The 1994 animated powerhouse is still vibrant, devastating, and masterful today.
The last time I watched The Lion King, the world was falling apart.
It was April 2020, a few weeks into Covid. Colorado was under a stay-at-home order, so I was filling my days by lying on the couch tapping away at my remote marketing job, then diving into a swirl of media every night. It was increasingly clear that we were all going to be stuck at home for weeks, months, maybe years.
Years prior, I’d started a marathon of all the Disney animated features. In the Time Before Streaming, it was difficult to track them down. But during Covid, since Disney Plus had just come out, they were all available at a click of a button. The Disney marathon, one movie per night, became my first of many Covid projects, an anchor in a chaotic, convulsing world.
On April 7th, I ventured out for a “social distancing dinner” with friends Alex and Zack, the first time we’d seen each other in weeks. While driving west on C-470 into a dazzling sunset, I consciously fixed the moment in my memory, knowing that I would never again see the roads this empty. The postapocalyptic stillness could’ve been eerie, except for some reason, I felt buoyant and alive. The parking lot of Red Robin was dotted with chairs spaced widely apart, with hastily printed signs taped to them: “Takeout Booth #7,” “Takeout Booth #8.” Cars pulled up to their assigned booths, skittish restaurant employees wearing bandannas over their faces trotted out with bags of takeout, and cars sped away.
I sat in a chair outside Alex and Zack’s car and we chatted through their open window. Eventually, everyone felt silly with that arrangement, so they just invited me into their car, as long as I sat in the backseat with windows open. They were feeling somber, so I tried to lighten the mood by gushing about my Disney marathon, how it was giving me a newfound appreciation for musicals. After dinner, I drove east, straight into the rising full moon, and couldn’t believe how energetic I felt. The very stillness of our pandemic-ridden world seemed to be filling me with potential energy. When we get out of this, I thought, I’m ready for an adventure. I went home to The Lion King.
The Lion King has held a special place in my heart for over 30 years. Aside from Fantasia, it’s easily my favorite Disney film. To me, it’s the ur-movie, the movie from which all other movies spring. Whenever I put together a movie marathon as a kid, it was always the first. When I was 15 and spent every night of summer break watching a movie, I kicked it off with The Lion King. Thus it ever was, and thus it ever shall be. The movie has a deep, archetypal, even spiritual power, plus charming comedy and kickass songs to boot.
I mean, what millenial’s blood is not awakened by the very first note?
In a college directing class, we each put together “autodramas:” the stories of our lives, told only through action and music. The beginning of my autodrama was me lying on the floor asleep, then being startled awake by the opening cry of “Circle of Life,” summoned forth into full awareness as a human being.
In 1994, the Disney renaissance had blossomed into full flower. After a series of flops in the 80s, Disney animated movies had been revived by a fresh infusion of talent and an embrace of Broadway musical storytelling techniques. Coming on the heels of powerhouses The Little Mermaid, Beauty and the Beast, and Aladdin, The Lion King was the apotheosis of Disney’s new, wildly successful creative phase. I got to hear Brenda Chapman, Head of Story on The Lion King, speak at the 2020 Austin Film Festival, and this is how she explained the film’s success:
“After Beauty and the Beast, I threw my name in the hat for Head of Story. There was a Swan Lake project that got canceled when Disney found out that another studio was doing Swan Princess. So I thought my chance was gone. I had no desire to work on the development hell project King of the Jungle, which turned into The Lion King. Pocahontas was the A-movie that everyone wanted to work on. The Lion King was the B-movie. But because of that, Lion King had a lot of young, green artists who were hungry for success.”
After she reluctantly took the assignment, Chapman “did a lot of writing on the movie.” Her big sequence was Mufasa’s ghost, and she wrote his words of wisdom: “Remember who you are.”
Chapman continued, “The Lion King was so successful that it shifted Disney’s mindset to money and merchandising. Execs and marketers started dictating the story, rather than the artists. It became more corporate.”
That passion vibrates through the movie, the passion of an underdog creative team doing its best work. It’s evident in the visuals, which were Disney’s most sumptuous up to that point. Having seen the animated films’ visual progression in my marathon, I found the increase in technical quality from the 70s and 80s films astounding. Check out “I Just Can’t Wait to Be King,” my dark horse favorite song, and its psychedelic, kaleidoscopic feast for the eyes.
It’s evident in the stellar voice cast. I will forever lament the trend in animated films toward casting celebrity actors rather than voice actors. Some actors may have charisma, but they don’t necessarily have interesting voices. James Earl Jones and Jeremy Irons have voices: growling, rich, melodic, flowing tones that test the low registers of my subwoofer. Their turns as Mufasa and Scar respectively bring the raw power and dramatic flair of theatre to a story that demands it.
It’s evident in that original story. The Lion King was Disney’s first major animated film not based on a preexisting fairytale. It takes elements of Hamlet, plus Moses and Joseph from the Bible, and applies them to a hero’s journey narrative to dazzling success.
The movie just works. Many movies have comic relief characters that are supposed to be funny (Oliver and Company has about five); in this movie, they’re actually funny. Many movies try to tug on your heartstrings with major character deaths; this movie destroys you. Many movies try to get you to swoon over forced romances; this movie has one of the most beautiful and romantic scenes of all time, and it’s two animated lions!
In the scene where the villainous Scar lures our hero Simba and his father Mufasa into a gorge, then sets loose a herd of wildebeest to trample them, every shot selection, every edit, every story beat is chosen to make the action as intense and emotionally direct as possible. It’s loud, it’s scary, it’s overwhelming, it’s unsafe. As Chapman’s comments underline, this is what corporate, marketing-directed storytelling can never give you: a moment as horrifying and visceral as the twin shots of Mufasa falling into the stampede and the rapid zoom-out from a screaming Simba.
Or the utterly devastating image of Simba curling up beside his father’s body, seeking Mufasa’s strength and comfort even in death.
Why is this movie so beloved by multiple generations? And why has Disney, despite making many good-to-great films since, never quite reached this level again? Because it’s unsafe. Because it makes you feel.
The same goes for the “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” sequence that illustrates the budding romance between Simba and Nala. Lush, colorful visuals and a warm, dreamy soundscape all enhance the emotion between the characters, which is depicted in the clear, direct way that only animation can pull off. It’s difficult to get real actors to create genuine chemistry. But in animation, you can draw it, and if done well, it strikes right to the heart.
There was once a silly myth that in one scene, Simba flops down in the dust and the cloud spells the word “sex.” I have no idea why people freaked out over that when this legitimately spicy moment is right there on screen:
Though Simba is tempted by Timon and Pumbaa’s philosophy of “Hakuna Matata,” i.e. let go of your worries and turn your back on the world, with a nudge from Nala and a powerful vision of Mufasa’s ghost, Simba is convinced to return to Pride Rock and take his kingdom back from Scar. The movie has several strong thematic messages. One of them, of course, is embodied in the song “Circle of Life” and Mufasa’s speech to Simba about how the balance of nature must be respected. But the one that stuck with me the most was Simba’s key decision to return home and confront his past.
As the pandemic wore on throughout 2020, a craving suffused me: a need to get out, have experiences and adventures, and feel connected to the world. And so, on a walk through a bitter, icy suburban neighborhood in December, with the first people starting to get their vaccines and the end of the pandemic distantly glimmering, I realized what I had to do next.
I had to confront my past. And by doing so, forge my future.
I mainly grew up in Highlands Ranch, Colorado. It was my place of Hakuna Matata, my sanctuary, my refuge from cares. When I left Colorado for film school in Los Angeles, those were some of the hardest years of my life: personally, financially, psychologically. I purposefully held LA at arm’s length; I didn’t want it to feel like home. I bounced between Highlands Ranch and LA no less than five times. And these were full-fledged, “pack-everything-in-the-car” moves. I kept returning to LA because I knew it was my future, the place that would help me grow, and kept returning to Colorado because I couldn’t let go of the comforts of home.
And beyond that, there was Washington state, the place where I’d spent the majority of my childhood and the place I always wanted to return someday. I’d been on the verge of moving to Seattle before the pandemic hit.
So there was my plan. I’d go back to LA and do it right this time, with a steady job, good roommates, and open-minded attitude. I’d actually treat it like home and wash away the bad memories with good ones. And then I’d go to Seattle and do whatever my soul needed to do there. My escape into Hakuna Matata was over. It was time to confront Scar.
I did move to LA, then to Seattle. I took trips, had adventures. And eventually, my travels took me to a place I’d wanted to revisit for 20 years: Pride Rock.
At least, my own personal Pride Rock. Its real name is Frenchman Coulee, a recreation area midway between Seattle and Spokane. We used to stop there on road trips from where we lived in Spokane to visit family in Seattle: a convenient place for restless kids to stretch their legs. My sister Laura and I, inspired by The Lion King, dubbed one rock slab Pride Rock and took a picture there. On another road trip 10 years later, we took another picture; by then, my youngest sister Kayla had joined the family.
For 20 years, I’d dreamed about finding the place again. And I did. Pride Rock was now hidden behind sagebrush, but it was still there.
It’s a fine thing to stand in the same spot where you stood as a child, to feel connected to your past. But what I really noticed this time was the view from Pride Rock: the wild, empty, and beautiful Columbia River Gorge.
It’s a fine thing to remember watching one of your favorite childhood movies, feeling awed, overwhelmed, and deeply moved. And then you look forward, and realize that somewhere along the way, you got a job, a car, the freedom to travel, ambition, and spirit. You see the continuum of your life expressed through a movie over 30 years. You stand on Pride Rock looking outward and realize that everything the light touches is your kingdom.
