My panda has been the worst thing about me since I was twelve years old.
My panda descended in the hallways of a suburban Baltimore middle school, late in the spring of my sixth-grade year. I threw up and went home early, staining the front seat of my mother’s bright-blue Saturn Vue.
My panda was painful and embarrassing. As I got older, my panda did too, bringing with it emotional and psychological anguish — totally normal, per the mainstream media (right along with flouncing through flowered fields clutching tampons and whirling in pristine white skirts). My panda was supposed to make me suicidal two weeks out of every month — that was normal, allegedly, just teenage bitchiness. My panda was supposed to complicate my journey into adulthood, clouding my thoughts and twisting my lower abdomen into agonizing knots. My panda was the trade-off for being a girl. It had to be worth it.
This week, while watching Turning Red, tucked under a perfume-stained blanket and nestled into my partner’s arms, might be the first time my panda has felt not only represented, but witnessed — seen on an all-new level.
Turning Red is a coming-of-age romp through early adolescence, led by the spunky, perfectly-imperfect Meilin against a pastel Toronto backdrop. Meilin, at the ripe age of thirteen, starts turning into a huge, smelly, fluffy red panda whenever her emotions run amok — the panda is not a period but analogous to one, an unavoidable side effect of growing up as a woman in the Lee family. Only sometimes can Meilin control herself, when tethered by the love of her friends or the support of her family. By the end of the film, Meilin’s embraced the reality of being a part-time panda more permanently than one might expect — it’s a heartwarming ending to a gorgeous, universal story of generational trauma and growing pains. No, CinemaBlend, it’s not ‘unrelatable’ — no matter your race, no matter your gender, no matter your locale. Turning Red taps into a diverse gamut of pubescence: if you can’t see that, you might not be looking hard enough.
Rosalie Chiang is the perfect Mei, quirky and strong, a bubblegum-sweet protagonist with not a whisper of cliché. A newcomer, Chiang dazzles in scenes with Sandra Oh, who plays Mei’s protective, frenetic mother — the chemistry the two have is palpable, even through a panda-shaped lens. Rounding out the cast are standouts Orion Lee as Jin, Mei’s quiet and supportive father, and Maitreyi Ramakrishnan, Hyein Park, and Ava Morse as Mei’s exuberant girl gang. It’s a cast who feels deeply the magic of writer-director Domee Shi’s script, bringing to it the nostalgia and joy it deserves.
Turning Red’s animation honours its maker’s artistic style, combining stock Pixar character proportions with anime-inspired aesthetic flourishes. The film often feels like Miyazaki at his best — Turning Red’s working title was, apparently, My Neighbour Toronto, amazingly. Though theoretically a children’s film, Turning Red includes enough codified references and jokes to entertain even the least Gen-Z of viewers — hell, I’d argue adults might like it even more.
Not before this week had I seen my own adolescence animated and spoon-fed back to me, forcing me to look back with a fondness and gentleness for my younger self. High-school, hormonal outbursts, while not normal, became manageable as I got older, aided by a support system, birth control, and therapy — over time, my panda became collared, controllable. Turning Red, for the first time in mainstream media, attaches whimsy and lightheartedness to a process which, for many, is deeply traumatic: this is no melodramatic Carrie, nor childish puberty book about pads and armpit hair. It’s instead a puberty piece which, with charm and admirable grace, grounds its viewer in a place of self-acceptance. It’s the film we need now, and it’s the film we need for our future daughters.
Turning Red is the film I needed at age twelve, unknowingly about to embark on a wobbly journey into womanhood. Mei is the best friend I wish I had, her friends the gaggle of girl bosses I wish I’d helmed. Turning Red is a revelation, one littered with Toronto allusions and charming artistry: it’s a game-changer in the Pixar canon, one I hope inspires pandas across the city to roam free and unencumbered by middle-aged white men online.
My panda has been the worst thing about me since I was twelve years old.
My panda descended in the hallways of a suburban Baltimore middle school, late in the spring of my sixth-grade year. I threw up and went home early, staining the front seat of my mother’s bright-blue Saturn Vue.
My panda was painful and embarrassing. As I got older, my panda did too, bringing with it emotional and psychological anguish — totally normal, per the mainstream media (right along with flouncing through flowered fields clutching tampons and whirling in pristine white skirts). My panda was supposed to make me suicidal two weeks out of every month — that was normal, allegedly, just teenage bitchiness. My panda was supposed to complicate my journey into adulthood, clouding my thoughts and twisting my lower abdomen into agonizing knots. My panda was the trade-off for being a girl. It had to be worth it.
This week, while watching Turning Red, tucked under a perfume-stained blanket and nestled into my partner’s arms, might be the first time my panda has felt not only represented, but witnessed — seen on an all-new level.
Turning Red is a coming-of-age romp through early adolescence, led by the spunky, perfectly-imperfect Meilin against a pastel Toronto backdrop. Meilin, at the ripe age of thirteen, starts turning into a huge, smelly, fluffy red panda whenever her emotions run amok — the panda is not a period but analogous to one, an unavoidable side effect of growing up as a woman in the Lee family. Only sometimes can Meilin control herself, when tethered by the love of her friends or the support of her family. By the end of the film, Meilin’s embraced the reality of being a part-time panda more permanently than one might expect — it’s a heartwarming ending to a gorgeous, universal story of generational trauma and growing pains. No, CinemaBlend, it’s not ‘unrelatable’ — no matter your race, no matter your gender, no matter your locale. Turning Red taps into a diverse gamut of pubescence: if you can’t see that, you might not be looking hard enough.
Rosalie Chiang is the perfect Mei, quirky and strong, a bubblegum-sweet protagonist with not a whisper of cliché. A newcomer, Chiang dazzles in scenes with Sandra Oh, who plays Mei’s protective, frenetic mother — the chemistry the two have is palpable, even through a panda-shaped lens. Rounding out the cast are standouts Orion Lee as Jin, Mei’s quiet and supportive father, and Maitreyi Ramakrishnan, Hyein Park, and Ava Morse as Mei’s exuberant girl gang. It’s a cast who feels deeply the magic of writer-director Domee Shi’s script, bringing to it the nostalgia and joy it deserves.
Turning Red’s animation honours its maker’s artistic style, combining stock Pixar character proportions with anime-inspired aesthetic flourishes. The film often feels like Miyazaki at his best — Turning Red’s working title was, apparently, My Neighbour Toronto, amazingly. Though theoretically a children’s film, Turning Red includes enough codified references and jokes to entertain even the least Gen-Z of viewers — hell, I’d argue adults might like it even more.
Not before this week had I seen my own adolescence animated and spoon-fed back to me, forcing me to look back with a fondness and gentleness for my younger self. High-school, hormonal outbursts, while not normal, became manageable as I got older, aided by a support system, birth control, and therapy — over time, my panda became collared, controllable. Turning Red, for the first time in mainstream media, attaches whimsy and lightheartedness to a process which, for many, is deeply traumatic: this is no melodramatic Carrie, nor childish puberty book about pads and armpit hair. It’s instead a puberty piece which, with charm and admirable grace, grounds its viewer in a place of self-acceptance. It’s the film we need now, and it’s the film we need for our future daughters.
Turning Red is the film I needed at age twelve, unknowingly about to embark on a wobbly journey into womanhood. Mei is the best friend I wish I had, her friends the gaggle of girl bosses I wish I’d helmed. Turning Red is a revelation, one littered with Toronto allusions and charming artistry: it’s a game-changer in the Pixar canon, one I hope inspires pandas across the city to roam free and unencumbered by middle-aged white men online.
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