About “Hoppers” in a few words:

Hoppers is a colorful animated adventure about Mabel, a nature-loving student who discovers a technology that lets humans “hop” their minds into robotic animals. Naturally, she jumps into the body of a beaver and dives straight into the animal world. Things get messy fast when she learns a greedy mayor plans to destroy a forest glade, and suddenly she’s caught between humans, animals, and one very intense insect uprising.

Meet the characters from Hoppers

Mabel

Okay so Mabel is that burst of color you swear you saw in the corner of the room — equal parts glitter glue and weirdly specific life advice. She’s hyperenthusiastic, always wearing something ridiculous (sequins? a hat? both?), and she’ll cheer you on while simultaneously knitting you a sweater and plotting a minor, harmless prank. Somehow secretly cunning under all the confetti — like she remembers every slight from 2007 but forgives you with a smile and a giant hug, which is confusing but also very Mabel. She forgets names at dinner parties but never forgets where she hid the spare keys, and yes she probably has a jar of glitter labeled “for emergencies.”

King George

King George walks in like he owns the place — loudly, dramatically, maybe with a cape, definitely with too much cologne — but also he’s the guy who’ll stop mid-rant to pet a stray cat. Regal and a bit theatrical, he loves ceremony and hates being contradicted unless you do it charmingly (and then he’ll forgive you, sometimes). He can be imperious and absurdly petty about protocol, but also unexpectedly tender when someone mentions cinnamon rolls or childhood scars; don’t ask how those two things connect, he just does. A tyrant? Sure, on paper — but the kind that reads poetry to his throne and has a scrapbook of town pie competitions hidden under the floorboards.

Mayor Jerry Generazzo

Mayor Jerry is the kind of politician who smiles with just enough sincerity to make you blink twice and then nod because, well, maybe he actually means it? Slick, practical, and terrible at lying (his forehead gives him away), he runs the town like it’s a small, slightly disorganized orchestra — lots of noise, some improvisation, and a ribbon-cutting at every corner. He loves pomp and ceremony (those ribbons are his comfort blanket) but he’s also the guy who’ll show up with coffee in a storm and then awkwardly try karaoke at the afterparty — why is he so into karaoke? Beats me, but it’s oddly endearing. He’s bureaucratic but not heartless; he follows rules mostly, except when he doesn’t, and then he’ll explain it away with a joke and a brochure.

Dr. Sam

Dr. Sam is calm in a way that makes you trust them immediately — steadiness like a worn lab coat and a first-aid kit with too many band-aids in strange shapes. Analytical, a little dry, and honestly maybe addicted to late-night research papers and three-day-old coffee, they’ll diagnose everything except their own need for sleep. Warm with a side of awkwardness (they’ll bring you soup and then ask too many clinical questions about your childhood), and there’s this tiny habit of talking to plants when nobody’s watching — don’t tell anyone, it’s their secret. They seem unemotional but will lose it over one patient’s progress or a perfectly calibrated experiment; kind of fragile and kind of stubbornly heroic at the same time.

Insect King

The Insect King is creepy in the best way — a tall, whispering presence with five different opinions and the uncanny ability to make you feel seen and slightly bugged (literally? maybe). He rules by murmured logic and swarm tactics, charming the masses with unsettlingly poetic speeches and an inexplicable fondness for tiny hats. Terrifying and tender, like he’ll orchestrate a coup and then tuck a moth into your pocket for luck; his motives are foggy and possibly allergic to daisies, but also strangely consistent if you squint. There’s a fragile ego under all the mandibles — he’s dramatic, brooding, and insists on proper lighting during his brooding, which you have to respect.