The Incredibles

What kind of Faustian pact lurks at the dark heart of Pixar? Sure you’ll occasionally meet those who weren’t all that enamoured with A Bug’s Life and I have heard secretive whispers that some found Finding Nemo too watery, but the animation empire’s apparent inability to produce a shit movie really is getting a bit sinister.
Their uncanny run of form continues with The Incredibles. I hardly need to relate that the film is relentlessly entertaining. Nor inform you that it marks a great leap forward for digitalised imagery. Indeed, the visuals feel, as a great housewife once sang, so shiny and new, that they will surely inspire you to pray for the technology not to fall into the wrong hands. (Alas, Shark Tale seems to suggest that it already has).
Unlike their would-be rivals, though, Pixar’s trademark snarky wit and succubus grasp of narrative has kept pace with their nerdish advances. This tale of superheroes masquerading as suburbanites in a witness relocation programme is made keener still by the involvement of Brad Bird (The Simpsons and The Iron Giant). His fabulous comic-book aesthetic – a dizzying swirl of Fleischman robotics, Gerry Anderson landscaping, back-to-the-futurist modernism and Chuck Jones’ sight gags – is considerably edgier than the usual house style. Equally, the characters, including Craig T. Nelson’s lumbering patriarch and Holly Hunter’s perhaps karma-sutra trained Elastigirl, are the strongest since Woody and Buzz, but just that bit deeper and darker. If, though, The Incredibles are more recognizably human in form and manner, their zippy Tex Avery school surrealist antics provide suitable counterweight.
So yes, boring as it sounds, it all amounts to cartoon nirvana and yet another contender for Best Pixar Picture Ever, but I can’t be the only one getting the whiff of sulphur.