Gloomy Eyes review: Tim Burton-esque dioramic storytelling

The look and feel of Gloomy Eyes recalls the stop-motion animations of Tim Burton, such as Corpse Bride and Frankenweenie. The character and set design of this 30-ish minute narrative production have a cute, Halloweenish, rag doll look, fun and faux creepy. The narrative is also Burtonesque in that it’s centered around a social outcast: a half human, half zombie kid named Gloomy, who has a foot in both camps—mortals and the undead—and a sense of belonging in neither. The story transpires in a world where there’s no longer any sun; we’re told it “got tired of the idiocy of humans” and simply buggered off. It has the bent of a forbidden love story, Gloomy falling for a human girl named Nena.

Gloomy Eyes is narrated by Colin Farrell, who, after recapping the sun’s fare-thee-well disappearing act, recalls that he “saw the zombies coming out of their graves, and war broke out between the living and the dead.” Which sounds chaotic, but the story is softhearted and simple, far more interested in Gloomy and Nena’s budding romance than animosity towards—and hunting of—zombies. Farrell is the only voice we hear, outlining the plot, explaining the characters’ feelings and articulating elements of the subtext, leaving little to interpretation. This excessively vococentric approach evokes the literary quality of a children’s book: the tone of a tale read to a young’un just before light’s out.

The supporting characters are kiddy too—for instance Gloomy has a cute small pet dog and Nena a villainous uncle with blazing eyes and long spindly legs, who looks a little like Gru from the Despicable Me movies.

Gloomy pursues Nena, like so many lovesick youngsters before him; in one memorable scene the pair visit an empty amusement park and ride a rollercoaster. But you never get a sense of what they actually see in each other (we also don’t hear them speak). Not even Farrell’s tell-all narration divulges reasons for their love. Painted in the broadest terms, their romance feels borderline empty: as if we’re simply expected to care for it, and them, without really understanding why. 

Directors Jorge Tereso and Fernando Maldonado ensconced the tableau with thick clumps of blackened out space, concentrating attention by bringing light, colour and definition to particular areas, a technique used in other diorama-like productions such as Paper Birds. Some environments wrap around our body, requiring us not only to turn our heads but alter our body position in order to observe various dramatic scenarios, which tend to involve the protagonist and his love interest, and/or the grim state of their world. We look down on the drama like an omnipotent observer. 

There are times when we need to take a step back to observe parts of the tableau that have encroached on our personal space, which, for me, felt less like a bug than a feature—forcing us to engage with the spatiality of this universe, and have its dimensionality merge with ours. The story is a little derivative, but overall the experience is quite charming, and the environments lovingly detailed. Some come alive with real pop and flair—including an amusement park Gloomy and Nena visit in the second episode, where they spin around on a teacup ride then whoosh around us on a rollercoaster.