This page is dedicated to my favorite film of all time - and if you keep reading, you might find it may become yours too!
In the annals of 1990s animation, few films have languished in such undeserved obscurity as Don Bluth’s A Troll in Central Park (1994), a work whose modest trappings conceal a veritable symphony of allegorical richness, artistic nuance, and moral inquiry. To the undiscerning eye, it may appear as little more than a lighthearted children’s fable. Yet, upon closer inspection—one sharpened by the rigors of philosophical engagement and aesthetic discernment—it reveals itself as a deeply resonant meditation on the fecundity of nature, the subversive power of kindness, and the Sisyphean struggle to cultivate beauty in a world bent on its erosion.
While visionary creator/director Don Bluth is mostly remembered for his more financially successful films like An American Tail, The Land Before Time, and Anastasia, his absolute zenith creatively was a much humbler film. Though the film only grossed $71,368 in North America, its artistic and social value are priceless. In the pantheon of cinema, films like Citizen Kane, The Godfather, and Casablanca are rightfully celebrated for their narrative complexity, thematic depth, and artistic innovation. Yet, in its own quieter, more unassuming way, A Troll in Central Park stands alongside these masterpieces as a film that, while ostensibly for children, engages with timeless themes of beauty, morality, and the human spirit’s capacity for creation.
What these so-called ‘perfect films’ offer in dramatic intensity and realism, A Troll in Central Park matches with an almost elemental sincerity—a profound assertion that the smallest acts of creation and care can resonate as deeply as the grand struggles for power and legacy that dominate the great cinematic epics. It is, in essence, a parable as timeless and universal as the rise and fall of empires, delivered with a gentleness that makes it no less resonant.
Just a "Children's Cartoon"
To dismiss this masterpiece as mere children’s entertainment would be to overlook its profundity, philosophical insight, and poetic commentary on the triumph of creation over destruction.
At its core, the film follows Stanley, a gentle troll exiled from his grim homeland (portrayed by Dom DeLuise in a career-best performance). Stanley’s transgression? Growing flowers—an act of defiance akin to Prometheus’s theft of fire. Stanley’s gift is not just horticultural but metaphysical, a refusal to submit to the barren forces of a world that fears beauty. This small act of rebellion against Queen Gnorga (Academy Award Winner Cloris Leachman), the tyrannical ruler of the Troll Kingdom, sets the stage for a moral fable that mirrors the timeless struggle between creation and annihilation, growth and decay. Gnorga’s petrifying touch, turning flowers to stone, is a symbol of the sterilizing forces that seek to control or suppress life’s natural exuberance.
In the end, Stanley, the gentle, green-thumbed troll, isn’t just a protagonist; he’s a figure of quiet revolution, echoing the unlikely heroes of cinema who fight for good in the face of overwhelming odds. Like Luke Skywalker in Star Wars, Stanley is an outsider in exile, cast out by the authoritarian Queen Gnorga, a villain as cold and unforgiving as Darth Vader. But where Luke’s rebellion is powered by the Force, Stanley’s weapon is gentler—nature itself. His ability to cultivate flowers, even in the concrete sprawl of New York’s Central Park, feels like an echo of Andy Dufresne’s rock hammer in The Shawshank Redemption—a small tool that carves out hope, piece by piece, against a backdrop of bleak, oppressive inevitability.
Central Park becomes a battleground for the soul, much like Hill Valley in Back to the Future or Rick’s Café in Casablanca—a place where small acts can shift the tide of destiny. Stanley’s interactions with the human children, Gus and Rosie, evoke the journey of reluctant heroes we’ve seen in classics like Indiana Jones—initially cynical but gradually awakening to a greater reality. Gus’s reluctance to believe in Stanley’s magic mirrors Han Solo’s skepticism about the Force, but both characters ultimately learn that wonder, and belief in something greater than themselves, is not only real but transformative.
What makes A Troll in Central Park so compelling is that it couches these grand themes in a narrative that’s soft, almost gentle, but no less powerful. Stanley’s flowers, seemingly delicate, become symbols of resistance—like the small but persistent flame of hope in The Shawshank Redemption. Bluth’s film reminds us that goodness isn’t a grand gesture, but a quiet persistence, a nurturing force that, like the Rebellion in Star Wars, refuses to be extinguished even when surrounded by the darkness of an empire bent on control.
In the end, A Troll in Central Park offers a vision not unlike George Bailey’s revelation in It’s a Wonderful Life—that the smallest acts of kindness can ripple outward, transforming even the hardest of hearts and the most unforgiving of landscapes. Stanley’s flowers bloom not just in Central Park but in the viewer’s heart, reminding us, like all great films, that to nurture beauty in the face of destruction is the bravest act of all.