Humans are complicated creatures, and it is sometimes difficult to break down and fully explore what it means to be human, even in film or animation. So, it comes as a bit of a surprise when some of the best representation of human nature is done so through the use of animals; more specifically, anthropomorphic animal-human hybrids, like the ones found littered throughout the art of Lisa Hanawalt. Perhaps best known for her work as the production designer on Netflix’s Bojack Horseman or as the creator of Tuca & Bertie, Lisa Hanawalt is a prolific modern artist, whose personal comics also delve into the human psyche and nature, and, like her cartoons, use strange humans with animal heads (or maybe animals with human bodies?) as a mode of delivery for her various thoughts and sometimes comedic commentary on life.

Unlike the classically cute cartoon creatures of Disney and other children’s media, Hanawalt’s art often finds itself falling into a more creepy or disturbing category of work, where her characters straddle the line between human and animalistic; they embody traits of both, offering a strange and rather nuanced perspective on how human beings view themselves, versus how they want to be viewed. When it comes to Bojack in Bojack Horseman, a strange dichotomy arises with the character; Bojack (Will Arnett) is a horse, a creature often associated with freedom and grace, yet his reality is that of a washed-up celebrity-turned-alcoholic, who spends his days drunk and/or high, reminiscing about his waning fame. It's an uncomfortably appropriate comparison to the fall from grace that so many celebrities experience in the real world.

RELATED: How 'Tuca & Bertie' Examines Family Effects on Mental Health

A young Bojack with his parents
Image via Netflix

It’s the fact that the animal and human characteristics of Hanawalt’s creatures tend to morph and merge together until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins, that makes her creations so alluring. At times, it takes a while for both the character and the audience to recognize the behaviors of a character for what they truly are; Mr. Peanut Butter (Paul F. Tompkins) is a dog - he’s happy and excitable, and attached to those he loves. At the same time, he’s often self-centered and impulsive, with a positivity that can sometimes come off as condescending or insensitive. All of these can be attributed to the fact that he’s a yellow lab, but they’re also real characteristics of real people, and it’s difficult to say on which side Mr. Peanut Butter falls, if he can even be placed on one side or the other.

Like a real human being, these traits might just be a part of who Mr. Peanut Butter is at his core, a part of his very nature, but they could also be hints to underlying problems, such as an over-dependence on his partners. A dog doing nothing all day but waiting for their favorite person to get home is sweet and expected, but when placed in the context of someone with a job, a car, and taxes, suddenly Mr. Peanut Butter wasting his days waiting for his wife to return feels rather uncomfortable and sad. The viewer is forced to confront what they once may have thought of as charming as something undesirable or something that demands change. Whether they find themselves connecting to such things is just an added layer to the journey that Hanawalt’s art opens up for viewers.

A still from BoJack Horseman episode The Dog Days Are Over
Image via Netflix

The other side of Hanawalt’s art comes in the form of embracing the animalistic; her comic Coyote Doggirl follows the aforementioned title character and her horse, as they travel together through the Wild West. “I wanted to recreate a Western in my own voice, through my own eyes,” Hanawalt stated when speaking with HuffPost. “To tell a story about female struggle and female pain from my own perspective.” Like in her show, Tuca & Bertie, the women of Hanawalt’s comic, Coyote Doggirl in particular, are animalistic and tangible; they reject the standards placed for most women in media, refusing to tone themselves down into something one might consider ‘palatable.’ Their speech can be vulgar or ‘uncouth,’ and they face no consequences, other than when the words themselves come alive in cartoonish style. They are allowed to not only feel but act upon and relish in the emotions they experience, no matter how strong; their animal natures only add to this, creating an avenue in which feelings of all shapes and sizes can be expressed.

In Tuca & Bertie, Hanawalt creates a world where characters can scream and crow like roosters when upset, can flap their arms wildly, and can eat their own eggs without the sense that it’s weird or unnatural. Hanawalt credits the first ideas of Tuca & Bertie to a nature documentary, where she witnessed a toucan stealing and eating other birds’ eggs. She felt an immediate connection to the toucan, thinking “That’s me! I eat all the eggs!” For Hanawalt, Tuca (Tiffany Haddish) and Bertie (Ali Wong) represent two sides of herself — two sides of her own humanity. The bombastic and sometimes selfish inner-toucan, who sometimes feels like consuming ‘all the eggs,’ and the shy and quiet outer-songbird, filled with various anxieties and worries. Hanawalt isn’t alone in such an interpretation; oftentimes, it is these two sides that people experience in their own lives - the part that wishes to be loud and proud about their talents, that wishes for a little more than what they should, and the part that is too caught up in blending in and fitting in to feel free.

tuca-and-bertie-season-1-tuca-bertie-social
Image via Netflix

Tuca & Bertie’s unapologetic take on everyday life, especially when it comes to women, is only enhanced by the fact the characters are not human; they are the animalistic root that plenty of people connect with, going about the daily lives that plenty of people live. There’s something very personal about watching a songbird struggle with the anxieties of buying her first house and growing old; it isn’t some human actress that can be so easily removed and treated as a stranger. Despite Bertie having her own personality and characteristics, the fact that she’s a bird makes it infinitely easier to project oneself onto her form and struggles. She’s something familiar enough not to be disconcerting, but animal enough to represent more than just an individual.

More than anything, more than the animalistic nature, or the expression of emotion, Hanawalt’s art is a reminder that control is fragile and easily lost; as much as people like to think of themselves as being in control of their actions and thoughts, humans are just as prone to animalistic behaviors as animals are – and that’s okay. The viewers that watch as Bojack contemplates leaving behind a ‘civilized life’ to run free with wild horses are just as capable, and prone, to fantasizing about similar things; Hanawalt’s art is a depiction of the animal that so many people, no matter who they are or what they do, still have at their core. Evolution has earned humanity a fair bit of space at the front of the race, but Hanawalt bridges that gap, reminding viewers that they are not as far removed as they believe from the dog lying at the foot of their bed.