Many modern stories that captivate us are rooted in traditions reaching far beyond their contemporary settings—woven from threads of myth, folklore, and collective cultural longing. In the case of Pixar's “Coco,” what may seem, on its surface, like a heartwarming, imaginative tale of a boy’s adventure is, in fact, a vibrant reimagining of centuries-old Mexican mythology and the enduring customs tied to Día de los Muertos.

Long before the bright papel picado banners and marigold-strewn altars of the film animated screens across the world, Mexican communities had been gathering year after year to celebrate Día de los Muertos—“the Day of the Dead.” Far from a somber or haunting occasion, the festival arose as a communal ritual designed to unite families, reconnect with ancestors, and reinforce identity across generations. For indigenous peoples such as the Aztec, honoring the dead was as fundamental to daily life as breathing, eating, or loving; to be forgotten, to have your memory lost, was the only true death.

In this way, “Coco” is not simply a family movie—it is a retelling of a sacred Mexican myth, a cultural performance that parallels the ancient function of ceremony just as Greek tragedies once filled the amphitheaters of Athens. The film’s story, set at the intersection of the world of the living and the Land of the Dead, is a dramatization of what every Día de los Muertos altar seeks to achieve: remembrance, reconciliation, and affirmation of communal bonds. Like the Greek chorus that guided and provoked the tragic hero, the songs and spirits in “Coco” serve to remind the protagonist—and by extension, the audience—that our destinies are forever linked to those who have walked before us.

But when modern audiences think of character-building movies, their minds may leap to tales about superheroes or great historical epics, not animated adventures set during a Mexican holiday. Yet “Coco” quietly upends these expectations by using colorful fantasy and stirring music to deliver a narrative deeply rooted in traditional Mexican virtues: family above all, respect for elders, and the ever-present possibility for forgiveness and redemption. Even as Miguel, the film’s young protagonist, seeks out his own voice and pushes against family expectations, his journey ultimately brings him back to the wisdom of his ancestors—showing that self-knowledge and personal freedom can only be fully embraced with an understanding of one’s origins.

For the Greeks, the tragedy was both warning and invitation: an opportunity for audiences to see their own challenges reflected in mythic scale, to be transformed through empathy and catharsis. Día de los Muertos, and “Coco” by extension, perform a parallel social magic. They allow Mexican families—and anyone willing to join in the ritual of remembrance—to experience both the sorrow and the joy of connection, the pain of loss, and the healing that comes from remembering together. This is why “Coco” resonates so deeply: not as a mere children’s tale, but as a living myth, performing for a new generation the timeless work of culture—holding us together, even across the veil between the living and the dead.

What makes Coco particularly powerful as a modern Mexican tragedy is how it transforms ancient spiritual concepts into accessible storytelling. The ofrenda becomes a stage, the Land of the Dead becomes an amphitheater, and the audience — both within the film and watching it — participates in the essential act of remembrance that keeps culture alive.

In this way, Coco serves the same civic function that ancient ceremonies once did: it teaches younger generations about their heritage, reinforces the importance of family and memory, and demonstrates that even in a globalized world, the old stories — the ones about love, loss, sacrifice, and redemption — remain eternally relevant.

The tragedy of Miguel's journey is ultimately redemptive, just as the best Mexican tragedies have always been. Through confronting death, embracing memory, and honoring the past, the living learn how to fully embrace life. It's a lesson that has been passed down through countless generations, from the great pyramids of Teotihuacán to the pixelated screens of modern movie theaters.