Why was Coco a landmark for Pixar?

In this op-ed, digital West Coast editor Ella Cerón explores what the new Disney/Pixar movie Coco means for representation in pop culture.

In Coco, the new animated movie from Disney and Pixar, we meet Miguel, a 12-year-old who wants to follow his dream of becoming a musician and discovers his family's history in the process. And while a lot of Disney movies follow the same themes of family and heritage, Coco is set in Mexico, and the traditions of one of the most honored holidays doesn't just serve as a backdrop throughout the feature. They are the story.

It's unclear where in Mexico Miguel's pueblo is located, but given that he wears a hoodie and jeans, it's safe to say the film is set in the modern day. That, however, is one of the few pieces of the present, which makes sense: The movie is about Día de los Muertos, and remembering the family members who have left our world for the beyond. In Coco, death is not something to be afraid of. That isn't unique to Mexican and other Latinx cultures; a lot of people around the world celebrate death rather than seeing it as some great unknown finality. And as each culture has its own rituals and practices, so too do Latinx people who observe Día de los Muertos. Disney did its homework to stay mindful when it came to telling Miguel's story because these are our ancestors they're dealing with.

That said, the movie was not without its missteps. In 2013, people were understandably upset when Disney filed for a trademark on the phrase "Día de los Muertos," and the Internet is pushing back against the inclusion of the lengthy pre-show mini-movie Olaf's Frozen Adventure, which some believe distracted from Coco. There are also some tone-deaf clichés, like a spirit trying to immigrate illegally to the human world, and a frustrating lack of diversity within the living characters's skin tones. Despite these problems, it's important to remember that the studio also hired an exclusively Latinx cast to voice its new characters and brought in consultants who advised on how to bring Miguel and his family to life without reverting (for the most part) to painful stereotypes. And it seems to have worked: The film premiered in Mexico just ahead of the actual Día de los Muertos, and has since become the highest-grossing animated movie in Mexican box-office history.

That's not to say that the film was designed for only Latinx audiences. "I love that Coco featured this wonderful celebration, the Day of the Dead, which is a universal celebration," Anthony Gonzalez, who voices Miguel, told Teen Vogue ahead of the film's release. "Anyone can celebrate it. It's about remembering your ancestors and connecting with them once again." But there are some details — including Miguel's abuelita and her predilection for using a chancla as a threat, as well as the alebrijes, papel picado, and marigold petals — that are innate to the Mexican tradition. The story offers elaborations and translations for non-Latinx or Spanish-speaking audiences throughout the film, but there's something special about watching the movie and just knowing, because that knowledge is something you've always had.

Can you blame the Latinx community for wanting to claim this movie as being ours, though? These are our traditions, our histories, ofrendas that look like the ones we have set up at our homes every October, though the images vary from family to family. In Miguel's Mamà Imelda, I saw my own grandmother, a matriarch who provided for her family after my grandfather died. (To the best of my knowledge, he was not a disgraced musician like Gael García Bernal's Héctor.) And while there are single parents the world over who capably lead and support their families every day, there was still something special knowing that this character was molded, in part, after women like my abuela.

To suggest that Coco is the first movie of its kind would be to erase decades' worth of history made by the Golden Age of Mexican cinema that gave us stars like María Félix and Pedro Infante, who informed Coco's Ernesto de la Cruz — as well as the work made in the years since. Films like Real Women Have Curves and Stand and Deliver have also offered glimpses of what it feels like to be represented as a Latinx moviegoer in the United States. But for every movie like that, there is another that features a painful stereotype or a whitewashed character. Go to a movie theater south of the U.S.-Mexico border, however, and you'll find dozens of films in which Latinx people feel represented. But this representation isn't a pandering moment or a token character; it's a through line. Without it, there would be no story.

It's that inherent representation that serves as the ultimate ideal. You would hope it wouldn't take a complete media blitz of "This movie is set in Mexico!" for people to find its appeal. After all, millions of dollars are spent every year on films that follow brooding white characters but aren't necessarily marketed as such. But because minority communities have been so starved for representation stateside for so long, identity politics have often become a selling point for movies that feature us, as well as a potential slippery slope into commodification for the bottom line.

Some of the commercialization following Coco in particular gives me pause. This is a Disney movie, after all, so dolls and toys and lunch boxes are bound to follow. But I worry that the marketing of alebrijes or calaveras into mass-produced toys set them up to be misused as yet another instance of cultural appropriation. The issue has happened before: Most recently, a mother sparked a public discussion when she explained she wouldn't let her white daughter dress up like Polynesian princess Moana for Halloween.

Disney is naturally going to find ways to profit off its films beyond the box office. But as its films continue to diversify in much-needed ways, people in charge will need to ask what marketing tactics are appropriate, and which are appropriative. People don't want a commodified version of their culture distilled down to its most pop-friendly conclusion. They want room made for the real thing, and the respect that goes with it.

Coco's success at the box office is crucial because it betters the odds that films like it will be made by studios willing to invest in accurate representation. But how do you quantify looking up at a screen and seeing yourself — and generations' worth of your heritage — reflected by a little boy and his love of music and his family? You can't, really. As the characters in Coco explain, it matters more to be remembered and by the people who love you most.

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