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Brad Bird - The Individual

Animator and director Brad Bird wrote and created three movies that demonstrate something strongly inherent to the American spirit and philosophy: the individual. 

Premiering with The Iron Giant in 1999, Bird went on to Pixar with The Incredibles in 2004 and most recently Ratatouille in 2007; to date, he’s directing Mission Impossible IV with Tom Cruise, his first live-action film endeavor, and another mark in his unique characteristics of a director capable of both animation and live-action projects. In a rare feat he’s created three commercially (nix The Iron Giant, perhaps) and critically successful films that are all entertaining and incredibly smart: likely a product of working on The Simpsons, Bird has always managed to evenly mix entertainment value with sharp writing studded with significantly darker and more mature themes. 

So what makes Bird so intriguing? It could be that he was a child prodigy, drawing and completing an astounding fifteen-minute animated at age thirteen over the course of two years; or at age fourteen, he was mentored by one of Disney’s legendary Nine Old Men, Milt Kahl; or possibly that upon receiving a scholarship from Disney to attend CalArts, he met and befriended John Lasseter at age twenty-one. Whatever it may be, there’s no denying that Bird adds distinct flourishes to each frame and cleverly mixes in more adult, darker thematics that are pervasive throughout his entire filmography thus far. Most notably, however, is his distinct emphasis on the exceptional individual, the one who’s abilities supersede everyone else around them, and how this exceptionalism can both be celebrated and deterred by the very people surrounding it. 

Arguably, Bird’s emphasis on the exceptional individual may be a result of his own childhood and the time period he grew up in; however, I’m not here to speculate how Mr. Bird got to where he is today, but what his films explore, and most interestingly why he is such a notable progressive within the realm of animation. 

Iron Giant, Loving Heart

You can learn this, Hogart. That I can do anything I want, whenever I want if I feel it’s in the people’s best interest.

With the debut of The Iron Giant, Brad Bird demonstrated something unusually characteristic of his writing and directing style that we can see with his two subsequent films. Traditionally animated, the film takes place in the Golden Fifties, where McCarthyistic sentiment just begins to take hold of public sentiment. While it is a classic boy-and-his-alien/mystical-friend parable, what sets The Iron Giant apart from the likes of E.T. is how much emphasis there is on the Iron Giant’s other wordily abilities, and how it’s (his?) abilities set off a chain of positive and negative reaction from the people within proximity. Hogarth, the boy who finds him, balances out the Giant’s presence with a positive presence who is astounded by the robot, while Kent Mansley, the U.S. Government agent, serves as the negative presence who considers the robot as a threat. 

The contrast between the boy Hogarth and the government official Mansley is a strong one to consider: here we have the young, free-spirited boy who emphasizes with a amnesiac robot with no friends, and is able to appreciate the giant’s abilities and personality; conversely, we have a promotion-interested government agent who acts antagonistically to the giant’s presence, simply because he is driven to become more acknowledged by the democracy he serves. To put it simply, we’ve got the young boy symbolic of individualism and the official symbolic of collectivism: Hogarth acts simply because he’s interested in the Giant as a individual, and Mansley acts harshly because he’s interested in recognition from the collective democracy. 

Mansley’s characterization differs from those of the government in E.T. because it’s clear he has ulterior motives that are in self-interest, while officials in E.T. acted because wanted to study (and dissect) an unknown alien life form. Both The Iron Giant and E.T. frame government officials in a unfavorable light, but The Iron Giant goes further to highlight individual corruption within a collective that invariably hired such individuals to represent the collective. In Mansley’s case, his M.O. is a parable for those who feel threatened by an entity greater than they are, and react by finding means to drag down such exceptionalism to the level of mundanity and commonness. 

An Incredible Ability

Right now, honey, the world just wants us to fit in, and to fit in, we gotta be like everyone else.

With The Incredibles in 2004, Bird again explored the motif of the government bogging down exceptional individuals, and more explicitly so. Early in the film, it’s clear that the government acts on behalf of popular sentiment, in which case it’s that supers are a “menace” to society and rather than using their superpowers for civil service, should live as indiscriminately, inconspicuously and unspectacularly as everyone else – like “normal people." 

Here, the antagonism is less the government and more the collectivist fervor that, perhaps out of jealousy, fear, or both, deems exceptionalism as a threat and not a celebratory feat. More explicit than The Iron Giant is the theme that to be forced into "normalcy” effectively destroys any sense of individualism or uniqueness, and is even cruel for the matter. We see Mr. Incredible/Bob Parr forced into a tiny grey cubicle, his giant physique barely allotting him elbow room as he works within the stifling confines of an insurance company. While his insatiable good conscious drives a persistent twitch for doing good (his clients know every single loophole within the bureaucracy we know as bullsh*t paperwork), Bob isn’t happy. Not one bit. 

And who could blame him? When you’re suddenly dragged, forced and stuffed into something artificially “normal,” it’s absolutely suffocating. You can’t breathe, think, live, and most importantly be yourself. It’s a cruel punishment, to feel smothered by what otherwise feels like an overwhelming mass of mediocrity that seems to find “new ways to celebrate mediocrity.”

Even worse is that Bob’s work superiors are not only unexceptional, but dishonest, petty, manipulative, and greedy – the very same characteristics he worked hard to curtail in his glory days. As many of us can attest to, there’s nothing worse than having an incompetent jackass of a boss looking over cubicle and giving you heads up about “fun tie fridays” then casually mentioning that you might want to consider getting a new shirt while you’re out getting a new tie (and I’m sure on more than one occasion we’ve all had the urge to chuck our jackass boss through a couple of walls and cubicles). His boss, however unlikable, shares the same exact mentality as the collective that put Bob and other supers into their current deteriorating state: be a nice cog that fits nicely into other cogs that make up a nice, working clock. 

Anyone Can Cook

Not everyone can become a great artist, but a great artist can come from anywhere.

Though Ratatouille wasn’t Bird’s original idea (that credit belongs to Jan Pinkava, director of the famous Pixar short Geri’s Game), his revision of Pinkava’s original story is in the very vein of his previous two movies. This time, the antagonistic element lies solely within the social structures developed and accepted by a specific culture, and how one unusual and uncannily skilled protagonist finds his way to overcoming such barriers. 

Remy, the rat with a nose for smell and taste, is the least likely chef and food enthusiast you could possibly imagine. But here he is, in the fur, and ready to rock and roll. Unfortunately, human perception of rats is unfavorable, and since he’s trying to become an exceptional chef by human standards well – seems like we’ve run into a problem now. 

The movie’s motto, anyone can cook, speaks volumes about exceptionalism coming from anywhere: not anyone can cook, but a great cook from come from anywhere – even a rat. Of course, it’s difficult to overcome and overlook presumptions and assumptions about social barriers and norms that otherwise block an unwitting talent from ever blooming to full potential, but nevertheless it takes a lot of courage to even acknowledge such a talent to begin with. 

Ratatouille’s ideological antagonism is less the collective and more about assumptions and views we may have regarding someone based off their background, race, upbringing (or in this case, species). It still celebrates the individual ability, but frames it so in a way that is less dismissive than The Incredibles and more about progressive open-mindedness and a dare to defend something novel, talented, and unusual. 

The Individual 


Like I said in the beginning, Bird’s driving thematic is the exceptional individual overcoming obstacles prevalent. Whether it be a corrupt government official or a illogically jealous and fearful community, or even the fact that you want to be an ace chef despite being non-human – well to hell with it all, we want these characters to rise above all!

This sentiment is all too familiar to Horatio Alger’s famous penny novels about poor souls pulling themselves up “by their own boot strings” to become rich and prosperous elites (notwithstanding the various barriers that barred about 99% of the population from ever achieving such a feat). Like Alger’s rags-to-riches stories, Bird’s ideological vein throughout his three movies rings and resonates so soundly with such an American dream, that the individual, through their own means, can overcome whatever barriers would otherwise shun those less capable or less exceptional of pursuing thus wise. 

In this sense, Brad Bird really does embody a distinctly American spirit, one that celebrates exceptionalism and individual achievement. While I don’t completely agree with this philosophy (I think there’s a value to the individual and the collective; to what degrees and variance I may elaborate on another day), I can understand where he’s coming from in this respect. 

To date, I think The Incredibles probably represents Bird the best, while Ratatouille highlights a more humane and optimistic sentiment. With his upcoming Mission Impossible IV, I look forward to seeing how Bird’s action direction in animation translates to live-action with Tom Cruise on board, and whether the qualities and limits of both animation and live-action will affect Bird’s directing abilities. For now, we’ll just have to see what he has up his sleeve, to wait and see what action-packed adventure Mr. Bird can savorily dish out for us next. 

I think I’m going to throw up too. I want to thank the Academy and my Jr. High guidance counselor. Where he said “what do you want to do with your life”. And I said “make movies.” And he said “what if there were no movies?” I said “I’ll make some.” We went on like this until we got sick of eachother. I realize that he gave me the best training for making films.


I want to thank my wife Liz and my kids. All the dreamers at Pixar and Disney….


And all the dreamers who are supporting a rat that dreams….

– Brad Bird at the 2008 Oscars

The Simple Sweetness and Sincerity of Wallace and Gromit

Wallace and Gromit are arguably the two most delightful characters in the history of animation. Between the previous sentence and this one I paused thoughtfully and stared into space and thought of all of the other animated characters I have ever met, and I gave full points to Bugs Bunny and high marks to Little Nemo and a fond nod to Goofy, and returned to the page convinced that, yes, Wallace and Gromit are in a category of their own. To know them is to enter a universe of boundless optimism, in which two creatures who are perfectly suited to each other venture out every morning to make the world into a safer place for the gentle, the good and the funny.

– Roger Ebert in his review of Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit

If there was ever a series that was rare in its utter sincerity and sweetness, Nick Park’s Wallace and Gromit is one I couldn’t recommend enough to children and adults alike. 

My first encounter with the British stop-motion characters – Wallace the hapless inventor and Gromit the intelligent and silent dog – was back in 2005 when both starred in their first feature length film, Wallace and Gromit: The Curse of the Were-Rabbit. I went to see it with one of my best and closest friends at the local theater that specialized in independent, foreign, and non-wide release films that otherwise blared at other local complexes. Since it was before matinee, we happened to be the one of the older bunches in the theater as Park’s film reeled across the wide screen. 

From what I can remember, it was an absolute pleasure seeing Wallace and Gromit go about their usual business as the Were-Rabbit terrorized a town in its rabbit-like mannerisms. Not only was the stop-motion astounding, but the creativity and narrative were off the charts. The Rube Goldberg like contraption that tips Wallace from his bed into his trousers, followed by putting on sleeves, a vest, and buttering his toast – this was nothing other animation studios like Disney, Pixar, or Ghibli had ever imagined or even come close to depicting. This was Nick Park at full throttle with the creative bunch of Aardman Studios, and the entire lapse of remaining minutes was nothing short but a roller coaster of ingenuity, hilarity, and adventure. 

My memory of Were-Rabbit is fond not only because of the film itself, but because of the emotions I felt and how utterly enjoyable it was. I remember at one point, when Lady Tottington turned around with two watermelons held to her bosom and asks (a transforming) Wallace, “how to you like melons?” – we both burst out laughing like no other, so much that a kid asked their mom “mommy, why are those two laughing so much?” and she responded “just ignore them, honey.” In short: this pretty much summed up my first experience of Wallace and Gromit, and established Aardman Animations as one of my favorite animation studios to date for many, many reasons. 


What makes Wallace and Gromit so unique, so charming, so inventive, and so undeniably sweet? First, I think it’s important to classify the three major animation studios that are well-known in the American domestic and internationally:

  • Disney has always been about the magic and the fantastical (any Disneyland veteran will instantly confirm this with anyone). Their most well-known and well-received films – which include the obvious Snow White and The Little Mermaid – have mostly been adaptations of classic fairy and folk tales from collections of the Brothers Grimm, Charles Perrault, and Hans Christen Anderson. The core appeal of these films includes their happily-ever-after conclusions, musical numbers, bubbly side characters, and easily palatable animation aesthetics (good and evil are very distinct entities, and drawn in such a way that the audience can easily identify who to like and who to hate).
  • Pixar broke away from Disney traditions by simply investing in high-quality, limit-pushing technical mastery and heartwarming, engaging stories. Arguably, their premiere film Toy Story cemented what the studio was all about from the very beginning: breakthrough, technique, direction, wide appeal, and story, story, story. After fifteen years it’s nice to see that the studio – up until this point – has favored originality and constant constructive criticism over conservatively safe creative stagnation. While this may change in the near future (and I surely hope not), I’ve always been fond of Pixar for their aspiration towards quality and the genuine belief in the public’s desire for greater expectations of film, and especially of animation. I just hope Lasseter and the rest of the gang are smart enough to not pull a Michael Eisner or a George Lucas in their future decisions. 
  •  Hayao Miyazaki’s and Isao Takahata’s Studio Ghibli is world renown for films like Princess Mononoke, Spirited Away and arguably the most famous, My Neighbor Totoro. What all these films share is their directly non-Western narratives, depictions and aesthetics – almost the polar opposite of what their Disney contemporaries aspired towards. The greatest emphasis is on the details of the environment, and how almost everything – from a falling dragon to how two young girls react upon seeing a forest spirit – is drawn and inspired from how humans and nature can harmoniously coexist (recently, while watching bits from Ponyo, one of my brother’s friends commented, “everyone seems so at peace with what’s happening around them despite the events being completely unnatural. In fact, it’s almost as if they went ‘oh hey look, ancient sea creatures… ok.’”)

With these characteristics in mind, it’s easier to see why Nick Park (and by extension Aardman Studios) is so utterly unique in animation and storytelling. 

I’ve recently watched three Wallace and Gromit short films on Netflix – A Close Shave, A Grand Day Out, and most recently A Close Shave – in this order respectively, and now feel confident enough to say this: what is so striking about Park’s animation and directing style is his utter sincerity. There really isn’t anything fantastic or awe-inspiring or jaw-dropping – in fact, the most amazing thing about Wallace and Gromit is how un-amazing and quiet it is as a whole. Sure, you have the Goldberg like inventions, the inexplicable physical feats otherwise impossible in the real world as we know (speeding on a toy train while laying out toy train rails in front of you to make a path? Check!), the uniqueness of each frame and character look that results from careful and painstaking stop-motion clay animation, the dubious “antagonist” that, well, antagonizes with a specific plot point ('ello, Mr. Were-Rabbit) – but beyond all of that hullabulloo and pragmatic nonsense, at the end of the day Wallace and Gromit are just content to have themselves a nice cup of tea with some crackers and Wenslydale cheese. 

Wallace and Gromit is so quiet, so modest, and so simply sweet and sincere that no other popular animation studio – Disney, Pixar, Ghibli alike – has ever thought of pursuing. The closest analogy I could draw for those who are familiar with all three studios (not including Aardman) is this: imagine the little scene in Miyazaki’s My Neighbor Totoro where the two girls are fetching water from the stream. For a few seconds, the camera cuts to a part of the flowing water, where a discarded bottle has become lodged between a couple of small rocks. It’s the sort of attention to detail that many animators (for the sake of time) ignore or choose not to do – yet for those few seconds we see such a detail that says so little yet so much at the same time. Another scene (that I’m sure more are familiar with) is in Andrew Stanton’s Wall•E, where Wall•E picks up a ring holder, takes out the diamond ring – only to throw it away and play eagerly with the box it came in (when I was watching it in theaters, a woman behind me exclaimed “ooh!” before the little robot chucked it away). These small instances of extreme attention to minute details that on average, we take for granted everyday, is what Wallace and Gromit is all about. Stop and smell the roses –would probably be the best quote summation of Nick Park and Aardman studios as a whole. Most amazing is Nick Park’s utter humility and seemingly lacking desire to do more in Wallace and Gromit except more Wallace and Gromit: that is, he simply tiptoes away from the traps of repetitive sequels and creative stagnation that Dreamwork’s Shrek franchise ran into after its first sequel. There is a self-awareness that in spite of the series’ British domestic and international success, there is always something else greater outside the little bubble of the charming duo. 

Even though it is a precious and nostalgic collection and valuable to the company, in light of other tragedies, today isn’t a big deal.

– Nick Park responding to the resulting destruction of Aardman’s storage warehouse after a fire accidentally broke out in 2005. He is referencing the South Asian earthquake in his response.

One of the most touching moments out of the three short films I’ve seen recently is in A Grand Day Out, where Wallace and Gromit traverse via rocketship to a planet presumably made out of a cheese. The planet’s guardian, a box-like robot, wakes up to protect the natural environment and comes across the duo’s spread out picnic; collecting each item for its inventory, the robot comes across a travel magazine focusing on skiing. It becomes inspired, and desires to follow Wallace and Gromit back home to earth; however, due to a misunderstanding, the duo take off, and the robot is stranded on its planet with a few pieces of the rocket. 

In a sad yet sweet moment, the robot takes the pieces, mends them into makeshift skis, and makes due with the little cheese hills – thus accomplishing his little dream of skiing in the snowy alps of earth, albeit slightly modified. 

Comparatively, the two other films after Park’s first short film feature – A Close Shave and The Wrong Trousers – don’t quite hit this lightning-in-a-bottle mark of sad-sweetness, a sort of happy ending without the happily-ever-after, if you will. Don’t misinterpret me though: these two other films do wonders in mixing comedy gold and silliness with ace animation and unbelievably creative achievements while balancing a dubious (even menacing) antagonist whose eventual fate is actually quite satisfactory (and ironically humorous, for the matter); and if I recall correctly, this comedy gold mix was also prevalent in Were-Rabbit, and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was also present in the short film I’ve yet to see A Matter of Loaf and Death. I look forward to getting my hands on the short-short film compilation Cracking Contraptions and seeing episodes of the upcoming (or currently broadcasting?) series Wallace and Gromit’s World of Inventions (in fact, the premise of World of Inventions instantly got me sold on the series; one of my lifelong goals is to tie in science with art, animation and film, and seems like Nick Park (and even Henry Selick, for the matter) is ahead of me in the game already. Why does it seem like stop-motion animators always seem to be the most unique?)

As a closing to this entire tidbit, I will say this: the little robot skiing its way across hills on the desolate planet of cheese will forever be a memorable little scene in mind and memory of film and animation. 

Strangely though, after watching story – I’ve always got a strange craving for cheese. Specifically pub cheese. Coincidence? 

…

Additional Links

• Train chase scene in The Wrong Trousers – the audio dubbed for a college student’s project but you can see how inventive the animation and action is. 

• Opening of The Wrong Trousers – you can see the Rube Goldberg inspirations all over this. 

Toy Story 3 - The Memories that Bind Us All

“Toy Story 3” is an amazing feat in storytelling. It accomplishes so many things in only 103 minutes that other trilogies and sequels – Star Wars, Back to the Future, Spider-Man, Indiana Jones, Ocean’s Eleven, The Matrix – never came close to: creating a film that is simultaneously continuous and very capable of being a stand alone. It is moving, smart, funny, dark, scary, sad, hopeful – all in an ingeniously conclusive end to one of the most beloved American stories that further reaffirms Pixar as a master of storytelling and animation. 

Warning: minor, mild and major spoilers in the article. 

It must be noted that all images of “Toy Story 3” were taken directly from trailers or were promotional stills released by Pixar. 

The Beginnings of Pixar’s Wonder and Magic

The original “Toy Story” captured the hearts of every viewer, for we all remembered our childhood filled with boundless imagination and innocence shared with and acted through our toys. It not only created incredibly human characters out of toys – pride, romance, jealously, insecurity, rational, etcetera – but established the sacredness, timelessness and preciousness of love shared between child and toy. Absolutely illogical and pure. Beautiful. 

“Toy Story 2” hinted about toy economics, specifically about their ultimate value and fate – would they become a priceless collectible or indistinguishable trash? We all know eventually a majority of childhood tokens will break, be sold or given away; such is the invariability of growth, maturity and time. However, in “Toy Story 2” Andy is still a boy and still very much in love with his toys, and that to prematurely succumb to the temptation of being a pristine collectible was unwise and ultimately unattractive – at the time, it was much more important and valuable for Woody to remain as Andy’s treasured toy, tossed and bounced and played about in pure bouts of love and joy. 

Both movies are classical childhood tales, tales based off imagination and incredibly human emotions. The politics and economics commanding the toys were hinted, but only enough to not distract away from the main focus of a child’s unbounded love for his toys. It was pure imaginative genius, touching and invaluable in message all at once – the touch of Pixar’s creative process and dedicated team. 

Unfortunately, Pixar’s genius was not valued by everyone when it first started. 

Eisner and the business of Circle 7

“Toy Story 3” was not originally planned by Pixar, nor was “Toy Story 2.” Both sequels were the result of Disney’s management and its desire to take over Pixar’s creative reins, spearheaded none other than Michael Eisner. 

Some of you remember all those terrible direct-to-video sequels that looked and felt like nothing the original theatrical releases:  "Aladdin 2: Jafar’s Return,“ "Pocahontas 2: Journey to a New World,” “The Lion King 2: Simba’s Pride” – remember these guys? They had Eisner written all over them. He saw creativity as a product to be reaped and sowed and drained for all its worth. To him, the magic and wonder of Disney’s legendary status was nothing more than a profit margin, a business model. He considered Pixar no differently. 

“Toy Story 2” was initially a direct-to-video sequel, but upon seeing the in-work imagery Disney executives were so impressed that they requested it be turned into a theatrical release; however, the creative team at Pixar were not happy with the work, eventually getting John Lasseter back on board to rewrite the entire script and finish the film in a period of nine months (leading to some animators getting repetitive stress injuries) in order to meet Disney’s deadline. Additionally, since Disney felt that “Toy Story 2” was negotiated outside of five-picture deal they had with Pixar, it would not be counted as one of the films. This negotiation left a poor spot for Pixar, the first of many they would soon have with Disney’s CEO, Michael Eisner. In his own words, Eisner believed that “all creative teams go in cycles, and Pixar is riding for a fall." 

Nice man. 

Hoping to bully Pixar into a new contract that would ultimately favor Disney’s executive control over Pixar’s creative rights, Eisner created Circle 7 Animation to franchise Pixar’s characters and stories – it was exactly like his scheme with the flux of direct-to-video sequels during the Disney renaissance all over again. Circle 7’s first production would be "Toy Story 3,” in which Buzz Lightyear would have a defect, be shipped off to Taiwan, then on some adventure Andy’s toys go to rescue him as Buzz met some new friends along the way (in a sense, it was a carbon copy of “Toy Story 2’s” plot). 

The original promotional for Circle 7’s “Toy Story 3." 

This was a million-of-dollars attempt to bargain Disney as Pixar’s sole distributor – Michael Eisner style. Of course this led to the infamous split between Pixar and Disney in 2004 when Pixar CEO Steve Jobs and Disney’s Eisner bickered vehemently about how Pixar should be handled creatively and monetarily; only with Eisner’s departure from Disney in 2005 was Pixar able to renegotiate a much, much better contract with Disney: the new Disney CEO, Rob Iger, buried Eisner’s pet projects and all of his notorious footprints, and Pixar’s John Lasseter and Ed Catmull would run all of Disney animation. No more Eisner micromanagement, no more terrible and unnecessary sequels, no more "money money money!!!”-driven projects – it was a breath of fresh air back into Disney and the barrier Pixar finally overcame. 

Of course, one of the first decisions of Lasseter and Catmull was to dismantle Circle 7 and shelve the original “Toy Story 3” script far and away (in a generous gesture, they found work inside Disney for 140 of the 170 Circle 7 employees). Pixar once again had it’s prodigy back, safe and sound and away from the scary Eisner monster that lurks beneath the innocent beds of children’s hopes and dreams. 

The Challenge of Closure

“Toy Story 3” was no walk in the park. It took the minds of Pixar creative seniors John Lasseter (“Toy Story,” “Toy Story 2” and “Cars”), Pete Docter (“Monsters, Inc.” and “Up”), Andrew Stanton (“Finding Nemo” and “Wall•E”) and Lee Unkrich (film editor and co-director of several Pixar films) to come up with the story over a weekend at the same house where they originally conceived “Toy Story.” Stanton wrote the treatment, Michael Arndt (writer of “Little Miss Sunshine”) wrote the screenplay and Unkrich was slated to direct in his directorial debut. And hell, what a movie it was. 

The conclusion of the trilogy is significantly darker with subtexts extending well beyond the comprehension and significance of kid’s minds (Guatanamo bay, pyramid schemes, the manipulation of politics, effects of consumerism) that many older viewers are all too familiar and jaded with. And that’s just the thing: there is a certain jadedness that come with growing up. We become increasingly more self- and consciously aware of our surroundings, which in turn deters us from divulging into childhood fancies unhindered by logic or meaning and driven solely by love and imagination. 

Here, the main conflict is in the toys and Andy reestablishing their relationship and meaning to one another. The opening montage hauntingly ends with the famous musical phrase by Randy Newman, “our friendship will never die…” before fading into present day, presumably ten years later. Andy is 17, about to depart to college, and probably has not played with Woody and the gang for many years at this point. A futile attempt of the toys to be played with one last time before their assumed fate in the attic happens marks this rift:  the toys’ existence as childhood gems no longer resonate with Andy’s current transition in life from adolescence to young adult. It’s a sad opening, heartbreaking even. 

Woody, Buzz and the gang have long been self-aware of their own existence, economics and politics – however, this is brazenly clear and stated in the third installment as opposed to the first two, where the idea was presented but not particularly or deeply explored. After all, if Andy’s toys are, in a sense, sentient and aware of their own being, they must at least know their golden time with their owner must come to end. What happens and how they deal with it is the secondary conflict that drives “Toy Story 3” to greatness. 

When Woody and the gang are accidentally donated to the daycare center Sunnyside, they dive into a world populated with more toys than they could ever fathom beyond Andy’s childhood collection. The politics and economics, however, are iron-fisted by Lotso, and this in turn establishes what is otherwise an action-packed, comedic, dramatic and hilarious adventure for Andy’s toys to overcome and escape from in order to return to the comfort and familiarity of their home, Andy’s room. 

The middle act is nothing spectacularly original – a great many movies rely on this to bridge the opening and ending satisfactorily – but the driving force and ideas about toy economics and politics are very much so. To the unobservant or unempathetic, they may not notice that the middle arc subtly implies an overall thematic of the entire Toy Story lore: of the love between child and toy that transcends time through the sheer strength and significance of previous, everlasting memories. 

The middle act implies the simultaneous and last growth in the relationship between Andy and his toys: this is a pivotal moment of separation, and it is their memories and love that ultimately bind them to each other in the end. Woody is driven to go back to Andy as a testament that he and his friends are still somehow meaningful in Andy’s life – that Andy is now just a iteration of his previous self, but not entirely different, and that somehow the spirit and ghost of Andy’s childhood is very much part of the now older Andy. Reassurance and reestablishment are absolutely necessary at this point, and it’s what drives the toys to act and do in their current situation of anxiety, stress and uncertainty. 

In the end, the primary conflict of reassurance and reestablishment resolves after trials and obstacles of separation and despair presented in the secondary conflict; it helps Andy and his toys realize how in spite of the years of rift, they still and will always hold special places in each others hearts. The memories and emotions – those will always be there. Even when Woody and the gang will no longer be played with by Andy as they once were they now know that he still thinks of them, remembers them, cherishes them just as much as he once did – in mind and heart. And that’s enough for everyone to finally move on, to finally go with their respective life with the assurance and loving memories intact forever more. 

A Generational Difference

The reception and comments from critics demonstrated one of the greatest generational differences I’ve seen in awhile. Several critics have commented that this third installment lacked the heart the first two had and was significantly darker, that on several occasions it was unoriginal in conceit; some remarked that it was perhaps longer than needed; a few even believed that it lacked the emotional brilliance of last year’s “Up." 

What many of these critics fail to realize is that "Toy Story 3” tackles one of the most difficult points in life – the transition from teenage adolescence to young adulthood when one has just graduated from high school and is about to go afar to a college or university. It’s an incredibly difficult time period, filled with anxiety, uncertainty and even a fair amount of grief as parents cope with impending separation and the transitioning individual copes with sorting out tokens from childhood and adolescence and starting afresh as a young, eager-minded adult.

Spanish Buzz is full of win. 

This is not to say tackling and addressing the fate of toys when their owner reach this transition period was not implied previously. “Toy Story” and “Toy Story 2” hinted several times that the toys would ultimately need to deal with this transitional issue, but only now has the issue been fully addressed head on. 

Depicting these pivotal moments is incredibly difficult: it’s so easy to forget distinctions of immediate joy and grief that made up childhood; commonly, we indulge in notions of bliss and innocence, conveniently forgetting or ignoring incidents and characteristics that made them distinctly dramatic, comedic and human. Even more difficult is the distinguishing traits between the end of teenage adolescence and the beginnings of young adulthood – something that “Toy Story 3” daringly confronts unlike any other childhood fable I’ve seen to grace cinema. 

Judging from the feedback I’m receiving, “Toy Story 3” has people in tears. If anything, they like it more than “Up.” – Roger Ebert via @ebertchicago

I concede that the first minutes of “Up” were absolutely brilliant: the marriage montage left me teary-eyed, emotionally moved and shaken by its incredible conceit and execution. However, the rest of the story dives into a Man of La Mancha, Don Quixote-inspired parable style, with quirky sidekick characters derived from caricatures and little else. There was an adventure that led Carl to eventually let go and move on, yes, but compared to the brilliance of the opening there was little I found that remotely compared or came close to evoking the same emotions or empathy; it was cute and funny, but the emotional impact of “Up” belongs solely to its first few minutes. 

“Toy Story 3,” on the other hand, has been in the making for over 15 years. We’ve grown up with the characters, and our fond memories of the first two films still hold strong. Pixar has gone through countless negotiations and renovations with Disney before their current business and distributional status – all in the name of creating greatly emotional and human stories that are timeless and unbounded by the technology of their animation. 

This film’s emotional impact about adolescent transition resonates deeply not only with those going through the same or clearly remembering of such a period, but with the audience that remembers the trilogy’s conceit and overarching narrative; finally, we all have closure on the story of Andy and his beloved Woody, Buzz and other toys. It’s about how an emerging young adult deals with tokens from his childhood and remembering and reestablishing what and how much they mean to him – something that I’m sure all of us could sympathize and empathize with. 

Good-Bye, Old Friends

This is a moment that has been built up since 1995 when we first saw Woody and the toys charm and grace the screen with their emotions, drama and comedy. We all knew this time would come, when Andy would grow up and leave for college – but never could we have foreseen how he and the toys would conclude their years of fun, heartbreak and imagination. 

And now that we know they’re all in good hands – that little Bonnie will be their next keeper and that there will be added ears to the tenure before their ultimate conclusion – we at least know that to Andy, his toys will forever be icons of childhood, and that Woody and the gang share these same sentients – of childhood, of reassurance in their significance and meaning to one another, and of the timeless love of a child that is ceaseless and everlasting in ghost and memories. 

Good-bye, old friends. May your next adventure be as memorable as the ones you’ve shared with us.