Oswalt) such a bad guy? The answer by the end of the film is a rousing No! (as expected, such response is a foregone conclusion when bent to the ways of Pixar). Yet the answer itself causes some problems; or rather, the question to which it is answering looms like an undignified, irritating third party - that of true movie protagonist. See, Remy is such a sweet-souled foodie (he's impulsively chained to his brilliant taste in food) that it takes little more than seconds to forget he's a rat...and little more than seconds after that to forget him almost entirely. Some of the blame lies with Oswalt, as his voice, in failing to give Remy even a hint of deadpan irony (as per Tom Hanks in Toy Story) or willful personality (a la Owen Wilson in Cars) while some fault lies with Bird's script in making our rodent friend all friendly, quirky surfaces with rarely a sharp, relatable edge. There is though, shockingly enough, a seductive logic to Remy's characterization: his image as a lovable mini-chef, a democratized spirit of "Everyone Can Cook!" incarnate, fits almost seamlessly into the overall picture of a lovable mini-Paris; a gaslight dream for the eyes, mind, and heart.

If you have noticed that it's taken me longer than usual to sum up the movie's adventures, there is a good enough reason: Remy's experiences in a French kitchen with Linguini (Lou Romano) and Colette (Janeane Garofalo) are best left to enjoy first-hand and for the first time since the decidedly fast-paced activities of a restaurant make for such unexpectedly engaging fare. The director's potent skill with fast-paced movement scenes allow most of Ratatouille to take on the air of a screwball truffle - a lovingly glazed skewer on French cuisine - that also manages to be interspersed with dozens (dozens!) of delicious visual gags and tricks. Indeed, most of the wit of the movie resides in Bird's playful optical style and for the bulk of Ratatouille that stays in the kitchen he comes close to reaching his previous high, the incredible The Incredibles.

For the inevitable parts of the movie that stray outside the cooking arena there are still satisfactory treats to savor - food critic Anton Ego (the indespensible Peter O'Toole) is a personal fave - but I couldn't help but notice that some critical elements fall alittle short; there are unavoidable fissures in Bird's sub-plots here that were missing from his previous work, namely Colette's character and Remy's dilemna of being who he is (how I wish for once that there exist a great movie about someone trying to be different than who they "are"...and no, I do not mean Transamerica).

It would be wantonly cruel though to lead anyone into believing that Ratatouille is not a delightful piece of cinema. Most of the attending audience (including me) will laugh, will cry, and will let their eyes grow big at the flat-out gorgeous invention that is the soft-hues daydream landscape of this animated Paris. Some people would be mostly correct in alledging that all of Pixar's work revolves around the search for (or incorrigible problem of) having an identity. But if one is likely too levy cries of banality in that then they will just as easily be denied by the simple fact of the sheer depth of vision, sheer ecstasy in creative, funny, emotional power that is each and every one of Pixar's films - Ratatouille included.