Atreyu: what became of thee?

People born in the early-eighties, and those eras that shoulder it, tend to recall children’s films of their time as unusually dark and awesome. And, in their own minds, they are correct.

The key releases in that canon, as you will no doubt recall, were: Dark Crystal (1982), The Neverending Story (1984), Return to Oz (1985), Labyrinth (1986) and Willow (1988). Others would try and put a film like Ladyhawke (1985) in there; I will not on the grounds that it is the worst film I have ever seen (Michelle Pfeiffer is a woman by night and a hawke by day, Rutger Hauer is wolf by night and a man by day, some bullshit happens, the whole thing is explained in a speech I couldn’t be bothered listening to by Leo McKern in the role of annoying old man who lives in a hole and waits to deliver critical information at inconvenient times).

You will notice that the key releases catalogued here all have something in common. Indeed, they have everything in common. Despite the fact that each of these films takes place in a slightly varied medieval fantasy land, they are almost exactly the same story — child or midget requires the help of other midgets or local mental defects to defeat a totalitarian government, wins. I fancy this paradigm was established by Dark Crystal since it preceded all other aforementioned key releases, and was perpetuated on the basis that Dark Crystal grossed billions, thus establishing both the anatomy of the “dark midget” genre and its cash potential.

Viewing these films as an adult tends to crush one’s inner child. The ending of Return to Oz is one of the worst narrative resolutions I’ve ever seen — the evil overlord eats an egg, turns out he was allergic to eggs, dies. He might as well have had a terminal reaction to eating Dorothy’s shit. The Neverending Story’s narrative closure is possibly even worse — after Bastian saves Fantasia by giving the empress a new name (“Moonchild”), he assumes control of the universe, and demands a ride on Falcor, whom he careens into the streets of the real world in order to chase his school yard tormentors into a garbage bin. I recall enjoying this revenge sequence as a child, but as an adult cannot buy it conceptually, nor the voiceover that follows — a man’s voice manifests out of literally nowhere and announces, “Bastian had many other adventures, but that’s another story!” Yes, another “neverending” story, no doubt. This conclusion owes something to the fact that director Wolfgang Petersen chose to adapt only half the film’s source material, the 1979 novel Die Unendliche Geschichte; in the original text, Bastian, after using Falcor as a weapon of terror, becomes consumed by his lust for power, beats Atréyu and launches a coup d’état against the Childlike Empress, Moonchild, or “Mondenkind” in the original German.

Narrative chasms notwithstanding, The Neverending Story is an unspeakably awesome production, the emotional intensity of which does not dwindle with time. Owing much to the work of Italian composer Giorgio Moroder (also composer for Scarface, makes sense, the synth-work is conspicuously awesome on both counts), Neverending Story was the most expensive German film ever produced — its legend would spawn a franchise, attract an unusual amount of morbid crap (the film’s editor, Jane Seitz, also editor on Christiane F, would commit suicide shortly after the film’s release; the sequel’s star, Jonathan Brandis, would hang himself as 27, allegedly depressed by his lagging career) and would immortalise Atréyu in the eternal dark midget cosmoverse.

Of course, the dark midget genre boasts an epic sexual pull. Those raised on it will no doubt recall which character they themselves held precious — Sorcha, Sarah, Jareth, Jen, Kira, what have you — but for so many younger women, it was Atréyu, his perfect skin, his soft ropes of hair, his sad and devouring eyes, that seized their tender hearts. Not me. No, I fear my own tastes were a little more mature, a little more Val Kilmer-based. But the power in the young Atréyu’s performance did not escape me, as indeed it does not escape me now, for the young actor’s performance has not been spoiled with time.

Inheriting natural charms from his paternal Native American bloodline (family photos reveal a staggeringly handsome old man Atréyu), actor Noah Hathaway, 13 at the time of the film’s release, gave unto the role, performing all his own stunts, as per the demands of director Petersen. In more recent years, Hathaway has been eager to disparage Petersen’s methods, recounting the injuries he sustained for the role; Hathaway was stood on by a horse (presumably Artax), was stabbed in the face by The G’mork and became trapped in an elevator, pulling him into the Swamps of Sadness (he was unconscious once finally dragged to the surface). Hathaway has stated he would need to be paid a “ridiculous” amount of money to do another film with Petersen.

The film seemed to consecrate Hathaway, or at the very least guarantee employment. His rendering of Atréyu had been epic, his resume was sound (Hathaway had enjoyed guest roles in Battlestar Gallactica, Mork and Mindy, Eight is Enough and Laverne and Shirley), he was successfully directed by Petersen, despite the fact Petersen spoke only German on set (“I speak French fluently, so that really helped,” Hathaway says), and by 1986 the Munich-based Noah International Fan Club exceeded 1000 members. Following a brief appearance on Family Ties, Hathaway swiftly signed on for the Italian production of Troll (1986), co-starring Sonny Bono, but the film was disturbingly bad, and Hathaway’s career seemed to terminate almost immediately after the fact.*

For years, Hathaway has maintained that a “serious injury” has prevented him from accepting further acting roles, leading him to concentrate on motorcycle fabrication, after a short-lived appointment as a mortgage broker. “I have always rode [sic] motorcycles,” Hathaway attests on his MySpace profile, which identifies his general interests as “fire” and “porn”, his preferred music genre as “anything that fucking rocks”, and his mood as of writing this article as “high”. “My wife is a tattoo artist, makeup artist and all around amazing woman,” Hathaway explains. “She does makeup for such porn companies as Evil Angel, Red Light, Elegant Angel, Shane’s World, etc.” Hathaway himself is richly tattooed, exhibiting skulls, Japanese ornaments and weed.

Disappointed? Confused? In your heart, did you believe that Noah Hathaway was still riding Artax through the beckoning, sunlit valleys of Fantasia, somehow, somewhere? Well, he’s not. He’s watching porn and he’s high. But you can’t blame Hathaway for killing the dark midget genre; it was already dead.

* The name of Hathaway’s character in Troll was “Harry Potter Jnr”, thus leading many to suggest that the writer Rowling stole the name. I doubt this. Firstly, Troll is unwatchable. Secondly, I doubt Rowling cobbled her books together from names, places and plot devices she picked up from F-grade Sonny Bono movies.

Read more about this issue of Nerds Gone Wild!, available to buy here.

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