The world of
animation grew darker and my own world grew sadder when Frederic Back passed
away the day before Christmas at 89. Hayao Miyazaki remains the most admired
artist in animation, but Frederic was the most beloved.
I met Frederic in
1981, when Tout-Rien earned his first
Oscar nomination. I had been dazzled by Tout-Rien
when I saw it in a compilation of short films Terry Thoren had assembled, and
wrote that it approached animated poetry. A year later, I interviewed Frederic when he won the Oscar for Crac! I
sent him a copy of the article and he wrote back to say how much he enjoyed
it – except I had devoted too much of the article to him, instead of talking
about Normand Roger’s score which had added so much to the film. I thought at
the time that this was a Hollywood First: A director saying he’d been given too
much credit for a film’s success.
That exchange began
a friendship and a correspondence that lasted for decades. I used to joke that Frederic
was a terrible correspondent: He answered letters almost immediately, and “write Frederic” became a more or less permanent entry in my list of things to
do.
Frederic wrote as
he spoke, with a passion for Nature, the fate of the Earth, the art of
animation and how it could be used help correct the disasters human were
inflicting on the planet. His tiny, crabbed handwriting, which required a
magnifying glass to read (I don’t know how he wrote that small) seemed
inadequate to express the intensity of his beliefs.
When crews widened
a road near his farm in the Laurentides, it caused the animals to shift their
paths. Beavers discovered a number of trees he’d planted and gnawed them all
down, including a weeping willow he was especially proud of, as it was at the
northernmost limit of its range. When I asked what he’d done about the beavers,
he replied he had done nothing: “Ils sont superbs” (“They are beautiful”).
I always imagined
that St. Francis of Assisi must have been like Frederic: Gentle, patient, devoted
to all the creatures of the Earth – but never saccharine, self-righteous or
ostentatious. Although he was a strict vegetarian, it never would have occurred
to Frederic to inconvenience anyone else by insisting on eating at a vegetarian
restaurant. He found something that met his dietary standards on the menu, and
said nothing about it. He would be equally quiet when he left the table and
paid the bill before anyone realized he had gone.
On one visit to
California, I drove Frederic and his wife Ghylaine to the Muir Woods. We spent
several hours walking through the ancient forest he’d wanted to visit since he
was a little boy, and agreed that it would make an excellent setting for a production
of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” A few years later, I took him to the Page
Museum in Los Angeles to see the fossils from the La Brea Tar Pits. He was in
his 80’s then, and roared with laughter when I said, “Frederic, every time you
visit, I take you to see something older than you are – and that’s getting
difficult.”
People were often
surprised to discover that Frederic had an impish sense of humor. He loved Bob
Kurtz’s nutty film Drawing On My Mind.
His letters were decorated with caricatures of me, of himself and of our pets.
When a careless driver knocked me off my bike in Santa Monica, he drew me
writing on a typewriter poised on the handlebars, while my pet rabbit ran ahead
ringing a bell to clear the way. In response to an invitation to a party I gave
in honor of Marcel Proust’s birthday, he sent a caricature of Proust serving
carrots to a table of aristocratic rabbits, all of whom were making terrible
puns off the titles of Proust’s novels.
On the visit that
took us to Muir Woods, I drove him and Ghylaine back to their hotel near the
San Francisco airport. With my typical lack of direction, I drove into the
hotel approach the wrong way. When a valet officiously told me, “Sir, you’re
facing the wrong direction,” I snapped, “What other news do you have for me?” In
the rear view mirror, I saw Frederic double over, echoing in French, “Quelles
autre jolies nouvelles avez-vous pour moi?”
Frederic never
realized how talented and beloved he was. When audiences stood and cheered at
programs of his films, he thanked them for generously giving his work their
time. He sometimes apologized for not being more talented, for not having the
genius of a Picasso to convey the messages he believed were vital. I introduced
a number of friends to Frederic and he was great encourager of younger talent.
Two artists whose work he particularly liked were Pres Romanillos and Dice
Tsutsumi—who later thanked me for introducing them to their hero (a title Frederic had trouble accepting).
As
long as animation exists, I have no doubt that Frederic’s films will continue
to charm and inspire audiences and animators. But my eyes fog up when I look at
my to-do list see that “write Frederic” has been crossed out for the last time.
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