Irish myth and folklore are integral to the artistic expression of many Irish and international artists across a variety of media, often also drawing on a recognisable musical palette to reinforce the experience. Cartoon Saloon is a significant contributor to the Irish animation industry and this paper critically examines the studio’s “Folklore Trilogy”, consisting of The Secret of Kells (2009), Song of the Sea (2014) and Wolfwalkers (2020). It presents a context for the films in relation to Irish film and music, provides an overview of the three films and the creative team involved, before focusing on selected musical examples from the films, maintaining a connection between the musical and visual aspects of the films. It draws attention to evidence of glocalisation, whereby local sounds and stories are developed by a transnational team for an international audience, incorporating influences from both traditional (folk) and popular culture.

Emphasising an understanding of film as something that is both seen and heard (Chion 1994), the article considers visual and sonic elements drawn from Irish sources. For this paper, we focus on five songs to demonstrate a musical consistency in the trilogy with consideration for instrumentation, song structure and aesthetics, recognising how the soundworld aligns with the visual artistry of the animation. While the use of leitmotif (Tonks 2001; Bribitzer-Stull, 2015) is evident in the films, our focus is on selected songs without broadening the analysis to the full scores or recurrences. Instead, we critique the selected songs in relation to the structures and aesthetics of Irish traditional music (Ó Canainn 1978; Cowdery 1990). Although focusing on a limited selection, several key compositional features are identifiable, reflecting recognisable “signature” styles of composition (Goldmark 2007), considered by us in relation to Bruno Coulais (b.1954), recognising the auteur role of the composer (Moorefield 2005). Our analysis also points to the role of the band Kíla and their contribution to the composition and performance of elements of the soundtracks. It is interesting to note that a scene involving buskers in Wolfwalkers features caricatures based on members of Kíla, creating a connection between the artists and the artistry (Toronto International Film Festival 2020).

Whereas Barton (2004) has argued that Ireland’s past and landscape have been romanticised, especially in children’s cinema, and criticised as inauthentic, there is a lack of consideration of the role of soundtracks that incorporate the soundscape of musical traditions. Through the soundtracks, Cartoon Saloon’s trilogy has demonstrated the potential for reworkings of myth that engage with contemporary composition and changes in Irish traditional music. As O’Flynn notes in his comprehensive study Music, the Moving Image, and Ireland, 1897-2017 (2022), several developments relating to music, the moving image and Ireland “require more extensive exploration” and the “relationship between these creative fields in Irish contexts is an area ripe for comprehensive investigation”. In particular, he states: “Music and Irish-produced animation has barely been touched on” (2022: 248), recognising the potential offered by the Cartoon Saloon Trilogy.

Developments in Irish Cinema

The dramatic change which the Irish film industry underwent, notably since the publication of Cinema and Ireland (Rockett, Gibbons and Hill 1988), is consistent with changes in critical engagement with other art forms over the past half century. Irish cinema changed from presenting an insular and conservative identity that reinforced existing stereotypes to a cinema that increasingly seeks to break free from the image of a simple, rural island nation, processes of globalisation and postnationalist perspectives have come to redefine what it means to be Irish (Barton 2019; Woods 2025). Films that can be aligned with the concept of a national cinema of Ireland in the early decades of the twentieth century often promoted a conservative and romantic image of the island and a rural way of life. The rugged, untamed landscape of the west was often foregrounded, entrenched in a mythicised past that Ruth Barton describes as paradoxically “antiquarian and revolutionary” (2004: 13). Cinema contributed to a gradual shift in the perception of Irishness, related to increased economic growth and social change towards the end of the twentieth century (McLoone 2006). Films, such as Into the West (Newell 1992) and The Secret of Roan Inish (Sayles 1994) countered the trend and continued to use folkloric imagery to reinforce conservative ideas about Ireland, but post-nationalist cinema was on the rise. The Barrytown Trilogy – The Commitments (Parker 1991), The Snapper (Frears 1993), The Van (Frears 1996) – moved from a focus on the rural west to a celebration of urban working-class culture and, notably in The Commitments, engaged with a growing discourse on music in Ireland (Cronin 2006; Holohan 2019; O’Flynn 2022). As with Into the West, the Cartoon Saloon trilogy contrasts rural and urban settings, presenting a reworking of folkloric tropes (Malone 2025).

Reflecting on the Barrytown Trilogy, Michael Cronin notes: “Taking a series of films that were made by non-Irish directors, largely financed by foreign capital and which enjoy considerable success in foreign cinemas or on foreign television screens, notions of identity are bound to be complex” (2006: 14). Although based in Ireland, Cartoon Saloon reflects the involvement of transnational stakeholders in the creation of films, notably French and Norwegian composers, influencing how Irish material is developed or interpreted with the aim of attracting an international audience. This reflects trends identified by Barton (2019) in the development of Irish cinema in the twenty-first century. Echoing this existing scholarship, we recognise that transnationalism can be liberating in its openness to cultural influences, including in music. We acknowledge Higbee and Lim’s assertation that “the term ‘transnational’ is on occasion used simply to indicate international co-production or collaboration between technical and artistic personnel from across the world, without any real consideration of what the aesthetic, political, or economic implications of such transnational collaboration might mean” (2010: 10) and, in turn, concur with Tracy and Flynn’s efforts to “articulate a transnational understanding of Irish cinema that foregrounds the force of the nation within such endeavours while also considering the ‘aesthetic, political, or economic’ tensions within contemporary screen production” (2017: 175). Animated film provides a particular format through which to engage with notions of identity and the growth and success of Irish stakeholders in this field provides a rich body of work to critically engage with. The withdrawal of American animation companies throughout the 1990s, which coincided with the rise of an increasing entrepreneurial culture and “Celtic Tiger” economy in Ireland, created an opportunity for highly skilled animators to develop an indigenous industry (Connolly 2005; Malone 2025).

Cartoon Saloon has emerged as a leading animation studio in Ireland, developing a postnationalist presentation of stories drawn from Irish sources (Malone and Kearney 2023). The trilogy incorporates “celticity” (Chapman 1992; Hagmann 2021) in terms of both visuals – with particular use of the spiral motif and reference to nature – and sound – with use of folk instruments from a variety of musical traditions that can be found in the musicscape of Irish traditional music. The soundtracks for the Cartoon Saloon trilogy include prominent roles for French and Norwegian artists, reflecting aspects of transnationalism but also problematising notions of “Irishness” and echoed post-ethnic and transcultural approaches to composition in Irish music (Dillane 2013; Scahill 2020; Kearney and Hammersland 2025).

A “Glocal” Irish Sound on Screen

The discourse on innovation and change in Irish traditional music intensified in the 1990s (Vallely et al. 1999; Scahill 2020). The Irish dance show Riverdance (1995) placed Irish traditional music to the fore of a commercial popular culture but, incorporating influences from a range of other cultures including Spanish flamenco and eastern European rhythms, the score composed by Bill Whelan (b.1950) represented a more outward-facing and absorbent soundscape (Scahill 2009). Riverdance is one example of a myriad of professional live music and dance productions that changed the approach to the production of Irish traditional music performances, often incorporating influences from outside the tradition. Similarly, although movie soundtracks provide “geographic and ethnic references for audiences, […] fidelity is considered less important than audio-visual function in the overall filmic context” (Sehman and Ó Murchú 2024: 30-31).[1] Whelan also provided film scores for Some Mother’s Son (Terry George 1996) and Dancing at Lughnasa (Pat O’Connor 1998). Developing a neo-traditional sound using both orchestral musicians and traditional musicians, many of whom were involved in the recording of Riverdance, Whelan creatively connects the films with a place and time through the use of music.

In the context of scoring for film, Whelan arguably follows in the wake of Seán Ó Riada (1931-1971), whose film score for Mise Éire (George Morrison 1959) is highlighted in studies of both Irish musical history and Irish film history (Pettitt, 2000; Cooper 2006; Ní Chonghaile, 2015; Ní Fhuartháin, 2020). Ó Riada incorporated melodic ideas from Irish sean nós [old style] singing traditions, utilising an orchestra but maintaining a strong sense of Irishness. As Simon Nugent posits, “Irish music provides a narratively satisfying sense of places and times past, affect, and nostalgia for global audiences” (2018: 109-13). Despite the cosmopolitanism of Riverdance (O’Connor 1998), which carries through to the soundtracks of Cartoon Saloon, we argue that these films and their soundtracks provide a counterpoint to Debbie Ging’s assertation that the disavowal of Ireland’s past in favour of “cosmopolitan modernity” was a regressive move rather than an innovative and constructive one (Ging 2002). She argued that Irish cinema should be more critical of global culture and less willing to abandon a distinct identity, seeking a balance between being progressive and being distinctly Irish.

Such a balance is heard in the soundtracks to Irish cinema. Tracing the history of cinematic and musical developments in Ireland, musicologist John O’Flynn (2022) points to the reworking of a sonic Irishness through the decades. Reflecting on a variety of Irish and Hollywood films, as well as television series, he states: “Progressive-traditional musicians introduced innovations to late 20th-century scoring practices through subtle integration of rhythms and strains connected to dynamic performance scenes” (2022: 211). Hybrid approaches to orchestral and traditional resources from Ó Riada through Mícheál Ó Suilleabháin, Bill Whelan and Shaun Davey provide examples of compositional development amongst Irish composers that anticipate the soundtracks to the Cartoon Saloon trilogy. In contrast with the focus on popular music and contemporary music culture in Dublin (specifically as opposed to Ireland at large), in the Barrystown Trilogy, Once (John Carney 2007) and Sing Street (John Carney 2016), the Cartoon Saloon trilogy soundtracks reflect blurred divisions between Irish popular and traditional music (O’Flynn 2009: 28-40; Smyth 2004; Scahill 2020).

Other “Irish” films have involved non-Irish composers who incorporate Irish musical ideas. Steven Sehman and Niall Ó Murchú examine how transnational co-productions represent Irish history and enhance “immersive perceptual experiences of place by using local music, while catering to the audiovisual skills and expectation of global audiences” (2024: 29). With reference to In the Name of the Father (Jim Sheridan 1993) and Michael Collins (Neil Jordan 1996), they point to the hybrid scores of Trevor Jones (South Africa), who combined original scoring with newly composed and contemporaneous songs, and Elliot Goldenthal (USA), who combined classical film orchestration with non-diegetic Irish-accented singing and a signature Irish melody. As demonstrated in this paper, the hybridity of the scores for the Cartoon Saloon trilogy engages with Irish and Irish-esque music, reflects a consideration of historical and geographical fidelity in the film’s soundscapes, and creates something that is complementary to popular culture. International comparatives are also readily available. In addition to opportunities for comparison with the narrative and animation style in the films of Hayao Miyazaki (b.1941) (Malone 2025), the scores composed by Joe Hisaishi (b.1950) provide an aural comparator. While the scores for Cartoon Saloon have a particularly Irish or “Celtic” aesthetic, the Coullais/Kíla scores for the Cartoon Saloon Trilogy demonstrate transnational cultural flows comparable to the work of Hisaishi (Roedder 2013). The combination of local and international sounds involving both Irish and international artists shape the soundtrack for Cartoon Saloon’s folklore trilogy to underscore the glocal nature of the films.

The Three Films

Understanding the three films to be constituent parts of a single, decade-long project reveals overlaps in terms of narrative structure, character development, and artistic style. The first story in the trilogy, The Secret of Kells, establishes many of the ideas and visual motifs that continue through the sequels, most notably the focus on a young child hero who dreams of escape and discovers a hidden world. Living in the strict community of Kells, Brendan dismisses his uncle’s overbearing demands for conformity and subservience, instead embracing the world of the forest beyond Kells’ walls and assisting Brother Aidan with the competition of the Book of Iona. Brendan’s transition out of timid boyhood, and transformation into a heroic youth, sees him face off not only against the familiar threat of his uncle but also the savagery of the Northmen who seek to destroy his home, and the esoteric Crom who calls the dark corners of the forest his home. With the familiar world of Kells and the otherworld of the forest colliding, visually and sonically, Brendan’s friendship with the ghostly spirit Aisling is an empowering experience for the two of them, serving ultimately to bring balance and hope to both of their worlds. While serving as deuteragonist, Aisling takes on a heroic role. In one significant scene in the film, in which she rescues Brendan, she sings an ethereal song, partly in English and partly in Gaeilge, which transforms the cat Pangur Bán into an immaterial spirit. The scene brings together music and Celtic-inspired visual aesthetics, the narrative incorporating tropes of liminality and transformation that are common in Irish and international folklore (Williams 2026; Gibson and VanderVeen 2022). As Joseph Falaky Nagy defines it, liminality is “a state of being in between separate categories of space, time, or identity” (1981: 135), while Manchán Magan (2020) focuses on the Irish language and the word alltar, another realm that exists simultaneously with the ceantar, the place or locality in which physical bodies are present (see also Kearney 2025). Not only does Aisling, as a supernatural character, represent a sense of liminality but so too does the figure of Brendan, as a boy on the verge of manhood.

Balancing a distinctively Irish visual identity with transnational cooperation, The Secret of Kells was heavily inspired by the traditional arts of ancient Ireland, reinventing the Celtic style through dynamic modern animation. Scenes are laid out in flat, geometric form, the screen occasionally splitting into a triptych that demonstrates the influence of medieval Christian illuminations and stain-glass scenes. Environments are constructed out of organic spiral motifs and repetitive, simple shapes, conjuring up the image of an ancient stone carving that has come to life. A distinctly “Irish cinematic voice” (Barrett 2020) is evident though the film never veers into overtly nationalist or conservative narratives, instead reflecting the changing social conditions of the country through its diverse casting and the make-up of its production crew.

Set in county Donegal centuries after The Secret of Kells, Song of the Sea further explores themes of nature, fading traditions, and youthful heroism, following a young brother and sister Ben and Saoirse [meaning “freedom”] on their trek across modern Ireland. Throughout the film, there is a sense of liminality as the two children encounter mythological characters that draw significantly on folkloric tropes. The narrative suggests that their mother was a selkie, a mythological creature capable of changing between seal and human form who returns to the sea when Saoirse is born. The children’s grandmother takes the children from their remote home in a lighthouse to live with her in the city. Saoirse and Ben struggle to get along with each other as they undertake an arduous journey from the streets of Dublin, where they are escaping the care of their grandmother, to their home on the west coast. They encounter daoine sídhe or fairies, whose existence is under threat. Saoirse is mute but finds her voice through song; the song itself has magical qualities which frees the sídhe from the owl-witch Macha. As well as being integral to the plot, song also provides opportunities for humour.

The final story in the trilogy, Wolfwalkers, represents the culmination of many of these thematic ideas, sharing several of its predecessor’s archetypes and narrative beats. Robyn, a young English girl who travels to Ireland with her father on a mission to exterminate wolves, enters the forest against the wishes of those around her. Following a similar trope to The Secret of Kells, Robyn’s first experience with the Celtic supernatural world is Mebh, a wild girl living in the forest, who possesses the powers to heal and transform at will into a shaggy brown wolf. Much like Brendan’s ultimate transition into heroism and the final battle with Crom Cruach, Robyn learns to control her own shapeshifting abilities and utilises them to rescue the worlds of the forest and the city from tyranny. Distinctly Irish in some respects, bringing medieval stories of “wolfwalkers” to modern audiences and exploring the island’s colonial history, it also incorporates musical and visual ideas from other nations. A transnational product, like the other films in the trilogy, Wolfwalkers is as much an Irish reworking of myth as it is a successful example of the Irish animation industry’s international potential.

The Creative Team

From its inception in 1999, Kilkenny-based animation studio Cartoon Saloon has been defined as much by its Irish roots as it has been inspired by international trends. Studio founder Tomm Moore and his childhood friend Ross Stewart found inspiration in the work of Studio Ghibli’s Hayao Miyazaki, Russian-American animator and comic book writer Genndy Tartakovsky, and Canadian-British animator Richard Williams (Cartoon Saloon 2021: 5). The balance between modern, digital methods and more traditional, painterly animation is evident in the trilogy which includes a vast array of experimental animated sequences (Brendan’s battle with Crom and Robyn’s wolf-vision are examples), and there is extensive use of digital painting, pencil sketching, watercolours, and even 3D art. All of this combines with Celtic motifs and references to ancient Irish paintings and carvings, transforming localised myths and folktales into cinematic reworkings that simultaneously promote Irish heritage and appeal to international audiences. The result is a studio that crosses cultural boundaries, embodying the international Ireland of the Celtic Tiger period from which it emerged.

French composer Bruno Coulais is credited on each of the films, but there is an acknowledgement of additional contributions, particularly from Dublin band Kíla. Coulais began as a composer of classical music before achieving success as a film composer. The first full-length production he composed for was La Femme Secrète (Sébastien Grall 1986), but it was not until the success of Microcosmos in 1996 that Coulais achieved great success, albeit still within a French context. In the early 2000s, he signalled a desire to change direction and was involved in the creation of an opera for children, as well as collaborations with French rapper and hip-hop producer Akhenaton, the group IAM, and the Corsican group A Filetta. He is partly known for his use of the human voice, particularly that of children – he involved his 14-year-old daughter in the writing process for Wolfwalkers – and the exploration of world music and musical cultures are evident in his work on the trilogy.

Coulais describes animation as his favourite medium to write for, referencing the Cartoon Saloon trilogy in an interview for American Songwriter:

“For me, the music is like a character,” Coulais says. Figuring out the details of the characters he works on is what excites him, as it did with the trilogy that Moore created. For Wolfwalkers, those details are further enhanced by the intricate hand drawn animation. “Animation has a magic mood,” he says. “For me, it’s better for the music than a realistic film that has a scene with two characters in a kitchen. Animation is more for dreaming about music, especially when the magic is so present in the story, as it is in Wolfwalkers.” (Neophytou 2021)

Coulais collaborated with Kíla on the soundtracks. The band was formed at school in Dublin in the late 1980s. The eight members are influenced by a variety of musical backgrounds including traditional, classical, and rock, and draw on these and other influences to interpret traditional music. Although successful over three decades, the band were not included in either the Companion to Irish Traditional Music or the Encyclopaedia of Music in Ireland, perhaps owing to the difficulties in categorising their sound. Writing in The Irish Times Fintan Vallely suggested they were “Celtic Caribbean”, describing them as “a busy, non-elitist, hardworking band which shares talent and 30 or so instruments with theatrical control and with an obvious absence of need for personal kudos” (1997, 11 March). At that stage, Vallely recognised that “The central idiom was Irish, but with no tunes as such. Riffs and Eastern European style, progressively developing two and four bar fragments were worked, up on uilleann pipes, flute, fiddle and whistle”. Other reviews point to similarly broad soundscapes, such as Sean Laffey’s description of Gambler’s Ballet (2007) as “basket load of exotic fruit from those two decades of multi-cultural tillage” and Deirdre Cronin’s assertion in a review of Beo (2017) that “Much has been written about Kíla’s multicultural ethos”. This incorporation of international influences is a significant factor in shaping the soundtracks to the Folklore Trilogy. Reflecting on his collaborations with Kíla, Coulais states:

I did classical studies of music and I write my orchestrations, but with this band, they don’t read music, yet they are such good musicians […]. I will sing the theme, or I play on the piano and immediately they make a very moving interpretation, an Irish interpretation. (Neophytou 2021)

Working with the band inspired Coulais to go beyond the instruments he was familiar with, and this is arguably critical to realising the aesthetic achieved in the folklore trilogy. The process also reflects processes in Irish traditional music in which the performer(s) are part composers (Ó Canainn 1978; Cowdery 1990).

“You Must Go”

The Secret of Kells features a variety of abstract sequences, locations with clear stylistic differences, and character’s whose lines, shapes, and colouration tell a great deal about their personality. Moore himself has highlighted flaws in the animation and Stewart has recounted how a reliance on digital methods made the film age faster than its spiritual successors (Desowitz 2021). Nevertheless, certain scenes still stand out, notably the “Aisling’s Song” sequence in which the forest spirit Aisling imbues Pangur Bán with a ghostly body, allowing the cat to fly into the tower of Kells and free Brendan from imprisonment (00:46:27).

Figure 1. “Aisling’s Song”. Transcribed by Author.

As an instrumental, the Pangur Bán theme is played on the flute and is stylistically typical of slow airs in the Irish tradition such as Port na bPucaí, an air from the Blasket Islands in Kerry associated with the fairies (uí Ógáin and Sherlock 2012). For the song, macaronic lyrics alternate between English and Gaeilge, creating another sense of liminality but also pointing to Irish traditions. It is ornamented in a traditional style, but the flute is joined by synthesiser and metallic percussion, creating a more contemporary aesthetic and dramatic impact. The performance by Christen Mooney presents a child’s voice with lapses in intonation and subtle changes to timing, including a bar in 5/4 time that allows for breath, over synthesiser sounds that include strings and occasional single chimes complement the films aesthetic. There is a freedom in the rhythm that evokes childlike singing. The melody is repetitive and motivic and the modal key presents a range that requires the singer to reach a low G at the bottom of their range. The synthesisers create a drone effect, evocative of uilleann pipes but also an effect popular in contemporary production of Irish song, particularly in groups such as Lankum (2019). The song give way to jig rhythm on the bodhrán over which is heard a violin with a classical tone, reflecting a more ‘refined’ sound and consistent rhythm than that produced by the child.

As Aisling sings her song, Pangur Bán the cat emits glowing light, transforming into a ghostlike apparition. The elaborate triskeles and hoops of ancient Irish art pervade this scene, incorporated into the environment and the design of the cat as it drifts through the abbey. These visuals also allude to The Book of Kells’ illustrations, a facsimile copy of which was referenced throughout production (Desowitz 2021). By contrast, the Abbot’s tower is dark and monotone, drawn with jagged lines and zigzags. This imagery directly reflects the lines of Crom Cruach’s lair, suggesting that this tower is a place where life and creativity are unwelcome. There is a distinctly artificial quality to the tower as Pangur continues to descend, and there is a contrast between the tower’s sharp angles and the swirling lines of the cat. The contrast builds tension, the blindingly bright spirit clashing with the cold, black halls.

“Dúlamán”

Song is central to the narrative of Song of the Sea, and we consider two – “Amhrán na Farraige” and “Dúlamán”. Both songs are represented as having magical qualities and contribute to the folkloric identification of music as connected to the Otherworld (uí Ógáin and Sherlock 2012; Kearney 2021). While the film engages with loss and reconnection, utilising music as a tool to do so, it also incorporates the lighter, jovial side of Irish song and visual art.

“Amhrán na Farraige” parallels Aisling’s song from The Secret of Kells. Although French singer songwriter Nolwenn Leroy is credited with the songs in the film, “Amhrán na Farraige” is attributed to both director Tomm Moore and Meath singer Lisa Hannigan (b.1981), who plays the character of Bronagh, the Selkie mother of the film’s heroine. Hannigan and child actor Lucy O’Connell perform the song at different points in the film. O’Connell’s child voice with breathy and almost whispered tones reflects Coulais’ typical approach and is reminiscent of Mooney’s performance in the previous film. The film develops a narrative of living between two worlds, reflected in the lyrics, and the doubling of the voice suggests an echo from or the presence of an otherworldly character. Like in a lullaby, the rhythm is not strict and there is some ornamentation reminiscent of Irish traditional singing, with a melodic contour similar to the familiar “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” but in a modal rather than major key. The melody comprises two phrases that are repeated with variations in the form AA¹BB. A long break in the vocals, with broken chords on strings continuing, creates tension and suggests a harp-like sound but on ‘new’ instruments in the tradition. The use of harp and violin with varying tonal qualities brings in suggestions of an Irish aesthetic, which is continued with the use of a timber flute playing rapid passages with an underlying 2/4 polka rhythm typical of Irish traditional music.

Figure 2. “Amhrán na Farraige”. Transcription by Author.

At the end of the film, Saoirse, realising her unique selkie heritage and her ability to take the form of a seal, undergoes a metamorphosis, rising into the air and singing the film’s central musical theme. The audience follows the sound, depicted visually as a kind of magic, as it travels across the land, freeing the various characters encountered throughout the film. It causes transformation including the reanimation of Mac Lir, who had been frozen as a rocky island, and the other daoine sídhe [fairy people], who had been turned to stone. The world of the sídhe is finally saved and the fairy folk fly across the ocean, into the west.

There is a sombre tone to both Aisling’s song during her ethereal rescue of Brendan, and Bronagh/Saoirse’s song, but Song of the Sea’s “Dúlamán” sequence (00:31:53) takes an entirely different approach to the idea of a secluded and forgotten fairy folk. Sharing similarities with the brighter and more colourful imagery of Puffin Rock (2015– ), an animated television series produced in part by Cartoon Saloon, the scene features three lively daoine sídhe as they dance, sing, and revel in the hope that Saoirse represents. The hollowed-out hill where they live is arranged almost like a traditional Irish pub or dance hall, rows of stone fairy folk making up the audience facing a wide-open stage where the band plays, and strings of electric lights give the place a warm, orange glow. The hall itself is a blend of the ancient and the modern, carved ogham signs and mossy statues sharing the same space as pipes, vintage radio sets, and discarded cans and bottles. Swirling overgrowth further confuses the distinction between old and new, giving the hideout an atmosphere of timelessness, as if the dancing and singing could be taking place anywhere and at any time. The sídhe themselves have a unique design, with grey skin and stylised features, along with extravagantly coloured garments, granting the trio a supernatural appearance.

Traditionally, the Irish folk tune they sing, “Dúlamán”, is about seaweed, and is performed with a comedic tone. Fairy characters Lug, Mossy and Spud perform new verses in the English language that relate to the narrative of the film. Evoking an Irish pub session (see Cowdery 1990; Kearney 2013), each of the singers slightly out of sync with each other, Lug plays the fiddle, Mossy sings and plays the bodhrán, and Spud plays banjo. While Spud, voiced by Liam Hourican, wishes to sing, Lug, voiced by Pat Shortt, interjects telling him that they “‘want to keep the mood up’”. After the first verse, the soundtrack continues to play a jig non-diegetically on bodhrán and fiddle. Spud sings an extemporaneous verse utilising Saoirse’s name and Saoirse joins in the merriment with a soft flute-like instrument – a special seashell that she carries with her, reinforcing the idea of music’s connection to nature and the sea. Lug announces that he has forgotten the words to the final verse but Ben, who is hiding behind the statues, sings it as he claims to have learned it from his mother:

Long, long we prayed, to hear the Selkie’s song,

And now we pray again that her song will never end.

The contrast between the warm scene and the darker elements of the narrative are accentuated as the animation cuts to an exterior shot. The mound is shown to be nestled at the centre of a roundabout, tarmac surrounding it on all sides. The sídhe appear trapped in an immense, urban cityscape, their world and their music diminishing as Ireland rapidly modernises, but even so, the mound glows with yellow light. A solitary streetlamp sticks out of it, illuminating the mound against the dark, urban street; as long as they keep dancing and keep up the old ways, the sídhe will not lose hope.

“Running with the Wolves”

The final film in the trilogy brings together all the skills that Cartoon Saloon had developed to that point in time, from experimental and ambitious techniques to more Hollywood-aligned editing and design. Wolfwalkers’ soundtrack includes a composition “Running with the Wolves”, which provides a more contemporary aesthetic and production value. It was written in 2014 by Norwegian singer-songwriter Aurora Aksnes (b.1996). A new version was created for Wolfwalkers using instruments in keeping with the rest of the soundtrack, notably the bodhrán and bouzouki, but with a greater presence of production effects. The directors have noted how the song serves a pivotal structural point in the film, with the creative team deciding to allow time to focus on the song, which marks Robyn’s irreversible transformation from hunter to wolfwalker (Toronto International Film Festival 2020). In the film, the vocals fade in over an already established riff and are secondary to the dialogue. There is a layering of vocals, which contrasts with the simpler aesthetics of the folk-like songs previously described. Wolfwalkers’ combination of traditional and digital art, merging the domestic and the international, comes through strongly in this sequence, a dramatic musical montage where Robyn truly comes to embrace her wolf form. Mebh asks her to close her eyes, telling Robyn to rely on her heightened sense of smell, touch, and hearing to create a picture of the forest in her mind. Through wolf-vision, the audience is given access to Robyn’s perspective, sketchy linework creating an organic picture of the world around her. These shots, though sparse, demanded hours of illustration with every frame being hand-drawn with pencil and charcoal (Cartoon Saloon 2021: 15). There is effective syncing between the soundtrack and imagery to intensify the dramatic node. In an interview, the directors reflect on the inclusion of ‘Running with the Wolves’ and the decision to expand the scene, while also noting the process of recording with Kíla, which was, at times, like a jam session with the musicians bringing forward ideas (Toronto International Film Festival 2020).

Figure 3. Chorus of “Moll’s Song”. Transcription by Author.

“Moll’s Song” is performed by Dublin actor and singer Maria Doyle Kennedy (b.1964),[2] who voices the character Moll MacTíre, with Kíla. “Moll’s Song” is heard in the last scene and extends into the end credits. The short song has simple lyrics sung to a five-note melody in E minor with a one octave range over bouzouki, harp, and fiddle-drone accompaniment. The vocal range dips to the lower register of Doyle Kennedy’s voice at the end, echoing the ending of “Aisling’s Song” in The Secret of Kells. The recording does not adhere to a strict metronome beat, echoing a freedom typical of Irish traditional music performance. Reflective of variation in Irish song traditions (Cowdery 1990), Doyle Kennedy varies the basic melody on each repetition of the chorus (Figure 3), while the structure of the verse involves three similar lines with an evocation of the chorus (AA¹AB). The melody is adapted and performed by Kíla as a reel with a typical Irish structure but with untypical syncopation in some bars. The song and instrumental performances are reflective of Irish bands such as Planxty and The Bothy Band that emerged in the 1970s with the notable inclusion of the bouzouki played by Dónal Lunny. The harp-led interludes between chorus and verse are evocative of the countermelodies achieved by Lunny and the mandolin/mandola playing of Andy Irvine with Planxty. This musical ending reflects a return to the aesthetics of Irish traditional music and the contribution of Irish traditional musicians to the development of the soundtrack.

Conclusion

Intricately blending visual and musical styles, Cartoon Saloon has constructed mythological worlds that are deep in symbolic meaning and defined as much by international ideas as they are distinctly Irish. Incorporating traditional and contemporary techniques, the Folklore Trilogy constructs a sophisticated musicscape and visual style. Unlike the stereotypical aesthetics of films in previous decades, appealing to predominantly Irish American audiences with a more romanticised and traditional vision of the island, the Folklore Trilogy reflects contemporary (post-ethnic) Irishness, which is seen and heard in the animation and soundtrack. Traditional Celtic artwork, such as the chiselled motifs of ancient stonework or the precise illuminations of Christian manuscripts, are digitally imbued with new life. Traditional forms of animation, such as hand drawn or charcoal techniques, are heightened in their impact using 3D digital environments and modern forms of editing. The films’ repeated use and exploration of visual and musical motifs, notably the swirling Celtic iconography that forms the foundation for the Trilogy’s visual Irish aesthetic, is aligned to the numerous songs that incorporate the Irish language into their lyrics. Musically, all three films employ traditional Irish folk instrumentation, enriching it with musical styles found across Europe and at times expanding into more orchestral pieces. Although scored by a French composer and integrating a Norwegian artist’s popular song, there is a strong sense of Irishness about the soundtracks to the Cartoon Saloon trilogy, created in part by the involvement of the band Kíla, themselves an ensemble that reflect a mixture of Irish traditional music with global influences. Irish traditional music elements are combined with other thematic ideas from wider European Folk, Western Art and Popular Musics and the music is performed on a diversity of instruments. Each of the films include songs that are repetitive and often childlike. In some instances, the use of diegetic songs that are widely known amongst an Irish public – such as “Dúlamán” – with some traditional instrumentation, enhances impressions of time and place. These are merged rather than juxtaposed with an orchestral score that embraces less-localised cinematic practice and reflects neo-traditional sounds and hybrid scores in other Irish films.

Overall, Cartoon Saloon’s Folklore Trilogy represents a refreshing and innovative take on Irish myth and storytelling, blending tradition with modernity to create a multi-layered audio-visual experience. Through meticulous attention to detail and a willingness to absorb all manner of foreign influence, animators and musicians have crafted a series of films that appeal not only to Irish audiences but have also captivated viewers worldwide. As Cartoon Saloon continues to develop, inspiring Irish artists to pursue their own productions and found their own studios, transnational collaboration will remain integral to that process and demonstrates the capacity for art to transcend cultural boundaries.

Notes

[1] See also Burnand and Sarnaker (1999); Brownrigg (2007).

[2] Doyle Kennedy first gained fame for her role as singer Natalie Murphy in The Commitments (1991).