***
November 11, 2025 at 4:19 PM
The sea was a blue smear in the distance, the forests a garish green velvet on the steep mountain slopes, and the meadows were a gaudy patchwork on the valley floor. Allegedly. The thin streams of water pouring from above somewhat obscured the full magnificence of Moominvalley, and as for peace and quiet, there was none. The shooting crew were scurrying about like ants under a watering can. The more stoic ones were hauling a hill, or a bridge, or coils of cable to a drier location, while the more high-strung ones were loudly demanding to know what was going on from anyone in earshot. But the Assistant Director, a creature of indeterminate species and gender, held a tactical advantage—a megaphone.
“Why has the fire alarm gone off?” they bellowed across the entire soundstage, frantically outpacing their own amplified voice. “Switch it off immediately!”
“But we’re filming the railway episode today,” one of the Hemulen extras in a workman’s overall dared to speak up, “perhaps it’s the smoke from a crane…”
“The smoke will be added digitally in post-production! On set, everything must be absolutely safe and bias-free! In theory. Oh, the director will have my head for this…”
“It’s your smoking cubicle that’s failed.” A sodden and grimy Hodgkins emerged from the thick of the artificial rain. He was supporting a spluttering Moominpappa under the arm. “Because certain inquisitive and headstrong creatures took it upon themselves to overload it, and this sociable creature,” he jabbed a finger at the moomin’s top hat “was helping them with gusto, nearly working himself into a coronary.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle!” Moominpappa declared, swaying slightly. “I’ve still got it! If I can’t smoke in the frame, at least let me have a proper break. What is the world coming to? O tempora, o mores! An adult moomintroll cannot be seen with a pipe! I remember, in sixty nine and seventy two, in Japan, none of the writers or directors batted an eye at a smoking character. Good heavens, even in the nineties series, I was allowed my pipe in shot, while they had already absolutely forbidden Snufkin from smoking by then. Though during the Riviera shoot in two k fifteen, my comic-book alter-ego was denied a pipe, while the comic-book Snufkin was permitted one… They make no sense, your cinema industry rules.”
So he kept on grumbling as he trailed behind the Assistant Director out of the set. The transparent plastic smoking cubicle stood outside the filming pavilion, but it now resembled a murky-grey cube, with tendrils of smoke creeping from its joints like the heads of a hydra.
“So, the two of you and Snufkin did this?” the A.D. gasped in awe.
“Three of us!” Moominpappa responded proudly. “You yourself invited the crew of the Ocean Orchestra on set. So Joxter was also eager to get his nicotine fix in early.”
“But he doesn’t have any scenes today…”
“Very early.”
The A.D. let out a heavy, guttural sigh. “How do we smoke these terrorists out before they trigger the entire studio’s fire systems? How many cartons do they have? They must need to come out for supplies eventually.”
“A crate of smuggled pipe tobacco,” Moominpappa replied, not without a hint of pride. “Should last a couple of weeks.”
But the A.D. was no longer listening, having spotted the cranes involved in the scene and directing them to their true calling: hoisting the entire cubicle up. This, of course, only happened after the studio control room had deactivated the fire suppression systems and switched the extractor fans to maximum. A column of smoke, like a tornado or a nuclear mushroom cloud, billowed out in all directions before surging upwards. Two mumriks sat on the ash-strewn square floor patch, both deeply displeased and slightly green to match the hue of their frocks.
“Shame on you!” Fillyjonk shrilled, clutching a handkerchief to her long nose. “If you have no regard for your own health, you might at least respect your co-stars! One can smell the tobacco on you from a mile away, and at two paces range you’re outright toxic! I nearly died during filming of the November episode! And today I have a group scene with him!” she pointed a trembling pinkie at Snufkin.
Snorkmaiden, nauseous green with a pink forelock, peered out from behind a prop tree.
“No, really, Snufkin,” she began, her voice a blend of exasperation and nausea. “Can you truly not endure a few hours without fumigating the entire set? Back in '69, I spent two whole seasons of the series looking all green because you scarcely took that pipe off your mouth! And now there are more modern solutions, you know. Nicotine gum, patches…”
“Yes, yes, I’m well aware,” Snufkin smirked, patting his chest. “I specifically had it written into my contract that there would be no undressing scenes. Just so I could wear a patch or ten in peace. My experience in the nineties series was quite enough, thank you.”
“What did you expect from the Japanese?” the Snork sneered. He was greenish grey with irritation. “Every one of their series simply must have a hot spring bathing scene. And besides, you got that one all to yourself. Frankly, I don’t see what you’re complaining about.”
“Oh, yes. All to myself. Just me and a crowd of fifty technicians.”
“What’s this, a tea party?” the Assistant Director’s voice sliced through their languid bickering. “The director will be here any moment, and you’re not even ready! Snork, calm down and change colour, please. You’re supposed to be white with a blue forelock. Snufkin, it’s a pity you can’t manage the same trick. Be off to Make-up at once, they have the daunting task of transforming a tobacco-stained vagrant into a glamorous vagrant who can pass for Moomintroll’s coeval.”
“But I simply don’t understand,” Snorkmaiden lamented from a distance, her outrage undimmed. “Why must we Snorks always be white while in reality we change colour? It would look so beautiful on screen! And yet here I am, condemned to cosplay a marshmallow and live in constant fear of sitting on someone’s ketchup-drenched hot dog.”
“On screen, perhaps,” the A.D. deigned to explain, their patience visibly thinner than the set’s budget. “But for the merchandise, we need a fixed colour palette. Figurines, mugs, packaging, and towels can’t shimmer with a rainbow of emotions. White is the most versatile. Now, move.”
“Who could have possibly doubted that the main purpose of your project was to churn out merchandise and squeeze money from the fans,” Snufkin spat onto the artificial grass and shuffled off towards the makeup trailers. “And why am I even in this? Who remembers?…”
Before anyone could offer sympathy, a voice suddenly thundered from the speakers mounted on the gantries, making every actor and crew member jump. The Assistant Director immediately began waving a servile little wave towards the director’s box overlooking the set. “Why?” A grim, ominous figure was silhouetted in the chair, but the spotlights made it impossible to see any detail. “Because fewer and fewer people read books when there are TV shows, streaming platforms, video hosting websites, and all the rest. For a book to be opened, for you to continue to live, the audience must first see you on various screens—or on shop shelves, yes. And adaptations must differ from the book, firstly so the viewers retain interest when they become readers, and secondly, because we directors are creative people too. This is our vision.”
A few cast members rolled their eyes; a Hemulen tried to clap, realised no one else was joining in, and quickly pretended to scratch his ear instead.
“Right then,” the director continued. “While our 'star' deigns to get ready, I have an important announcement. I see Joxter. Hodgkins, where’s Muddler?”
“In the buffet,” Hodgkins replied without enthusiasm. “Scrounging empty coffee tins in this age of coffee capsules.”
“He’ll hear the announcement, then. Good. Well now, I regret to announce that the book of The Memoirs of Moominpappa will not be incorporated into this final season. Nor will there be a separate feature film.”
“WHAT?!” A shriek from Sniff cut through the general murmur of astonishment. “You mean I won’t get any parents, OR a button collection to inherit?!”
“And was that the only reason we had to come in today?” Hodgkins grumbled. “Are we done? Can we go?”
“Yes,” the speakers hissed with carefully calibrated sorrow. “But you, Joxter, I’ll ask to stay. You are in three episodes this season, but later. You may wait in any discreet corner, but if I catch you smoking in unauthorised areas, I’ll schedule you for extra autograph sessions.”
A horrified little “Oh,” escaped Joxter. For the first time he seemed genuinely frightened, but he quickly recovered his composure. “Alright, alright. Where would you be without me? I’m the sex symbol of the entire franchise. My army of fangirls will cancel you if I’m not around.”
“You’re the sex symbol?” Little My sprang out from nowhere, planting herself in front of him with her paws on her hips—a furious sparrow squaring up to a pigeon. “Actually, that’s my brother, not you.”
“Only thanks to my genes,” the elder mumrik observed, entirely unbothered, “and the fact that he gets more screen time, which is mostly for fan service.”
“Actually,” a quiet, flat voice said from the edge of the group, “I’m the title character.” Moomintroll had approached unnoticed. If he were a snork, he would undoubtedly have been a dull, defeated grey.
“Well, technically,” Snork interjected with a pedantic air, adjusting his spectacles, “this time the series is called Moominvalley, so one could argue the title character is all of us, collectively…”
“I’m the main one!” Stinky burst from behind a prop bush, prompting everyone nearby to pinch their noses and get nostalgic for the plain scent of pipe smoke. “Seriously, fellas, I wasn’t even in the books, just the comic strips, but I’ve been invited to every single, bloomin' adaptation since the sixties, right up to…”
“Well, technically,” Snork interrupted with a pedantry worthy of a better cause, “not every one. You weren’t in Moomins on the Riviera, nor in either of the Soviet cartoons…”
“Oh, please! In the USSR there was no sex, no decent sausages, and no Little My, let alone yours truly…”
“Stinky, vanish! You’re not in today’s episode!” the Assistant Director brandishing a rolled-up script. But the hairy little stinkball simply stuck out his tongue and fled, sending props flying. While the crew sighed and trudged about, restoring plastic bushes and trees to their approximate locations, Snorkmaiden took Moomintroll gently by the paw. She peered into his eyes, and asked with genuine concern, “What is the matter, darling? You look so dreadfully glum.”
“He’s not glum,” Little My answered for him, looking terribly pleased with herself, as usual. “He’s culturally shocked. As his older and wiser adopted sibling, I decided to help him gain a deeper, more modern understanding of his role. I introduced him to Twitter, Tumblr, the fanfiction… hee hee. So now he’s, you know… processing.”
“Oh, my poor darling, I know how you feel,” Snorkmaiden cooed, tucking Moomintroll’s paw under hers and giving it a pat. “I’ve been reading Twitter, too. And the scripts. I mean, yes, a girl can be strong and independent and have interests beyond boys… But I like preening myself. I like it when men perform grand deeds for me and give me little mirrors and other delightful trifles. And I don’t like it,” a note of genuine hurt entered her voice, “when they look at other girls! Or anyone else.”
“But I don’t!” Moomintroll protested, slightly invigorated. “You’re my only sweetheart!”
“And what about the sea horses?” she pressed, definitely sulking now.
“That was a passing fancy!”
“And the statue of the beautiful lady washed ashore?”
“Well, that’s just a statue, it’s not even alive!”
“And the Groke?”
“I just felt sorry for her, she’s so terribly lonely… Besides, in this series, as I’ve heard, it’s Little My who’s going to be friends with the Groke, not me. Oh, Snorkmaiden,” he sighed, attempting to change the subject, “I’ve played myself so many times I’m starting to get confused about what actually happened, what I truly felt, and what was just in another script. Don’t you ever get scared… that you might forget which one is the real you?”
She fell into a thoughtful silence, her indignation melting, if not into forgiveness then at least into a quiet melancholy. And before she came up with a reply, it was a completely different voice that answered first.
“That is precisely why I have always said that the main thing in life is to know your own mind. Then, you will never become lost in the fantasies of others.”
It was Snufkin, returned from the makeup booth, looking utterly pristine, radiant, and rosy-cheeked, as if they were shooting a premium apple juice commercial. Moomintroll fell silent, his gaze fixed on him, only snapping out of it when Snorkmaiden used her paw to gently push his dropped jaw back into place. Just then, the Assistant Director began blaring their megaphone, herding the crew and the principal actors to their positions. Moomintroll himself had a few seconds before the opening credits, and he hurried to seize Snorkmaiden’s still-green paws.
“You’ve got it all wrong! Everything people write and draw on the internet just is not true. It’s simply friendship and an admiration for his free spirit…”
“Well, technically,” Snork interjected with another unsolicited fact, “I’ve read that our author created you, Moomintroll, as her own alter-ego, and Snufkin got a great deal of her boyfriend and fiancé's qualities. So, subconsciously, romantic undertones could very well—”
Moomintroll and Snorkmaiden turned and fixed him with such a synchronised, venomous glare that even a creature of his profound insensitivity thought it best to shut up and go rehearse his own lines for the next scene.
***
“Oh, groke have you all!” Sniff shrieked, scrambling up from the artificial turf and clutching his head. “My salary is far too low for me to be knocked over by a boulder as if I were some kind of bowling pin! That’s it, I quit! Find some other idiot!”
“Stop!” the Assistant Director yelled, trying to outshout him. “According to the script, you’re supposed to be hit by a handcar first, and then you can stomp off towards the hemulens!”
“I’m not talking about the script, I’m talking about altogether!” he retorted, already struggling to peel off his costume of the Elusive Ant-Lion.
“Be careful with the prop! You still need it for several more takes!” the A.D. cried, a note of panic creeping in as they scanned the set for a solution. Their eyes landed on Moomintroll, and inspiration flickered finally. “Sniff, wait! What about episode six? You’ve got a leading role there. With… a whole harem.”
Sniff froze mid-stride. He turned slowly.
“A harem?” he asked, his voice suddenly curious. “Who’s in it?”
“Well…” The A.D. scratched the back of their head with the rolled-up script, choosing words with minimal spoilers. “Among others… Mymble Sr. And Ms. Fillyjonk.”
Sniff squinted, calculating the prospects and casting a speculative glance towards the ladies in question. A distinct gleam appeared in his eyes. This, however, was precisely the moment for Fillyjonk to voice her protest across the entire set.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” she raged, marching towards the A.D. “I demand to see that script this instant! I will not participate in such… such debauched narrative speculation until I have reviewed every last word with my own eyes!”
The script for the episode in question was, of course, still with the writers. But this did not deter her in the slightest, and an unscheduled break had to be called while she stormed off to find out the truth, her cries echoing in her wake.
“Aren’t you the least bit curious about this so-called harem?” Joxter asked Mymble lazily. He had chosen her lap as his waiting area and was now purring softly, his head resting against her monumental bosom.
“Nope,” the Mymble dismissed with the same languid air while giving him behind-the-ear scritches. “Little Sniff can’t possibly handle me. And why do you ask? Feeling a tad jealous, are we?”
“Don’t be absurd! Mumriks don’t do jealousy. And in that, my sweet, you and I are of one mind. Which means you won’t mind if the writers finally pushed through my second most popular fan-pairing in this series, with…”
“NO!” Snufkin barked from the handcar where the youngsters were playing rock-paper-scissors during the unscheduled break. Moomintroll, Sniff and Snork stared at him puzzled, while Little My did an evil smirk. “Don’t even think about it! Not a chance!”
Joxter blinked at him, baffled for a second, then broke into a wide, mischievous grin.
“…with apples. I enjoy eating apples almost as much as smoking, and they won’t let me do either. And what were you thinking of?”
Snufkin pulled his hat down over his nose and said nothing. His father, however, seemed intent on continuing the thought.
" Well, judging by the trends, the third most popular pairing is probably with Moominpappa, and only the fourth is with…”
He never reached the end of the phrase. A giggling, radiant Fillyjonk had returned. At the sight of Sniff, she even had to fetch her handkerchief to dab tears of mirth from her eyes.
“Oh, what an anecdote, a harem for him,” she confided in a hushed, delighted tone to Moominmamma. “And really I’m the one who’s getting a proper harem.”
A sudden dark thought drifted across her muzzle like a storm cloud.
“And they’ll all—with the horse and the pasta—come trampling into my perfectly maintained courtyard?! All of them bringing mud and hoofprints and crumbs into my spotless garden?! horror! Although,” she hurried to latch onto another, more comfortable thought, “this isn’t my real home, it’s just a studio set… A very realistic set. And very clean; pristine, actually. And very symmetrical… Oh dear. Seeing it dirty will hurt my feelings just as much as the real thing…”
She seemed capable of agonising over this until evening, but the A. D. had already begun to corral the actors back to their positions. The scene was a populous one, and a great many more just like it lay ahead—scenes where everyone would mix up their lines and forget their stage directions, drop props, demand water and loo breaks, get distracted chatting to off-duty friends, or fail to grasp the Great Director’s Vision. Or, worst of all, grasp it perfectly and proceed to sabotage it.
“Scene sixty-five, take fifteen.” Even the clapper loader sounded exhausted, so one can imagine the state of the A.D. and the performers themselves. Only the Director remained tireless and implacable in his empyrean behind the spotlights, issuing directives with the voice of God.
“Snufkin,” the voice boomed between the cuts, “I am well aware you despise fan service. However, thousands of viewers are looking forward to it and, frankly, watch this series solely for you and Moomintroll. Their beautiful dreams must be nourished. Moomintroll, what is the matter? You usually excel at playing the smitten admirer; why the long face today?”
“Why, why indeed,” Moomintroll muttered under his breath, taking his starting position next to the model rollercoaster. “I only just found out today what I’ve actually been playing. And I finally understand why Snorkmaiden is always so cross with me.”
“The faster we wrap this scene, the faster you can go and convince her otherwise,” the A.D. standing nearby hissed. “What’s so difficult? You each have one line. Look into each other’s eyes, squint slightly and smile as if you’re beholding something fascinating and precious, then lean in a little closer, as if for a kiss—but not all the way, naturally, this is a children’s show, the fans must do the imagining for themselves… Ten seconds, that’s all, then we cut and zoom out. Alright. Picture’s up! Rolling!”
Another clap of the slate, another call to Action, and the actors took their places on the rollercoaster benches.
“I thought you were amazing, standing up to the Hemulen foreman like that,” Moomintroll recited his scripted line loud, then whispered, barely moving the side of his snout facing away from the camera, “If Snorkmaiden dumps me, I’ll challenge the director to a duel. With frying pans.”
“I didn’t want the railway. And I didn’t want to lose my friend,” Snufkin said his line, then added in a conspiratorial whisper, “And I’ll stuff Hattifattener seeds into his car’s radiator.”
“Maybe,” Moomintroll continued with glee, leaning in towards his friend, “after the shoot, we could toss in a rotten herring into his control box up there? Let it fester until morning?”
“Excellent. And a bucket of red ants.”
“Cut! There!” the Director’s voice boomed from the speakers. “There’s the look I asked for! You can do it! Now I believe it! Now there’s a light in your eyes, an invisible, binding thread! Let’s keep this momentum going! On to the next scene. Antlion, prepare.”
“No, wait just a minute!” a protesting squeak pierced the air. Its source was lost somewhere in the crowd of extras. “Are you having a laugh?! Is that my entire part? Pop out of a bush for three seconds, meow, and that’s it? Me, the Antlion! For your information, in real life I very nearly ate a moominmamma! And it took magic and low cunning to best me. And you’ve turned me into…” the indignant predator squeaked, searching for the word, “…a bug!”
“Well, you are a bug,” Little My cut in mercilessly. She hauled him out into the electric light from under the foot of a Hemulen—an easy task for her, as the Ant-Lion, despite his frantic flailing, didn’t even reach her waist and couldn’t break free. “Nobody bothered to magic you back to your proper size in real life. Now, on cue, you’ll pop out of the grass, meow, then I’ll do my bit, and we can all finally go home. Or shall I give you a dip in the paraffin first?”
“Yes, do stop holding up the entire process, please,” Snork suddenly chimed in, supporting her. “Honestly, getting so worked up over a rewritten part… I, for one, don’t fuss every time a new project, from the seventies to this very day, inexplicably casts me as an amateur inventor, when I am merely an individual who enjoys organising others, chairing meetings, and maintaining order… Unlike some,” he adjusted his spectacles and aimed a stern glare first at the Antlion, then at Snufkin, “I understand the meaning of responsibility and organisation.”
“Thank you for your understanding,” the A.D. said, clapping him on the shoulder, but had no time to issue another command. Little My tossed the Antlion at his feet and declared, quite loud for one of her size:
“You know, this bug has more sense than Snork! While we keep quiet and behave res-pon-si-bly,” she spat the word out like a fly that had landed on her tongue, “all these writers and directors will keep turning us into groke-knows-what! They won’t even let me swear properly, or pour paraffin on anthills…”
“Yes, precisely, my dear!” the Mymble chimed in, stepping forward. “This time, they didn’t even invite my eldest daughter, and I have to mind the children and play her part all by myself!”
“You’re not doing a very good job of minding them, or, to be more exact, you don’t mind them at all,” Fillyjonk snapped, pointing a trembling finger at the cluster of tiny mymbles who had latched onto the A.D. like a swarm of affectionate barnacles. “I am perfectly satisfied with everything, except for the utter irresponsibility of certain individuals, which is why we’ve been stuck here for two extra hours and can’t go home!”
Word piled upon word, growing louder and thicker, and within ten minutes of chaos, the characters had split into two factions: the Defenders of Order (chiefly the Hemulens and Fillyjonk) and the Champions of Justice (all the others, particularly those who had suffered most from directorial tyranny). Only Moominmamma attempted to mediate, but she quickly gave up, while Snufkin scanned the set for an escape from the crowd, only to find all potential retreats blocked.
Moominpappa, naturally, had initially thrown his lot in with the oppressed. But the moment the A.D. managed to bellow an offer over the racket—hinting that he could keep the model train after filming—Moominpappa performed a spectacular volte-face. “Creative souls always have an unique perspective on narratives!” he proclaimed, striking a heroic inspired pose. “And wouldn’t you all find it fascinating to spend a few working days as slightly different versions of yourselves, to view your lives from an unexpected angle?”
Moomintroll and Snufkin stared at him as if he were a class traitor.
“Let’s go on strike!” Stinky was the first to propose it, and the Champions of Justice immediately rallied behind him.
“Yes! They must rewrite the script properly, or we refuse to film any further!” the Mymble yelled, shaking her fist, a gesture instantly mimicked by all her children.
“An excellent idea!” Snorkmaiden turned to Moomintroll, who immediately puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders. “If all of us—well, even half of us—refuse to perform, the producers will be forced to come to terms with us. Why, even just the two of you! The director himself said you and Snufkin are the main draws; if you present an ultimatum…”
“…It won’t work,” Snufkin suddenly snapped. Moomintroll turned to him in silent astonishment, and even the colleagues milling around them fell quiet, all eyes on the vagabond. Under such scrutiny, he shrank back, pulling his hat down, but with no escape route, he was forced to explain. “It’s not just one director we’re up against. It’s the system. The whole industry. It will swallow and digest any protest. I’ve tried to fight it before. Turned down the role.”
“And?” Moomintroll couldn’t bear the suspense. “It d-didn’t work? When was this? I don’t remember.”
“Nineteen sixty-nine,” Snufkin was reluctant to continue. “I refused. Guns, chases… Not my style. 'Okay, ' the producers said, 'fine by us, you may go.'”
“What do you mean?” Moomintroll was baffled. He looked back at Snorkmaiden, then at his parents. “But who were we filming with, then? I thought it was you… Although, to be fair, you were rather difficult to recognise.”
“With my alter-ego from the comics,” Snufkin clarified flatly. “He’s a bit of a trickster, that one. He agreed. So you see… no one is irreplaceable in this business. Right, Sniff?” He spun sharply to face the creature in question. “Did you really think no one would notice you’re not from the books, but from the comics as well?”
Sniff flattened his ears and took a precautionary step backwards.
“So what if I am? He asked me to take his place because the script gave him creeps—so many dreadful things kept happening to him in it. It gives me creeps too, but I’m willing to put up with it for the fee.”
“Oh, so that’s why you’re always going on about treasure, money, and business opportunities!” Moomintroll beamed with relief. “I was starting to worry you were changing for the worse with age, or that you were just taking the role a bit too seriously. So the old Sniff is still somewhere around? We must find him after the shoot, have a proper chat, maybe take a trip to the seaside!..”
“Cut!” the Director’s voice boomed from the speakers. “Snufkin has made a very good point. The industry will swallow everything. This little protest of yours has provided excellent footage for this episode. With some trimming, of course. And, you know, it’s not too late to splice some of it into the 'Homecoming' episode of season three, which is still in post-production. And the scene where Moominpappa is bribed over to the other side with a model train is not bad at all. We’ll re-dub that and slot it in this episode, too… Oh, and I have some news. A feature film based on your book is in the works for the next couple of years. They haven’t specified which book, mind you, but do prepare to work with my colleague, Rebecca Sugar, creator of Steven Universe, if any of you are familiar with the title.”
"Not familiar," Snufkin said into the ensuing silence, then smiled a small, enigmatic smile. "And it does not matter. We’re still ourselves. Snorkmaiden, Moomintroll loves you, he just has a lot of friends, including best ones. Fillyjonk, you perfect house still waits you where you left it. Little My, you’re still the biggest bad mouth around. And I have no intentions to quit smoking. As for the viewers… No matter what comes off an editing bench, they will still come to the books, to us, and find out the truth."
The pavilion hummed with pensive, protesting or agreeing whispers.
"Right!" the A.D. exclaimed, clapping their hands. "Now that we've had our lovely little cast bonding moment, let's use this raw emotional energy for the final shots! Antlion, you have no reasons to be sour, you’re much cuter that way than in the previous Japanese series. And the little screentime does not leave you room to look stupid. You’ll have fans, I promise. Little My, squirrel, hedgehog, hemulens, then everyone, prepare."
The cast, too shell-shocked to protest further, were herded into verdant scenery around a sky-blue rollercoaster, a Moominvalley as imagined by the marketing committee. The peaceful music would be applied in post-production, and now commands to the crew and cast were a bit out of tune with the 3D-rendered vistas.
And Antlion’s roar was very quiet and cute, indeed.
