Zog, review: a hypnotising, inspiring tale for all the family
It has been scheduling genius by the BBC to broadcast their soothing, annual adaptations of Julia Donaldson’s picture books in the early evening on Christmas Day: just as young children are coming to the boil and exhausted parents need half an hour to sit still and recover from the stresses of the day.
Zog was a reassuringly safe bet. Magic Light Pictures have already delivered a series of delightful animated versions of Donaldson’s modern classics, beginning with The Gruffalo in 2009 and, most recently, The Highway Rat (2017). The formula sees them herd up a posse of national treasures for the voice-overs and stay comfortingly true to the trusted text – adding quirky visual flourishes to enliven lines which many viewers could (and possibly do) recite in their sleep.
Donaldson is an author who grew up memorising Shakespeare plays and her sense of rhyme and metre is unparalleled. Her German illustrator, Axel Scheffler, is inspired by the slightly unsettling imagery of French artist Tomi Ungerer (you’ll see the same soul in his character’s eyes) and the complex and comical American Edward Gorey (the devil’s in the detail). Although cautious publishers have occasionally asked Scheffler to remove a few teeth and claws, his drawings still retain a distinctive edge that appeals to curious kids. He also includes regular insider jokes – so the moustachioed knight in Zog is a portrait of Donaldson’s charismatic, paediatrician husband.
First published in 2010, Zog is a gentle subversion of fairy tale traditions. Its eponymous hero (no relation to the exiled King Zog I of Albania) is an adorable young dragon who must learn to fly, breathe fire, capture princesses and fight knights. He learns these skills at the feet of his teacher, Madam Dragon who ends each lesson by telling her class: “And now that you’ve been shown you can practise on your own…” Only Zog isn’t very good at any of it and ends up needing the medical assistance of a plucky little girl called Pearl, who turns out to be a princess. Pearl willingly lets Zog “capture” her and embarks on a new life as a flying doctor which she finds much more fulfilling than decorating the palace in silly, frilly dresses.
The film was narrated by a subdued Sir Lenny Henry. I know his brief must have been “restful”, but I would have enjoyed a smidgen more of his personality in the reading. Still, his recently RSC-ed voice wove peacefully into the harps and pipes of René Aubry’s score. The French composer (who also soundtracked The Gruffalo) did a charming job of fusing yea olde medieval sounds with puckish, modern pizzicato wit.
Magic Lantern fleshed out backstories for both Zog and Pearl. We saw an annoyed Pearl press-ganged into flower arranging and embroidery while Zog fantasised of derring do. Zog was sweetly voiced by Hugh Skinner – who plays the Duke of Cambridge in Channel 4’s royal spoof The Windsors.
The real Prince William recently said his family were fans of Donaldson’s books. I wonder what Princess Charlotte makes of this tale of a girl who refuses to spend her days decorating the palace in “frilly dresses”. Her father was once an air ambulance pilot. I hope that watching Zog will encourage her to see that such work is now an option for female members of the royal family – whatever it is that she may choose to do when she grows up.
My children – now six and nine and both believing themselves “totally over” the Donaldson phase – were both hypnotised by the entire film. They giggled as a frog leapt unexpectedly from one dragon’s mouth and gasped when Zog set his wing alight. I drank an entire gin and tonic before it got warm, and shed a gentle tear for the ghosts of bedtimes past.
