The Radical Power of Silliness: How Live-Action Adaptations of Cartoons Miss the Mark

This week I'm wrong about Avatar: The Last Airbender and its new Netflix adaptation, plus Zutara shippers and my friend Zoe's new substack

This guy is silly and also a badass. People contain multitudes.

This past week, my twitter feed has been overwhelmed with reactions to Netflix’s new live action adaptation of Avatar: The Last Airbender. Some people have been enjoying it, most critics have been underwhelmed, and the most devoted fans of the original show seem to be mostly unhappy with it.

I haven’t seen the show, I don’t plan to watch it, and therefore I won’t pile on to it (OK, I will, later, a little, but that’s not the point). I’m not writing this article to pick apart the failings of a show I haven’t seen, even though that would absolutely be in the spirit of this blog. I also don’t want to discount the work of the actors on the show, who by all accounts do well and understand their characters and why they’re so loved.

I am here to attack the ongoing trend of adapting cartoons and animated properties into live action, along with the condescending and inaccurate views that trend is born from.

Let’s consider the case of Avatar. The original show, which aired in the early 2000s on Nickelodeon (meaning it was made for kids), was originally received to universally positive acclaim and has gained a wider and even more devoted audience as people have found it on streaming platforms. It is set in a world where people have element-specific, martial-arts focused magical powers over specific elements (water, earth, fire, and air), those powers are somewhat evenly distributed on geographical (and somewhat national) lines, and where all those civilizations are based on Asian and Indigenous cultures in the real world. One person in every generation has the ability to control all four elements, and is known as The Avatar (they are reincarnated into each nation cyclically). The show is about the 12 year old Avatar, Aang, and his quest to stop the colonial and genocidal efforts of the Fire Nation, who have already destroyed his entire civilization of Air Nomads. He is helped by various friends and allies from the Water Tribes, Earth Kingdom, and Fire Nation.

If you haven’t seen the show, that description should demonstrate that there are a lot of inherently silly things about the concept. Doing a kick in a certain way allows earthbenders to move thousands of pounds of rock. Everyone dresses in aggressively color-coded outfits to indicate what nation they’re from. A recurring bit through all 3 seasons features a man screaming “my cabbages!” as his cart of cabbages is destroyed.

And let me be clear—this show is silly, and it is also PERFECT. As in, I have a hard time imagining any ways in which its overall effectiveness and message and entertainment value could be increased (OK, there are 2—delete the episode “The Great Divide” and don’t make one character slightly pervy in one episode).

It is perfect BECAUSE of, not in spite of, its inherent silliness. That silliness allows the show—which again, was made for children—to bring its central thematic concerns to the forefront. And those concerns are about how war and violence destroy innocence and joy, how maintaining childish and silly interests and ways of being is an antidote to despair and depression, and how ultimately the only way to create a world worth saving IS to maintain a childish and silly spirit.

Those messages are brought home the most by the protagonist. Aang spends the entire series coping with the destruction of his entire culture and heritage—and finds solace and joy in silly adventures with animals and new friends. In one episode, he is initially angry that an Air temple has been taken over by refugees—but accepts and welcomes them after playing and being silly with a crippled child in a specialized gliding wheelchair, who he recognizes as understanding the spirit of his people. In one of the best episodes of the show, he goes undercover in a Fire Nation school—with children who should be his enemies—and undermines a century of propaganda by teaching his class how to dance and have fun. His silliest companion, the lemur Momo, is his only friend with him when he finds the key to a nonviolent resolution of the war in the last episode.

But other characters and storylines also emphasize the value of silliness. Katara, my favorite character, begins the show as an old-in-spirit girl who has been forced to become a mother and caretaker to her whole family and tribe with the loss of her parents to war and death—and who finds her destiny as a confident, powerful leader through embracing her connection to Aang’s silliness and how it allows her to feel joy again. Sokka, the best Ron Weasley archetype ever created, starts the series obsessed with being a warrior protector of his people and ends it by embracing his role as the comic relief of the core group who keeps them from being overwhelmed with seriousness. Zuko, the early antagonist and later ally of Aang, begins the show as a parody of seriousness obsessed with honor and duty—and finds his redemption when he learns to laugh at himself, becomes vulnerable enough to be silly, and ends up dropping some of the funniest lines of the series (that’s rough, buddy). Iroh, one of the the best mentor figure ever depicted on television, communicates his profound wisdom about the failures of violence and the necessity of love and connection through his absolutely silly love for tea and board games. Characters who have abandoned fun and silliness are shown to have lost part of their souls that tether them to a moral purpose—Jet; the Dai Li secret police and their leader; The Firelord and his daughter, Azula. The silliness is the point!

From the little I have seen and read about the Netflix version, the deliberate choice has been made to eliminate much of the silliness from the show, and what is left doesn’t translate. Aang no longer seeks out the side-adventures a 12-year old child would find irresistible because of the seriousness of his task (this article also features the creators calling the show a “serialized drama,” which also indicates the failure to grasp the importance of silliness to the show). King Bumi, the crazy king of a city in the Earth Kingdom, is no longer obsessed with silly jokes and is instead depressed and blames Aang for the state of the world. I’m sure I’d have more examples if I watched it—which again, I’m not going to do.

I have watched a number of clips from the show, and the translation of the action and costumes to live action also saps the power of silliness away from the story. A cartoon allows color and action and movement to be silly and also comprehensible and moving and affecting. The action scenes in the cartoon are stunning, and the medium allows the physicality of that action to be balanced with childish fun because it is a significant step away from realism.

Live action (or at least live action focused on a kind of realist depiction of fantasy) makes it impossible to have that balance. The live action combat in Avatar feels less silly than stupid. Animation allows a character to get blasted by fire or hit by a rock or frozen in ice and have it feel important—maintaining immersion and investment in the outcome—but also momentary. In live action, that same necessity makes the action feel weightless and pointless. Live action makes the stakes feel lower, not higher.

So why did Netflix bother updating the show if it was already in an ideal medium to tell its story on its terms?

The reason is because of a prevailing idea that animation is a lesser art form and that art made for children is somehow less effective and worthy of being called art. It’s because many people confuse taking something seriously with BEING serious all the time. It’s also, of course, because Netflix knew they could make money doing so.

But animation is not a lesser art form. Animation allows a scope of imagination and a flexibility of visual storytelling that provides new and exciting opportunities, not less. There’s a reason the two best superhero movies of all time are Into the Spiderverse and The Incredibles. There’s a reason no live action Disney film has captured the whimsical joy and magic of their foundational texts. There’s a reason some of the best film and television aimed at adults in recent years has been animated, from Bojack Horseman to all of Miyazaki’s filmography. And it is an art form that allows silliness and whimsy to be translated to an audience in a variety of visual and auditory ways that live action can’t.

And art made for children isn’t less worthy or less meaningful than art aimed at adults. In many ways great art made for children is more technically impressive, because it is forced to train its audience to capture its more subtle and impactful messages. The original Avatar gains impact steadily throughout its three seasons because it creates the building blocks for complex and challenging storylines through patient character building and deliberate subversion of familiar and established storylines. It’s patience and focus and deliberation (and that of other great art for children) allow it to tackle enormous and disturbing and wildly relevant themes and topics, from genocide to propaganda to generational trauma and beyond.

Finally, as I have been arguing, the entire message of the original Avatar is about how taking something seriously REQUIRES not taking yourself seriously. All of the villains strip joy from their lives and take themselves incredibly seriously. The heroes’ foundational struggle is about finding silly and joyful moments in the face of enormously serious tragedies and challenges. Those joyful moments provide not just a reason to continue but some of their most potent weapons and motivations against their violent, colonial opposition. Silliness is a way of taking yourself, your life, your value, and the life and value of those around you, seriously.

That’s true in the show and it’s true in real life: silliness and joy can be radical and transformative. I challenge anyone to think of a more affirming feeling than making a baby laugh or playing with a happy dog or making a fool of yourself to cheer up a friend or even a stranger. I would argue those moments are what allow us to continue to struggle through a confusing and deteriorating and incredibly self-serious world.

And it’s true even in the most horrifying conditions possible: in the ongoing violent atrocities being committed against Gaza and its people, resistance has come in the form of protests and political action in and outside of Gaza but also moments like a Palestinian journalist playing with a baby after an IDF airstrike. His choice to be silly and comfort an innocent baby isn’t a denial of the seriousness of his oppression, it’s an incredibly brave choice to fight that oppression by embracing basic, life-affirming humanity.

Silliness isn’t the opposite of seriousness. Animation is not inherently unambitious. And we should stop indulging and rewarding the idea that it is.

My Most Dangerous Avatar Take

What I am about to write will likely force me to change my name and move to an undisclosed location. I am dipping my toes into one of the most contested conflicts in fandom. Here it is : Zutara is dumb.

Zutara is the name for the ship (romantic pairing) of Zuko and Katara in Avatar. It is based on a few scenes where they bond over their mutual trauma of losing their mothers to war and the rage they feel because of that loss. The scenes are absolutely moving and meaningful, and they establish how those characters are able to go from enemies to friends by the end of the show.

But they are NOT the foundation of a healthy romantic relationship. Maybe we as a society are TOO addicted to the enemies-to-lovers trope, which can be fun but is only aspirational when the “enemies” portion comes from playful “I’m making more sales this month” or “we both want the same apartment” kinds of fights and not, you know, violently trying to kidnap and disable each other.

Zutara stans (you know who you are) often try, baselessly, to claim Aang and Katara have no romantic chemistry in the show. Those people obviously slept through Season 2, episode 2 “The Cave of the the Two Lovers,” where Aang and Katara kiss with EQUAL levels of embarrassment and interest, as well as Season 3, episode 2, where Katara gets jealous of Aang dancing with other girls, and where Aang and Katara dance in front of a large crowd with OBVIOUS romantic and personal chemistry. Katara needs a few episodes to process her feelings once Aang admits them to her, but that doesn’t mean her feelings weren’t there. THEIR ROMANTIC CHEMISTRY IS OVERWHELMING.

Zutara fans, fight me in the comments.

Exciting News For You and Your Kitchen

I am a carnivore. I love eating meat, even though I’m trying to eat less of it overall and to source it more ethically. But all my favorite meals involve meat of some kind.

I’m saying this to emphasize how crazy it is that every time I visit my friend Zoe and eat a meal in her vegetarian home, I have one of the best meals of my entire life. I have rapturous dreams about a pizza covered in peppers and onions that I would never order in a pizza shop in a million years. I have yet to figure out how she made a caramelized zucchini sauce pasta dish taste so delicious despite numerous attempts. Her mac and cheese changed the entire trajectory of my lifelong philosophy of Thanksgiving food.

Here’s the great news—Zoe started a substack, In Zoe’s Kitchen, where she’s sharing two recipes a week along with her guidance about their difficulty, time, and deliciousness. Run, don’t walk, to subscribe! You will not regret it.