Review: Toy Story

I never actually saw Toy Story on the big-screen, though I vividly remember my grandmother telling my dad: “I’ve just seen a film you have to take the girls to.” But it wasn’t until it came out on VCR (yes, I’m old now) that I got to watch it – and become temporarily obsessed with it. You know how kids can just watch something over and over again without getting sick of it? For my sister it was E.T., and for me it was Toy Story.

So with the promotion for Toy Story 4 gearing up, I decided to re-watch the entire trilogy (plus the various shorts) and try to figure out just why I was so enamored as a child.

Well, there’s the obvious: what kid isn’t captivated by the idea that their toys come to life as soon as they’ve left the room? Toys are our first friends and confidants; they comfort us at night, guard all our secrets, and provide us with constant companionship, being entirely subservient to whatever our imaginations decide to project upon them.

We love them to bits, and so the possibility that they might love us back is a compelling one. 

Of course, Toy Story certainly isn’t the first tale to explore the idea of living, sentient playthings. Just off the top of my head, there’s also E.T.A. Hoffman’s The Nutcracker, Hans Christian Anderson’s The Steadfast Tin Soldier, Margery Williams Bianco’s The Velveteen Rabbit, Lynne Reid Banks’s The Indian in the Cupboard, Victor Herbert’s Babes in Toyland, and the likes of Winnie the Pooh, Raggedy Anne, and the assorted stories of Rumer Godden. Julian Fellowes got in on the act with The Curious Tale of the Abandoned Toys, and when I was little I read the Sally Anne series by Terrance Dicks, about a group of toys living in a children’s hospital.

And hey, remember Small Soldiers back in 1998? That was a fun one.

My point is that Toy Story certainly wasn’t the first to come up with the idea of living toys. But all good stories start with a good idea, and “toys that come to life when nobody’s around” is a great one, full of magic and possibility, as proved by its popularity over the years. (I recall the early promotion for the film playing on this theme, with one advert asking: “ever wonder why your toys are never where you left them?”)

But what makes Toy Story special is that it’s not just based on one good idea, but several, all of which are explored to the full extent of their potential.

“Living toys” might be the simplest idea of the film, and yet in the hands of Pixar it becomes the most complex, with most of the plot and character-building based around the implications that arise from it. It’s not enough that Andy’s toys come to life whenever he’s not around, but that the writers have clearly thought about what it would be like to actually be a toy.

What do they do when Andy is gone? How do they entertain themselves? What do they fear? How do they see themselves and their world?

Perhaps the most important component of their portrayal is that they’re adults, who define themselves as the caretakers of Andy’s well-being. As Woody says: “what matters is that we’re here for Andy when he needs us, that’s what we’re made for, right?” This doesn’t mean the toys aren’t above petty rivalries or serious arguments, but that they’re all rational and (relatively) mature adults sets the tone for the whole film.

It means that the toys have their own community within the boundaries of Andy’s bedroom, with its own rules, customs and social mores that are build specifically around the fact that they’re toys. For instance, the fact that Woody is Andy’s favourite gives him a position of authority over the others, one that’s put in jeopardy when a new favourite emerges.

The toys are naturally terrified of yard sales and birthday parties, which threatens their safety and continued presence within the community of Andy’s room, as well as rough play (epitomized by the sadistic games of Sid the next-door neighbor) that could lead to wear and tear and the shame of either getting shelved, lost, or thrown out.

In later films we explore the heartbreak of toys that are abandoned or forgotten by children who grow out of them, and of course all are governed by the unspoken rule that no one “come to life” before a human being’s eyes.

This in turn leads to scenes both big and small that feel like they would be a natural part of any toy’s life, from the mad rush to get back to their places whenever Andy returns to his room, to Woody thanking another toy for putting on a “plastic corrosion awareness meeting,” to the tiny army men sneaking downstairs to report back on what Andy has received for his birthday, in a sequence that plays out like a serious military operation.

They’re scenarios that only a toy could face, and yet make perfect sense within the context of their existence. It's in that instinct to “freeze” whenever people are nearby, that being a lost toy isn’t just a cause for alarm but mortification, that whether you’re from Playschool or Mattel is a typical conversation-starter, and that things like a Barrel of Monkeys can be repurposed for a makeshift rope.

In other words, the world-building is wonderful: thoughtful and rich and one that invites any viewer to ponder: what is it like to be a toy? Most of the earliest Pixar films were about how hidden or microcosmic worlds relate to the wider, human world, and though the lives of the main characters in Toy Story are largely defined by our world, a lovely balance is struck when it becomes apparent that they also have rich internal lives of their own. (For example, as we find out the moment Bo Peep is introduced, toys are capable of romantic attachments).

But I said Toy Story was build around more than one good idea, and once the central premise of the movie is set-up, it begins introducing the rest of them. This not only a tale of toys living within their microcosmic world, but a Buddy Comedy, in which two clashing personalities must learn to work together to survive, and a Race Against the Clock adventure in which said buddies struggle to get home before they’re lost forever, and an exploration of self-worth, identity and purpose (and what to do when you lose them).  

Toy Story could have been about any one of these ideas and it would have still been excellent. Heck, the opening sequence alone proves that the whole movie could have simply been “Woody and friends hang out in Andy’s room” and remained captivating. But that Pixar kept adding to their premise, building and expanding and exploring it, is what put the company on the map.

It seems utterly redundant to provide a synopsis of a film that everyone has grown up with, but because it’s so ingenious, it’s a pleasure to type it all out:

The hierarchy of toys in the bedroom of young Andy Davis is upset with the arrival of Buzz Lightyear, an action-figure with all the bells and whistles you’d expect from a space ranger based on a popular television show. Most of the toys, ranging from crotchety Mr Potato Head, sardonic piggy-bank Hamm, earnestly insecure dinosaur Rex and good-natured Slinky Dog are impressed, but Sheriff Woody, a pull-string cowboy doll, isn’t.

The glitzy newcomer is competition to his position as Andy’s favourite toy, and as Buzz’s popularity begins to soar, taking everything from Woody’s spot on Andy’s bed to the role of protagonist in Andy’s games, so too does Woody’s jealousy. It culminates in a prank that goes terribly wrong, one that ends with Woody and Buzz left stranded at a pizza parlour with no way of returning home.

Making matters worse is that Andy’s family are moving in three days time, and Buzz is suffering under the delusion that he’s a real space ranger that’s crash-landed on a planet of giants, woken up from hyper-sleep, and is now required to return to Space Command so as to pass on vital information regarding the evil Emperor Zurg.

Yet despite their rivalry and Buzz’s misconception about who (and what) he is, the two are forced to work together when they end up in the house of Sid Phillips, a psychopath-in-training who enjoys tearing apart his toys. In their successful attempt to escape in one piece and return safely to Andy, the two inevitably put aside their differences and become friends.

Just writing it all out reminds me of just how creative this movie is, and how perfectly it’s all put together. It’s about the secret life of toys, and the quest to get home, and Buzz’s delusions about what he is, and Woody’s need to overcome his own flaws. Yet not one storyline impinges or is overwhelmed by any of the others; they work in perfect harmony to create a whole.

When it comes to the two main characters, Buzz’s development is not as compelling as Woody’s. It’s never explained why he believes he’s a space ranger instead of a toy (every other toy we’ve seen – at least in this film – knows exactly who and what they are) and despite a few genuinely upsetting scenes in which Buzz grapples with his existential crisis (namely his heartbreaking attempt to fly out the window) it’s mostly played for laughs and he embraces his new identity within twenty-four hours of learning the truth.

Granted, we do see a little of the signature Pixar storytelling style at work, as any other studio would have tried to vindicate Buzz’s belief system, to reassure him that he can be anyone he wants to be. Yet Pixar is firm. He’s a toy and he must learn to accept it after his whole world is pulled out from under his feet. His acceptance may be swift, but it’s still tough to watch.

(Though even Pixar goes ahead and lets him fly in the final act – none of this “falling with style” nonsense; Buzz is clearly defying gravity in this sequence).

But it’s with Woody’s characterization that we find the true genius of Pixar. I’ve spoken on flawed protagonists and the consequences of their bad decisions in the past, and Woody is a perfect example of how to create a fallible character who makes a mistake, owns it, and tries to rectify the situation.

The most surprising thing about watching Toy Story through an adult’s eyes is seeing just how far the writers are prepared to go with Woody’s jealousy. It really does have an edge to it, and they don’t hold back on how bitter and spiteful and resentful he is towards Buzz. One of the most striking scenes is when he marches up to Buzz and says: “Stay away from Andy, he’s mine.”

It’s possessive to the point of creepy, not to mention irrational considering Woody knows Buzz has no control over what Andy does or who he prefers. It’s also clear in the Strange Things montage that it’s not just Andy’s affection that Woody has lost, but his status among the rest of the toys. He’s motivated not just by his love for Andy, but his own ego.

It’s this that leads to the turning point in the film: Woody tries to play a prank on Buzz and it all goes horribly wrong. Buzz tumbles out of the window, the rest of the toys turn on Woody, Andy takes the two of them to Pizza Planet, and they’re left behind in the ensuing tumble.

It’s here Woody’s arc of redemption and self-realization begins, though it’s important to note it’s already been plotted very carefully. We know that Woody isn’t truly bad, as we’ve seen his good side in his interactions with Andy and the other toys. And during his prank-gone-wrong there’s a striking zoom-in on his face the moment things begin to turn sour – and it’s clear he knows he’s gone too far.

One day I’ll write that extensive meta about how redemption stories need three crucial steps: 1. the character not being too evil to start with, 2. the character acknowledging that they’ve done wrong and taking responsibility for it, and 3. the character trying to make amends with the people that’ve been hurt. If these three criteria are met, you’re looking at a solid redemption story (from Mr Darcy to Prince Zuko, Disney’s Beast to Tolkien’s Boromir) If one or more is skipped, you’ve got a shitty one (Regina, Darth Vader and Spike).

Suffice to say, Woody ticks all three boxes: his jealousy and pettiness is unpleasant but not unforgivable, he sincerely apologizes to Buzz when they’re both stuck in Sid’s room, and he demonstrates his lesson-learnt throughout the rest of the film (as when Andy’s car is leaving the driveway, Buzz gets stuck in the fence, and Woody makes the split-second decision to let go of the fender and return to help out his friend).

This review sums it up best:

Of course Woody must work through his resentment and redeem himself, Buzz must face the truth about himself, the two must learn to accept and respect one another, and Sid must be taught a lesson as well. The joy, though, lies in the grace and deftness with which all these elements are brought together, in the neatly crafted plot and the rightness of the characterizations.

In terms of plot and character, pacing and suspense, the film’s craftsmanship is impeccable. Not a single scene in wasted, not a single joke falls flat. It’s creative and surprising and heartfelt, and everything has pay-off, from the match in Woody’s holster to the rocket strapped to Buzz’s back.

(And even when the match doesn’t work, the writers have an equally ingenious back-up solution: Woody uses the sun shining through Buzz’s helmet to light the fuse, copying the technique Sid used earlier with a magnifying glass to burn Woody’s forehead).

Heck, it’s such perfection that it’s almost depressing for a writer to watch it, knowing they’ll never be able to create anything as perfect. And the most incredible thing is that the sequel manages to be even better.

Miscellaneous Observations:

Watching this as a child, I was always struck by the liveliness of Andy’s imagination. Everyone plays differently when they’re a kid, and I was more of a role-player than a storyteller. For some reason, I was really into having my toys escape natural disasters.

Andy on the other hand is more of a director, who guides his toys through an inventive story (hey, a toy story!) with cows and buildings that’ve been drawn on the side of cardboard boxes, and which incorporate things like his sister’s cot (for a jail) and her bedside lamp (the Bo Peep figurine).

There’s a neat bit of foreshadowing in the sentience of the toys: if you look closely, Woody’s face goes from a placid smile to an ever-so-slightly alarmed expression when Andy is bouncing him on his shoulders.

Based on what the children and Buzz mention in passing, the Buzz Lightyear character seems to belong in the equivalence of a Star Wars franchise (this is even more apparent in the sequel, where Buzz and Zurg play out the “I am your father” gag). And on reading about this movie for the first time in years, I found out that there actually was a cartoon that depicted Buzz’s adventures in space – I’ll check it out after I’ve finished the trilogy.

I recall some outrage over the trailer for Toy Story 3 in which Barbie approaches Ken and coos: “nice ascot”. According to some viewers, this innuendo was a travesty to the inherent innocence of the Toy Story films. So we can only assume they’d forgotten about the scenes in this movie which include Mr Potato Head removing his lips and pressing them against his backside to indicate an “ass-kisser”, all of Bo Peep’s blatant come-ons (“why don’t I get someone else to watch the sheep tonight?”), the suggestion that Woody has “laser envy,” and Woody’s frustration finally erupting in a claim that he can’t say what he’s really thinking because: “there are Preschool toys present.”

Having been released in the early nineties, it’s fair to say that the graphics have dated. The shiny consistency of the skin works well on the plastic toys, but it’s easy to see why the human characters are kept to a minimum. Scud looks particularly unimpressive these days, and just a few years later was upstaged by Buster’s beautifully rendered fur.

Yet in other ways, the early technology works in their favour. There’s a gangly awkwardness to Woody’s movements that went missing in later films, and so was possibly a result of the animation’s limitations. Either way, it’s was clear right from the word go that Toy Story was a game-changer, and here we are over twenty years later, in which two-dimensional animation is all but extinct on the big-screen.

Everyone’s favourite sequence is surely the escape from Sid’s house, in which all of his grotesquely deformed toys end up having just the right altercations needed to bust themselves into the backyard and scare the pants off him. That shift from the horror-house atmosphere of the interior to the toys fighting back against a delinquent creep is surely one of the most rewarding parts of the film, and (it’s worth noting) the only time a toy ever comes to life in front of a human, in any of the movies or assorted specials.

There’s clever continuity not just within the film (such as Andy receiving Battleship for his birthday, which Mr Potato Head and Hamm are seen playing later) but also tiny details that are saved for the sequel: the arrival of a puppy and Mrs Potato Head for Christmas, and mention of Al’s Toy Barn as a retail outlet.

And of course, this attention to detail continues into the third movie as well, with the three-eyed aliens in particular getting the most magnificent pay-off ever for their fascination with giant claws… but we’ll get to that in good time.

Debates on the metaphysical rules of the toys have been going on for years (perhaps second only to the physiology of Cars) and questions certainly arise in some of the comments made by characters. At one point Woody cries: “we are gonna die,” and Mr Potato Head calls him a “murderer” after seeing Buzz’s severed arm, which proves that death is something that happens to toys, not just their owners – but what exactly does a “dead toy” look like? Do they have to be torn apart? Completely destroyed? Do they simply “shut down” after too much wear and tear?

Having brought up the subject, I’m now going to drop it entirely, because some questions just can’t be answered.

Finally, here’s an interesting run-down of the making of Toy Story and the impact it’s had on pop-culture.