Bad Animated Sequels?: The Curious Case of the Land Before Time

I don’t understand it when someone tells me they “don’t watch kids movies.” The best works of Disney, Pixar, The Muppets, etc are great pieces of filmmaking plain and simple .This is not to say, however, that there aren’t genuine “kids movies.” As a young child I loved The Land Before Time series; parts II, III, IV and V in particular. For nostalgia’s sake I recently re-watched Parts II and III, and the childishness of them was quite apparent.

For those unfamiliar, The Land Before Time is a series of cartoon films (and later a TV show) about the adventures of five young dinosaurs. The series started with a standalone film. Directed by Don Bluth and produced by Stephen Spielberg, the film was an ambitious and melancholy project and has earned its place as a classic of animated cinema. The original filmmaking team, however, played no role in the development of the subsequent 13 sequels and tv show. And the difference in vision is readily apparent. 

The original Land Before Time is a coming of age story. It puts its protagonist through a life changing tragedy and forces him and his friends to brave overwhelming terrors as they cross a dreary landscape. The sequels, by contrast, are not centred around vast physical or mental journeys. They aren’t without their scary moments, but the events they depict are not as formative or terrifying as the original trek.

In The Land Before Time II, for instance, the characters must retrieve an egg from a pair of thieving struthiomimuses and then try to raise a baby dinosaur. In The Land Before Time III the protagonists deal with bullies, and the bickering of their parents, as their herds are faced with the prospect of a drought.

The initial Land Before Time film both does and doesn’t have a villain. The young dinosaurs have regular run ins with a t-rex. Because the dinosaurs is much bigger than them, and is a carnivore, it is not anthopomorphized like the other characters. It thus doesn’t get to be evil, so much as a terrifying force of nature. This stands in contrast to parts II and III. In part II, the villains are a classic schemer-and-dope duo, whose sole fixation is eating eggs. In part III, the “villains” are a group of teenager dinosaurs who bully the protagonists.

A final key difference between the original film and its sequels is the most obvious. The sequels are musicals, the original is not. The combination of the sequels’ villains and musicality is particularly campy. There’s nothing inherently wrong with singing villains. Disney writer have penned many chilling villain song-liloquies: “Be Prepared,” “Poor Unforuntate Souls,” and “Hell Fire.” The Land Before Time’s equivalents, even by comparison, are wonderfully childish. The latters’ villains sing lines like: “When I wake up first thing I do…look around for something to chew “Eggs-actly””, and “When you’re big you can step on little people’s toes, munch on their lunch, bop them on the nose.”

To be clear, I don’t mind the kitsch of those songs. In fact, I’ve had the tune to “When You’re Big” stuck in my head since I previously saw the movie, about 21 years ago. Overall, however, the childishness of the Land Before Time sequels does come at the expense of their enjoyability for older viewers. The dramatic tension of The Land Before Time III is severely limited by the fact that its antagonists are not vicious hunters, just teenagers intent on saying mean (and inevitably PG) things. 

Animated sequels are often assumed to be bad. In the case of Disney, this is because many of these sequels were not intended for theatrical release, and as such, left narratively and visually underdeveloped (I remember the frustration of my Dad accidentally renting Hercules II for us; Instead of a comedic, Greek epic, we got Disney characters blandly looking through an ancient-high school yearbook). A superficial observer might make a similar comment about The Land Before Time’s direct to video sequels. Such an observation, however, would miss the far more fascinating development at play here.

The (original) Land Before Time may be a kids movie, but it’s one filled with misery. As a kid, I found it unsettling. As a 26-year-old, however, I fell in love with it. I loved that it was a coming of age story about a character who did not man up and change his personality (like Simba and Bambi), but instead built on the compassionate strength he had had all along. As a young man who struggles with imposter syndrome and other pains that come from growing up in a neoliberal world, this message proved particularly inspiring. You don’t always have to be the lion king; sometimes its good enough to be a big-hearted brontosaurus, with a few good friends.

The Land Before Time, in short, is not a true kids movie. Rather it is a movie for adults panged with nostalgia for their childhoods. The sequels, meanwhile, deliver, where the original film cannot. Where the original film is dreary, the sequels are colorful, and sparkling with music. Where the original film deals with the issue of “coming of age” over an extended period of time, the sequels deal with little episodes of kids getting into trouble. And whereas the original film’s villain is an ominous, apersonal predator (a stand in for death in all its forms), the sequels play to schoolyard dynamics, presenting villains whose pettiness may better resemble the ordinary “evil” kids see in their day to day lives.

Movie reviews are written by adults. What it means for movies to be great is determined by adults. Needless to say there’s a flaw with such a set up. The Land Before Time is a great movie, with sequels that do not match is greatness. But does that make them, yet another example of bad, uninspired sequels? No, they are classics in their own, albeit childish way. So next time your child asks to watch one, don’t roll your eyes like Daddy Topps. Instead, be like Ducky and say “yup, yup, yup,” to their request for a great valley adventure.

The Peanuts Movie (2015)

Directed by: Steve Martino

Written by: Craig Schulz, Bryan Schulz and Cornelius Uliano
When I first saw trailers for the recent(ish) Peanuts movie done in CGI, fears of money grabbery stuck my brain. The Peanuts comics have always had a unique air to them: existentialist, verbose and melancholy, yet all the while, fun and kid-friendly. As it turns out the movie (Co-written by Charles Schultz’s sons and grandson) captures that original spirit to a tee. If one were to call the film a money grab, it would have to on the grounds that it is too loyal to its source material: a nostalgia trap if it will. I would argue, however, that The Peanuts Movie constitutes the next step in a slow-moving evolution of the characters: a pace that ensures that each adaptation sticks to its predecessor’s spirit.

The Peanuts, of course, started out as a comic strip. The series follows the adventures of a number of elementary school kids living in a semi-adult-less world. One of the kids, Charlie Brown, eventually emerged as the series’ protagonist. The strip regularly revisits set ups between its characters (Charlie Brown and Linus having discussions on a bridge, Lucy making Charlie Brown trip with a football, Peppermint Patty confusing Snoopy for a human, etc). While this format does not lend itself easily to longer-form media, the translation has been done before. The stage musical You’re a Good man Charlie Brown, essentially put several of these motifs together, extended them via song, and unabashedly avoided having a constant plot.

The Peanuts Movie is not radically different from You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown (save for the musical thing). While more narrative-driven than the musical, the movie nonetheless nods in the direction of plotlessness, while amicably tinkering with the comics’ signature pessimism. A recurring idea in the comics is that Charlie Brown has a crush on “a little red headed girl,” but he is too abashed to talk to her. Breaking (though not entirely) with the comics’ approach, the movie brings the girl (Francesca Angelucci Capaldi) into view and centres its story around Charlie Brown’s (Noah Schnapp) pursuit of her. In doing so, it makes a simple, but important psychological observation (the kind that would make Lucy jealous). Charlie Brown’s regular bullying at the hands of Lucy (Hadley Belle Miller) and Violet (Madisyn Shipman) leads him to the assume the red-headed girl will be cruel towards him, even though he has no reason to think she bears such negative personality traits. This kind of pessimistic generalization is undoubtedly a mental heuristic that many real people (children and adults) are quick to apply, even when they are not as unfortunate as poor Chuck.

But while The Peanuts Movie has more narrative than its source material, the departure never feels radical.The film’s creators knew that The Peanuts would not be The Peanuts if it was simply the same characters in an unrelated story form (the Schulz’s insisted on being involved for this reason). As such, whenever it seems that the film is picking up too much ground towards having a plot, that progress is swiftly interrupted. While not a “suspense film,” The Peanuts Movie engagingly toys with expectations. The film, in fact, subverts a common trope in comedies and family movies: the protagonist “losing himself” for the sake of being popular. While Charlie Brown is best understood in our popular culture for his unfortunateness, the film does a good job of emphasizing the other side of his coin. The tragic irony of Charlie Brown’s adventures is that this unfortunateness is buoyed by his goodness.

The Peanuts is not the kind of movie I’d call mind blowing. I could certainly come up with things to tinker about it: I’d argue, for instance, that the Snoopy vs Red Baron subplot is funnier in comic-book than animated form. What I’m really getting at, however, is that The Peanuts Movie’s real accomplishment is reminding viewers, of how unique and entertaining its characters are. The movie is funny, comfortingly familiar, and envelope-pushing all at once. The Peanuts have survived another generation, so poor Charlie Brown will have to keep on kicking that football and dragging that kite for years to come.

The Fox and the Hound (1981)

Directed by: Ted Berman, Richard Rich and Art Stevens

Story by: Berman, Larry Clemmons, David Michener, Peter Young, Burny Mattinson, Steve Hulett, Earl Kress, Vance Gerry

I recently wrote of my lifelong affection for Oliver and Company, despite it not being one of Disney’s “classics.” I can’t say I have the same relationship to The Fox and the Hound, a film I just watched for the first time. Nonetheless, The Fox and the Hound has just as much of a case for being a dark-horse favorite as Oliver does. The difference is that while Oliver and Company is unequivocally a Disney misfit, The Fox and the Hound is a lesser known work that “looks” like a classic. 

Aesthetically, the film’s closest cousin is Bambi. Both Bambi and The Fox star young, woodland protagonists who come of age under the guidance of an owl. Furthermore, both deal with predator-prey relationships, particularly human hunting. The Fox and the Hound, nonetheless, is a sufficiently distinct work from its ancestor. 

The Fox and the Hound features a similar tragedy to the iconic one from Bambi. I mention this “spoiler” because it comes notably early in the film. Its purpose, I suppose, is to make clear for the film’s young viewers that despite foxes being a “predator” animal, Tod the Fox (Keith Coogan, later Mickey Rooney), for the purpose of this story, is the prey.

In addition to seducing viewers with a luscious green country side, The Fox and the Hound also stays lively with a decently populated ensemble cast of lesser known sidekicks. Tod is accompanied in his coming of age by a caring human widow (Jeanette Nolan), the aforementioned owl (Pearl Bailey) and a pair of birds, Boomer (Bill Winchell—known as the voice of Tigger) and Dinky (Dick Bakalyan). Tod’s neighbours meanwhile are a Yosemite Sam-esque hunter (Jack Albertson), an older hunting dog named Chief (Pat Buttram–known as the voice of the Sheriff of Nottingham), and most importantly, Copper the Bloodhound (Corey Feldman, later Kurt Russel).

While Tod is the slightly more prominent protagonist, Copper, who is absolutely adorable as a pup, has perhaps the more tragic story of the two, and is the film’s most unique feature. Copper embodies the basic traits of dogs: a point that might be obvious except for the fact that it applies to Copper far more than it does to Disney’s other canine characters. On the one hand he is playful and affectionate. On the other hand he is enthusiastically obedient to his human master. These traits are forced into opposition when Copper is taken out to serve his purpose: to be a hunting dog.

As an adult I found The Fox and the Hound both visually and narratively beautiful. The heartbreaks were manageable due to my understanding that things were going to turn out ok. That said, because the film is one rooted in a sort of melancholic beauty, it is understandable why it remains in some obscurity. Along with Bambi and Dumbo, it is a work that doesn’t offer an obvious selling point for young children, and unlike the other two films, it is not a hallowed product of an ancient time. The film has a few songs too, but one (in addition to being heartbreaking) is talk-sung, and the other two, despite being wonderfully and uniquely delivered by Pearl Bailey, aren’t exactly hook-filled or upbeat. But while The Fox and the Hound may not overtake Frozen in your young child’s heart anytime soon, it is a perfect work for the adult Disney fan eager for more. The film embodies much of what is beloved about Disney while feeling fully original in its own right. Even if you just see it for the chance to hear a character say the phrase “ok Boomer” (at least that’s good for accidental humour in 2019-20), it is hard not to be endeared by Todd and Copper’s best-friendship.

Oliver and Company (1988)

Directed by: George Scribner

Written by: Jim Cox, Tim Disney and James Mangold

Despite being a recurring part of my childhood, Oliver and Company has not exactly become one of the Disney Classics. The film, which takes the story of Dickens’ Oliver Twist and makes it about a cat and some dogs living in contemporary (1980s) New York City, came out a year before Disney’s renaissance period started: a year before The Little Mermaid, etc. Rewatching the film as an adult, I was able to appreciate the ways in which it didn’t quite work, but also saw the inspiration it instilled in me as a child.

Oliver and Company opens with a song performed by the grizzly-voiced, new-wave singer Huey Lewis called “Once Upon a Time in New York City.” The screen zooms in on sunlit skyscrapers and then takes a tour through the city’s grand, increasingly melancholic streets. The film marks a stark break from Disney’s general approach of finding magic in the rural and unreal. As someone who  was growing up in a big city (but one that wasn’t quite New York), Oliver and Company served as a rare example of a work that both brought my own surroundings to life, while nonetheless creating an “imaginary” world for me to dream of. This vivacity continues into the film’s other great song. “Why Should I Worry.” The city-rocker is sung by a dog named Dodger (Billy Joel: yes, that Billy Joel) as he teaches an unadopted kitten named Oliver (Joey Lawrence) how to procure food with “street savoir-faire.”

Oliver Twist, the film’s source material, may be the source of its problem. While I do not know the novel too well, its political legacy is a complex one. On the one hand, Charles Dickens is known for writing critically on the squalid conditions of Victorian England’s poor, a task Oliver Twist undoubtedly takes on. On the other hand, the novel would hardly pass for progressive today, both because one of its villains, Fagin, is a stereotyped-Jew, and also because Oliver is not saved by the mobilization of his fellow destitute, but instead by the charity of a rich man. Moral issues aside, this latter point may be what holds Oliver and Company back from having a fully satisfying story. Oliver does not have to be a hero himself, he only has to be saved. As a result, the film’s second half revolves around Oliver getting passed around while assorted decisive actions take place. There is no satisfying epiphany or decision on Oliver’s part, thus rendering him one of Disney’s least relevant title characters.

Musically, furthermore, the film does not quite hold up to the Disney movies that followed it. “Once Upon a Time in New York City,” is a great song, but its an introductory piece, not owned by a character. “Why Should I Worry,” is a classic, but a tad too short (though its reprise has to be one of my favorite, bittersweet movie moments). “Streets of Gold,” feels even shorter, as does the otherwise sweet and solid “Good Company.” Finally, “Perfect isn’t Easy,” sung by the arrogant poodle Georgette (Bette Middler) is visually wonderful, but lacks a real lyrical hook.

Oliver and Company may lack the musical structure or the narrative coherence to have become a classic, but its world building is still strong enough to make me smile, and was undoubtedly very compelling to my younger self. It not only brings out the “once upon a time,” in the city, but also brings together a rich set of characters. In addition to Oliver, the quasi-villainous Georgette, and the slick Dodger, there’s a whole gang of dogs including the wonderfully pretentious Francis (Roscoe Lee Brown), the adorably dopy Einstein (Richard Mulligan), the tough but protective Rita (Sheryl Lee Ralph/Ruth Pointer), and Tito the Chihuaha (Cheech Marin) (whose womanizing, Latin schtick, is admittedly the film’s most dated feature). The film’s humans are also endearing. Fagin (Dom DeLuise), a gentle, yet cartoonishly incompetent thief, is perhaps Disney’s warmest parent figure. This character clearly resonated with me, as when I first tried  reading Oliver Twist years after watching this movie, I refused to accept that any version of Fagin could possibly be a villain.

Oliver and Company may lack the cultural conspicuousness of other Disney works. It is not an epic tale of a dream coming true, nor is it old or “pastoral” enough to be a classic. But for those looking for magic in their city, or for those who simply wished Dickens’ had written Fagin a little differently (perhaps Dickens himself is included on that list), the film can be just as much a treasurer as anything the Disney Renaissance has to offer.

Frozen II (2019)

Written by: Jennifer Lee, Directed by: Lee and Chris Buck

Again, I watched an animated sequel and again, I must answer the question, was it justified? The answer is a resounding yes. Frozen II may be Disney’s most visually mesmerizing film to date, a claim I don’t make lightly, given my general preference for classically (2-D) animated films. Storywise the film is, let’s just say, “different.” While I, for the most part, was a fan of its differentness, I believe that even those who are not, can at least be brought to respect the work’s uniqueness and vision.

Frozen II continues the adventures of Queen Elsa (Idina Menzel), her sister Princess Anna (Kristen Bell), anthropomorphic Snowman Olaf (Josh Gad), ice collector Kristoff (Jonathan Groff) and his pet reindeer Sven. The film’s initial joy comes from watching these characters, previously only united in high-drama, relate as a sitcom-like friend-group, a dynamic that is marked through the upbeat, yet existentially anxious song “Some Things Never Change.”

Even in these early moments the film deals with one of the hurdles sequels must overcome. My biggest criticism of Finding Dory is that it couldn’t imagine, or couldn’t find room, for central figures Marlon and Nemo to have new character arcs, and subsequently just gave them a watered down rehashing of their Finding Nemo dynamic. At the time I saw this as an inevitable shortcoming: how could you develop a cartoonish character, without altering their final essence? Frozen II proved me wrong, as not only did it keep its characters alive and developing; but it did so explicitly with the film’s least realistic character: Olaf the snowman. In the original film, Olaf is entertaining, but in a predictable, childishly-humorous way (“hahaha, I’m impaled” being one of his memorable lines). In Frozen II, Olaf explicitly muses with maturity, and while he is no less “annoying” (and no less entertaining)  his rhetorical style is clearly depicted as having evolved from where it was in the original film.

That said, Frozen II’s commitment to character development does not stand out right away. In its first half, the film overcomes “The Finding Dory problem” by cheating in a way. At first, it seems the story Frozen II aspires to tell is disconnected completely from its protagonists (save for their Scandinavianism). To some viewers it might seem like Disney simply inserted some of its most bankable characters into a new story, rather than taking the risk of creating a standalone universe. While ultimately this disconnect is resolved through the film’s narrative logic, for the open minded, the film’s first half has an interesting tonal texture. The Frozen characters provide comedy and familiarity. The movie thus resembles (an incredibly magical) reality TV show: join your relatable pals as they go on a wacky adventure!

And now about that story: about its differentness. My strict no-spoilers philosophy prevents me from talking about it too much, but, at very least, I can say that the story subverts Disney’s standard formula of centreing their heroes’ developments around the actions of a villain. I can also say that Frozen II is a historical/political film, and that its political agenda is embodied not just through the characters it depicts and the morals it espouses, but also through the kind of story it tells (a naturalistic fable rather than an epic of combat). While still a broadly-aimed Disney movie, Frozen II’s political side should not be dismissed: it sits in a similar place on the political-to-not-political spectrum to The Hunchback of Notre (a story of racism, Catholic moralism and ableism).

And just as I credit Frozen II for overcoming the sequel-blues that plagues Finding Dory, the film can also be said to overcome the challenges The Hunchback of Notre Dame took on in being political. I was admittedly somewhat perplexed by The Hunchback. Unlike other Disney films of its era, where sidekicks and showstopper songs take centre-stage, The Hunchback really is about social injustices that are too dark/sophisticated for its target audience to necessarily understand (“Protect me, Maria/ Don’t let this siren cast her spell/ Don’t let her fire sear my flesh and bone/ Destroy Esmeralda/ And let her taste the fires of hell,” sings the film’s Catholic villain), but its overall writing, nonetheless, is targeted at young audiences. Frozen II deals with similar moral themes (minus the Catholic element), but it never lets the sombreness hold back the film’s inclination for beauty and optimism. As such, I suspect it would have resonated with me as a kid far more than The Hunchback.

Scanning reviews, I’ve seen Frozen II negatively compared to its predecessor. While this is true in the arena of songs (Frozen II lacks a great lyrical hook like “Let it Go,” or “Love is an Open Door”), Frozen II and Frozen need not be compared. I’ve argued before that the Toy Story sequels are great because their founding premises were not “how can we extend the timelines of these characters,” but rather “what is a different kind story we could centre around toys.” Frozen II’s creators (while no doubt also under pressure to get more out of their characters), clearly engaged in a process that resembled Toy Story’s. The first film asked “how could we subvert the Disney princess tradition, by doubling the amount of princesses and having one flirt with the dark side?” Whereas that film played more with the gendered-element of the Disney Princess tradition (an approach admittedly continued in Frozen II via reducing Kristoff to a comedic role), Frozen II, plays more directly with the Euro-monarchic element of the princess cannon. Of course the film does not denounce the idea of kingdoms, but it does hint at the colonial legacy of western monarchies and, furthermore, in a brief moment at the end, makes a point of keeping Kristoff true to his working class roots.

2019 may have been the year of the sequel and the remake, but that doesn’t always have to be a bad thing. Frozen followed in Toy Story’s footsteps in birthing a sequel that was as creative as its predecessor. And, while Toy Story 4 may very well take this year’s Best Animated Picture Oscar, I think we might for once, have seen a film where Disney’s feel-good optimism proves at least as imaginative as Pixar’s melancholy realism.

The Hunchback of Notre-Dame (1996)

Directed by: Gary Trousdale and Kirk Wise

Written by: Tab Murphy, Irene Mecchi, Bob Tzudiker, Noni White and Jonathan Roberts

When it comes to relating to films there’s a notable contrast between my childhood and my adulthood. As someone who browses videostores and reads up on movies and movie-culture online, I now systematically try to watch the works of directors, film studios, etc. As a child, by contrast, I would watch what came to me because they were on TV or because my parents decided to rent them. Therefore, it is only in the last few years that I’ve watched a number of important Disney films, feeling its better to know the animation giant’s full cannon, then to simply cling to the memories derived from my parents repeatedly renting me The Aristocats and Robin Hood. 

The Hunchback of Notre Dame is a film that fits prominently into my childhood consciousness, despite my never having come close to seeing it as a kid (The same is true of The Lion King, though that film and its plot are so ubiquitous I might as well have seen it). I have vivid memories of Quasimodo (or as I would have thought of him back then, the green-shirted man) and his talking gargoyle companions, gracing tv screens and children’s book covers. As I finally watched the film, I was also reminded of being struck, perhaps made a bit physically uncomfortable, by shots of Quasimodo climbing impossibly thin poles and sliding down roofs on the palms of his hands. 

After years of having nothing but this mysterious half-impression of the film, I finally saw The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Overall I was impressed with what I saw, but I nonetheless have a hard time imagining watching it as a kid. 

The film tells the story of Quasimodo (Tom Hulce), a man degradingly named (Quasimodo means half-formed) by his abusive caregiver Judge Claude Frollo (Tony Jay) a seeming political authority in Paris. The action starts when Quasimodo defies Frollo by sneaking out of his bell tower, and, along the way ,meeting a Romani dancer named Esmerelda (Demi Moore). After initially enjoying his freedom, Quasimodo finds himself tormented by the outside world, and returns to his life with the displeased Frollo. Frollo meanwhile , already an anti-Roma bigot,  develops a specific fixation with arresting and killing Esmerelda. 

The film’s themes, for the most part, are not subtly stated but they are not raised sappily either. The lack of subtlety is also made up for by the uniqueness of the themes to the Disney-animated format. The film’s themes include othering and genocide, and (more unusually) conservative moral hypocrisy. Frollo’s song “Hellfire” is a confession that he lusts for Esmerelda, meaning that his violence towards her is motivated by a weird combination of racist bigotry, being spurned as a lover and, finally for seeing his own sexual yearning as disgusting. In short, The Hunchback of Notre Dame is a PG13 film, that only gets to call itself a kids movie because it presents itself in Disney drag (musical animation featuring goofy gargoyles and a playful goat). 

The Hunchback of Notre Dame  in fact feels like it belongs more in the world of Victor Hugo media than it does in the Disney cannon. Unlike other Disney renaissance movies, the film lacks a single catchy upbeat song, only even really trying with the gargoyles’ number. But while its songs aren’t “hits” that doesn’t stop them from being compelling. The film’s opening number “The Bells of Notre Dame,” shares the sombre intensity of the opening number of fellow Hugo musical, Les Miserable. It’s a chilling song, but it will never feel like a personal anthem in the same way that “Under the Sea,” “Why Should I Worry,” or “Son of Man” do. 

But to return to the question of themes, while The Hunchback of Notre Dame stands out for its unique darkness, that doesn’t mean its portrayal of genocide isn’t in some ways quite sloppy. With the obvious exception of Esmerelda, the film is not quite committal on the matter of which characters are Roma and which are not. It is unclear if the film’s ensemble cast (“the people of Paris”), are in fact a collectively oppressed, multi-ethnic proletariat, or whether they are residents of an oppressed Roma neighborhood.

Quasimodo himself has Roma parents, a detail I would feel bad for spoiling but for the fact it is revealed in the film’s opening scene. Either the film’s animators forgot this detail, however, or it was maliciously whitewashed, as the red-haired Quasimodo lacks the shared dark hair and skin of his mother and father.  Granted, Quasimodo’s not realizing he is Roma is essential to the film’s character development. Quasimodo and Esmerelda deepen their understandings of their otherness, not through finding common ground right away, but instead by learning to empathize which one another. What The Hunchback of Notre Dame’s writers should have done was not reveal Quasimodo’s backstory at the film’s opening, setting up a later reveal that he is a child of  a (white-passing) Roma couple.

In watching this “family film” as an adult I of course noticed what I likely would have missed had I watched The Hunchback of Notre Dame as a six-year old. I also, however, re-appreciated what struck young me in the film’s trailers. How, I asked then, could a man slide down walls and climb on flag poles without the fear of, at-worst, falling to his death and, at best, horribly scraping his palms? Now when I watch (and admittedly still grimace) at these points, I take them less literally and instead think of them in terms of film tropes. While The Hunchback of Notre Dame may stand out as the Victor Hugo-Disney film, it also has an element of superheroism in it: in particular it channels the X-Men universe. The X-Men are othered because they are “mutants,” even though their mutations are what in other comic books would simply be called super-powers. While Quasimodo is othered for his physical appearance, rather than his powers, per se, it’s hard not to read his appearance and strength as emanating from the same inner force (whatever that may be). Quasimodo’s “powers” undoubtedly add richness to the film, even as they border on providing a deus ex-machina at one point. A key thematic idea embedded in Quasimodo’s strength is how it subverts the trope of the powerful other. Unlike say, the minotaur or Goliath, Quasimodo’s being powerful does not make him dangerous. This subversion serves as a nice compliment to the film’s surprisingly progressive take on masculinity and relationships; the short of it is that Quasimodo, in more ways than one, both gets to be and doesn’t get to be your traditional knight in shining armor.

Ultimately, The Hunchback of Notre Dame didn’t do anything to make it my favorite Disney film. Nonetheless, I very much enjoyed it and can say with confidence that it is one of the most notable Disney films. Can something be notable and enjoyable without being “a favorite?” If you can’t picture what I mean, you may want to give the Disney renaissance’s most sinister entry a shot. 

The Lion King (2019)

Directed by: Jon Favreau

Written by: Jeff Nathanson

2019’s The Lion King is a notable film. The problem is that the reason it is notable (its hyper-realistic, animated rendition of a scenic society of Savannah animals), is one most viewers will have internalized and taken for granted long before they even enter the theatre. In short, watching 2019’s The Lion King is a chance to enjoy stunning animation coupled with a good story and great songs. It’s a good experience, but, save for film-tech-buffs who might appreciate Jon Favreau’s “documentary inspired” camera work, it’s also one that falls well short of what one would hope for. 

When this Lion King was first announced emphasis was put on its cast: a cast markedly more-black than used in the original film. The announcement was a sign that Disney was responding to social concerns of the day, making sure that cinema is not a white-dominated field, especially not when stories are set in regions such as Africa. Alas, unlike in the recent Aladdin remake, where Will Smith got to shine as the genie, despite being largely the same as Robin Williams’ 1992 character, The Lion King’s new voice actors were truly confined by their scripts. Ironically, the only actor who seemed to get to do anything usefully innovative with his role was Seth Rogen (Pumbaa), who updated Ernie Sabella’s adorkable take on the character, with his fourth-wall breaking, cool-dork persona. 

Outside of Rogen, only one actor voiced his character in a way that meaningfully altered the approach taken in the original: Chiewetel Ejiofor, the voice of Scar. In the original Lion King, Scar is charmingly and unsatiably sinister: cartoonish and no-nonsense at once. Ejiofor, despite having many of Scar’s original lines, toned the character down. In theory, Ejiofor’s is an interesting interpretation; it makes Scar’s deception more believable and perhaps even grants the character a sliver of moral depth. In context, however, Ejiofor’s was a weird choice. The Lion King has a fairly simple script, so while Ejiofor’s version of Scar might be admirably nuanced, it is Irons’ charisma rather than Ejiofor’s delicateness that the text necessitates. 

The remake’s Scar problem, reminds me of what I wrote in my recent review of The Lion King. I asked some questions in that review, hoping that the remake might address them. To my surprise the remake did address those questions, but it did so merely for the sake of answering them: not as part of a broader path to enrich the story.

For instance, in the original film it is not explicitly stated why there is starvation under Scar’s reign: all we need to know is that Scar is bad and thus his rule is bad. In the remake, by contrast, it is made plain that starvation happens because Scar allows his hyena troops to hunt unsustainably. 

I previously argued that if the remake explained the logic behind Scar’s famine, it could enrich The Lion King story in one of two ways. One was that it could add depth to the story underlying Scar’s yearning for political power. The remake does not take this path. The other path the film could have taken was substantiating on the original film’s message about “the circle of life.” This is a path the remake sort-of embarks on. We are explicitly told that Mufasa (James Earle Jones, again) respects the animals he hunts and acknowledges the delicate balance he shares with them, an approach that is explicitly ditched when Scar takes power. This theme is given renewed attention later in the film in what I believe is the remake’s most compelling addition; a bit in which an impala (Phil LaMarr) tells Simba (Donald Glover) he cannot shake his fear of him, despite Simba’s having (temporarily (?)) dropped mammals from his diet.

 For better or for worse, however, this theme is not taken further. And perhaps that’s for the best. On the one hand as a lion in a “realistic” movie about the circle of life, Simba’s return to carnivorism is inevitable. On the one hand, it would be heartbreaking (especially for kid viewers) if the film actually went so far as to show that the adorable impala’s anxieties were valid. One approach the film could have taken to (somewhat) evade this problem would be having Simba discover that Timon (Billy Eichner) and Pumbaa were mere spirits/illusions who taught him a lesson when he needed one, but can not accompany him forever. Alas, such experimentalism was clearly not what Disney was going for in the case of this remake.

Another interesting change the remake makes is in its depiction of the hyenas. While the original Lion King stars three goofy hyenas as Scar’s hapless minions, the remake, cuts that number down to two (Keegan-Michael Key and Eric Andre) while rebranding another Hyena, “Shenzi” (Florenze Ksumba)  as the group’s smart, sinister leader. Upon hearing Shenzi’s voice, I wondered if this move was a nod to the character of Zira, the villainess from The Lion King 2. Alas, new-Shenzi doesn’t end up serving much more purpose in the script, than does the revelation about her tendency to overhunting. If anything, the rewriting of the hyenas simply comes at the expense of original film’s best line moment:

Banzai (hyena): Yeah, Be prepared. Yeah… we’ll be prepared, heh. …For 

what?

Scar: For the death of the king.

Banzai: What is he, sick?

Scar: No, fool – we’re going to kill him. Simba too.

Shenzi: Great idea! Who needs a king?

Shenzi and Banzai: (singing) No king! No king! La-la-la-la-la!

Scar: Idiots! There will be a king!

Banzai: Hey, but you said, uh…

Scar: I will be king! …Stick with me (triumphant, toothy grin), and you’ll never go hungry again

 

Much like Ejiofor’s subtle Scar, Kasumba’s savvy Shenzi is not a bad characterization, but its not a useful one either. Ironically, it shows that darker/realistic filmmaking is not neccessarily deeper than cartoonish filmmaking. In the original Lion King there’s the odd moment where viewers are left to wonder whether the hyenas have more moral authority than Scar and Mufasa alike. In the remake that problem is safely put to rest. Shenzi does not get to me a more fleshed-out Zira, but a boring-Bellatrix LeStrange.

 

Let’s be clear, while I think its right to ask why The Lion King’s (2019) creators thought it was fit to change next to nothing from their source material, changing The Lion King is nonetheless a very difficult task. For one, the film is arguably Disney’s masterpiece: with it, a studio known primarily for adapting fairy tales, for once, created a fairy tale that was really their own. Secondly, while Disney has tried to add tinges of progressivism to its remakes, with The Lion King that’s no easy task since the film is rooted in a degree of lion realism (ie prides congregating around one male who kills all offspring that aren’t his own). While part of me wanted to see this film reach a conclusion where Nala becomes Queen, and Simba opts out of the royalist lifestyle to live in Timon and Pumbaa’s multi-species community, I also recognize the narrative of weight that comes from having a society where tradition, charisma and will (and not mere numbers (lionesses vastly outnumbering Simba/Scar)) are the sources of political power.

A third reason why adapting a film like The Lion King is hard, is that its creators knew whatever they produced would be under the microscope. As much as I liked my idea about Timon and Pumbaa being a hallucination, I would be terrified to pull that one off. The icing on the cake of Ejiofor’s disappointing approach on Scar is that he doesn’t get to sing Scar’s sinister number “Be Prepared” (it’s sort of in there, you’ll see what I mean if you see it). This cut was known before the movie was released, and I think it’s worth noting how the proposed move was discussed

 

Anyone who watched Jon Favreau’s remake of The Jungle Book shouldn’t be too surprised, as many songs were cut from that original movie as well; however, cutting “Be Prepared” does feel a bit blasphemous, especially to fans of the original. Cutting “Be Prepared” to keep the film darker, more serious, and graver seems like a poor decision, as it is still meant to be a family movie, and adults (who were kids when the first one came out) would likely prefer to see the song performed, as it works to further characterize Scar.

— Josh Lezmi, Showbiz Cheatsheets

In the above passage Josh Lezmi theorizes that Favreau (or screenwriter Jeff Nathanson, etc) cut the song in order to have a more serious tone. Presuming Favreau, etc was ever allowed to have much of a creative thought process, however, this framing doesn’t make sense. If Favreau wanted to make a darker Lion King he wouldn’t have “cut” “Be Prepared,” but rather have made a film where “Be Prepared” and other sings wouldn’t fit in in the first place. Unfortunately, as op-eds like Lezmi’s show, Lion King fans wanted a film that did not mess too much with what they liked about the original. As such, the creative team gave viewers what they wanted. And only then did viewers realize that getting too much of what you want isn’t always a good thing.

So how could a better Lion King have been made? Perhaps the filmmakers could have taken the Maleficent route (admittedly I haven’t seen that one) and told the story from Scar’s perspective. That way, they would not have had to change details, they could simply have added them, all the while creating a product with a fresh feel. Perhaps such a film could address the mystery of why Scar does not kill Simba as a cub, but instead orders his hapless minions to do it. 

A more far fetched approach could have been making a version of The Lion King more closely inspired by Hamlet than the original (yes that was a joke). Perhaps someday in the future, Disney’s current remake era is something historians will talk about. I’d love to see a documentary exposing the behind-the-scenes conversatons. Was there vociferous debate about how much the original script should have been changed? Did the film’s creators think their work was more different from its source than we are giving them credit for? It’s a possibility I’m open to, and for now, I can at least be grateful that this film introduced an elephant shrew (Josh McRary) to “Hakuna Mata” (and the aforementioned impala).

The Lion King (1994)

Directed by: Roger Allers & Rob Minkoff

Written by: Irene Mecchi, Jonathan Roberts & Linda Wolverton

Disney’s The Lion King has parallels with Hamlet. This is not a novel observation, nor is it an outwardly obvious one. I’ve always been aware of this fact because I saw the film’s Romeo and Juliet inspired, direct-to-video sequel years before seeing the original. The film tells the story of young prince Simba (Jonathan Taylor Thomas/Matthew Broderick), who lives in close proximity to his power-hungry uncle, Scar (Jeremy Irons).

Following the film’s iconic opening with “The Circle of Life,” Scar is quickly introduced: he is the film’s first speaking character. While his remarks in this scene are brief, they undoubtedly have a soliliquaic air that channels that of Shakespeare’s conniving Richard III. And, living up to the standard set by the Shakespearian villains before him, Scar carries the movie. His villainy is rich with behavioural variety; he employs sweet-talking, cunning and brute strength. While the film’s script may not be filled with Shakespearian prose, Scar and his brother King Mufasa (James Earle Jones) certainly bring a Shakespearian spirit.

If we focus in on the Hamlet analogy, we can label Simba as Hamlet, Scar as Claudius, Mufasa as Hamlet’s father, Nala (Moira Kelly/Niketa Calame) as Ophelia, and Timon and Pumba (Nathan Lane and Ernie Sabella as Horatio (or Rosencrantz and Guildenstern). There’s even a Yorick reference. Only two of the characters, however are particularly analogous to Hamlet figures. Zazu (Rowan Atkinson), who tries to wisdom, despite his position of servitude and subjection to humiliation resembles Polonius. Scar’s ambitions, meanwhile, undoubtedly make him a Claudius analogue. Simba, by contrast is not all that Hamlet-esque.

In one of the film’s key plot points, Simba joins in a song called “Hakuna Matata” (Swahili for “no trouble”). In this moment, Simba becomes the opposite of the brooding Hamlet. While admittedly, it’s been a decade since I’ve read Shakespeare’s play, my memory is that Hamlet’s arc is believable because he does not do an excessive amount of “coming of age” over the course of his script. Hamlet does not have to learn what it means to be “a man” (at least by the standards of his day), he simply has to find the will to follow that path. Simba, on the other hand, goes through three distinct phases 1) playfully ambitious child 2) laid-back adult and 3) warrior adult. The ease with which he transition from phase 2) to 3) made me wonder to what degree phase 2) existed at all

The limitations of the Simba-Hamlet comparison leads to my next point; that The Lion King is in fact a combined re-telling of two texts: Hamlet and Disney’s Bambi . I previously wrote that Bambi’s naturalistic-realism is almost off-putting. Bambi’s entire personality is defined by the stage he’s at in his biological development and, as such Bambi the faun and Bambi the buck might as well be completely different characters. Simba is a more fleshed-out, three-dimensional character than his herbivorous counterpart. Nonetheless, like Bambi and unlike Hamlet, Simba’s arc is not slow moving , but rather defined by moments of major change.

Disney’s live action remake of The Lion King will soon be upon us. Given Disney’s eagerness to rapidly produce such films, I cannot expect this version of The Lion King to be particularly visionary. At the same time, the original film left me with questions I want answered, and I can at least hold out hope the remake will juggle with some of them. Firstly, will the remake engage more with the moral ambiguity the story’s “the circle of life” messaging? The thought that, after befriending Timon and Pumba in The Lion King Simba implicitly returns to hunting in The Lion King 2 doesn’t feel quite right. Secondly, while Scar is compelling enough as is, will the remake consider making him a morally ambiguous character? Scar’s clear motivation in The Lion King is his desire for power: for the throne. What if, however, this desire for power is shown to be based in a sincere interest in politics and a strong belief that hereditary rule has unjustly kept the most qualified King (him) from coming to power? Furthermore, what if Mufasa’s own virtuousness is drawn into question, and Scar’s decision to play usurper is not unambiguously villainous? One of the film’s key developments is that Scar is responsible for a famine in the lions’ kingdom. Rather than exploring the implications of this crisis, The Lion King simply settles for it being part of the package of Scar’s evil-ness. If the remake is truly ambitious, it can represent this famine as just as devestating for Scar as it is for the other lions: a lifelong political dreamer would not want to see his policies fail. A slightly less radical alternative would be to provide an explanation for the famine: Scar’s promotion of a policy of overhunting. This would at least allow the remake to better explore the circle-of-life themes raised, but never resolved, in the original film.

The above “What if?” questions are ones I could plausibly see the remake addressing. My more radical, “What-if,” however, concerns The Lion King’s parallels with Bambi. The Lion King tells of a lion who manned up and become like his father. But wouldn’t a more satisfying story speak to how Simba grew up to embody some traits of his biological father (Mufasa), but also some of his adoptive parents Timon and Pumba?

I’ve heard before that the right-wing psychology professor Jordan Peterson is a fan of The Lion King and now I see why. Simba’s self-actualization, channels Peterson’s view that coming of age happens when we take “individual responsibility,” often as shaped by traditional gender roles. In this sense, The Lion King contrasts with Frozen, a film Peterson denounces as “propaganda.” While in The Lion King Simba “mans-up,” finding a strength he had never previously displayed, in Frozen the film’s heroes are saved by sentiments they’ve held onto since childhood. Perhaps the pride lands didn’t need a king: they needed “Hakuna Matata.”

What am I saying with all of this? For some the point of a review is to tell you whether I liked the movie I saw. The Lion King of course has iconic songs with Buzby-Berkeley dance numbers and these along are enough to make the movie a near-great. So would I recommend you watch it? Of course. But simple as it may be, The Lion King’s being (compared to other Disney renaissance films) an original story, and its centreing of wise characters (Mufasa and Rafiki (Robert Guillaume)), drew me in a way that made me want to think: to think critically. Kings can make for great story subjects, but that doesn’t mean when viewers consume these stories, they will lose sight of their own distance from kings. You can root for Simba but still, in your heart, be Timon, Pumba or Zazu (and perhaps even Scar).

Ralph Breaks the Internet (2019)

Directed by: Rich Moore and Phil Johnston

Written by: Johnston and Pamela Ribbon

The person I watched Ralph Breaks the Internet with compared it, somewhat negatively, to Shrek. Though in many ways an apt comparison, I’m not sure it should be held against the film, at least not in Ralph’s early moments. Ralph Breaks the Internet  is not, unlike Shrek,  a fairy-tale parody. Instead, it primarily exists within its own videogame-centred logic. Ralph (John C. Reilly) and Vanellope (Sarah Silverman), leave their arcade-based video games and enter the internet in order to buy a replacement part for Vanellope’s console from EBay. The internet is presented as a mega-mall/city, with websites serving as business/activities, rife with joes about the harmless annoyances of some site (Google restyled as “Mr. KnowsMore (Alan Tudyk)”), the benevolent vapidness of buzzfeed/instagram (“BuzzTube” led by Yesss (Taraji P. Henson)) and the prevalence of Spam (portrayed by likeable but shady salesman J.P. Spamley (Bill Hader) to the forefront.

 

    It is midway through the movie, however, that the Shrek parallels start to become apparent. When first released in 2002, Shrek stood out for its irreverence. That film opens, much like early Disney films, with a reading from a storybook, that Shrek promptly makes fun of. It  goes on to turn a number of fairy table tropes on their head, targeting not just the original stories, but their uncritical continuation via Disney films. Since Shrek, Disney has responded by internally criticizing its own tropes. In Frozen Elsa tells Anna that she can’t marry a man she just met and in the live-action Aladdin, Princess Jasmine aspires to be Sultan. Ralph Breaks the Internet, takes that logic to the next level, as it includes (internet-based) depictions of Disney characters and, albeit in one-dimensional fashion, gives them three-dimensional personalities.

 

    Zizek argues that hegemonic ideologies benefit from having cynics within their ranks, because having a healthy dose of ironic-distance from one’s work, allows one to fullfill one’s tasks without the risk of becoming suddenly disillusioned. Ralph Breaks the Internet, at its worst, is a realization of that political project. While Shrek sought to give fairy tale characters new stories, Ralph Breaks the Internet flexes Disney’s monopolistic muscles by depicting the various characters it has legal access to, and then, to extend its monopoly further, makes fun of itself, showing that its media empire can include the satirical too. This is a criticism I hesitate to make, since these cameos are largely enjoyable and were used creatively by the filmmakers. Nonetheless, politically Disney’s monopolism is an important problem to name and, and even as a viewer, there’s something that feels hollow in these scenes even as they entertain: one knows the satire one is consuming is sweet but not nutritious.

 

    In other ways, however, the film’s Shrek parallels are positives, and well due, given that in the many years since Shrek came out, the significance of its irreverence has probably faded somewhat from our collective memories (for analysis on the significance of Shrek and how this spirit was somewhat lost in its third and fourth films I suggest this video by Youtuber Big Joel). Ralph Breaks the Internet’s two key themes are friendship-insecurity, expressed through Ralph, and looking-for-one’s inner princess as expressed through Vanellope. Through Ralph’s story, the film explores externally applicable feelings that rarely define cinematic plots and through Vanellope’s story, the film engages in satire of the Disney Princess-trope that, unlike what Disney has otherwise tried, goes beyond superficiality.

    One of the film’s gags is that Vanellope lacks a princess-song because she lacks a princess’s desires. The truth, however, is that she does have a desires, but in her head, they aren’t expressed through universal signifiers like “freedom.” “love,” or “something more.” Rather, her desires are more specific (she wants to live the life of the racers in (Grand Theft Auto knock-off) “Slaughter Race.”). Not only does Vanellope’s portrayal comment on how dreams really take shape, but it also subtlety knocks on how the individualized dreams of past Disney Princesses became generic over the course of plots. Big Joel notes, for instance, that Ariel’s obsession with the ways of humans somehow gets reduced to falling in love with one human, while Lindsey Ellis notes that Belle’s search for books and adventures end up a tad-too-tied to her relationship with the Beast.

 

Ralph Breaks the Internet is a unique movie and one that goes into the realm of thesatirical. It is also, however,  a Disney movie. Did the film’s ownership limit its potential at all? We can only speculate. That said, satire from within institutions can be just as valuable as satire from outside, especially if those institutions are as omnipresent and beloved as Disney. In this case, we can love the art, we just can’t forget to be mindful of the monopoly.

Toy Story 4 (2019)

Directed by: Josh Colley

Written by: Stephany Folsom & Andrew Stanton

This review inevitably contains spoilers for the earlier Toy Story movies, though not for Toy Story 4 itself.

It seems many were anxious going into Toy Story 4 that Pixar would ruin a good series: one that had naturally concluded a film ago. I didn’t share those worries. The 9-year gap between 4 and 3, and the solidness of the previous Toy Story sequels left me confident Woody’s fourth adventure would be a good one.

When I left the theatre I was not disappointed, but I was also reminded of a sober-reality. The Pixar we think we know, isn’t anymore. From 1995-2007 (Toy Story through Ratatouille) Pixar established itself as a studio that put out creatively populated, less-predictable-than-Disney stories that were nonetheless kid-friendly comedies. Since Ratatouille, however, Pixar has forked off in two directions, producing, on the one hand, (non-Toy Story) sequels and on the other hand, more ambitious movies that, while strong as individual works, almost betray the studio’s legacy as a kid-oriented company. These films include Wall-E, Up, Toy Story 3, Inside Out, The Good Dinosaur and now, Toy Story 4.

    Toy Story 3’s introduction advertised its ambitions to be a series ender. Andy’s main toys were depicted not as mere play things, but as participants in a wild west adventure.

Rather than trying to top this, Toy Story 4 starts with a moment of moving, but plain Toy Story-realism. Interestingly, this flashback centers around Andy and not Bonnie (the little girl who takes over ownership of Andy’s toys at the end of Toy Story 3), with Bo Peep (Annie Potts) and fellow blast-from-the-past, R.C., also featuring prominently.

This choice shows that the filmmakers were indeed sensitive to the problem of ruining their series by overextending it. It wouldn’t be right to continue Toy Story without Andy. While Bonnie goes on to be the main kid in the film, Toy Story 4’s writers successfully affirmed that Andy was special.

    Ever since Toy Story 2, in which Woody (Tom Hanks) is almost talked in to moving into a museum to avoid being outgrown, mortality has been a theme in the Toy Story series (ironically its least a theme in Toy Story 1 despite that being the only film where violence against toys is a central plot point). Toy Story 2 ends with Woody deciding not to worry about Andy outgrowing him. This happy ending worked, that is until Toy Story 3 came out. Toy Story 3, however, finds its own, albeit more bittersweet, happy ending, when Woody and the gang realize that even if its not Andy, other kids will be there to love them.

    What makes Toy Story 4 such a melancholy movie (one that really awakened me to there being two distinct eras of Pixar filmmaking), is that it reminds us that anxiety about mortality is not simply something we can go through once and overcome forever.

    Toy Story 3 ends with Andy sadly letting his toys go to a girl who will love them as much as he did. Bonnie’s love for Woody, however, turns out to be more ephemeral than even Andy’s was. Don’t get me wrong, she still loves cowboys, but that’s a niche that Jessie (Joan Cusack) fills for her in Woody’s place. This plot point itself, adds a unique degree of gender-exploration to the film. Woody is affected by being replaced by Jessie, but luckily he has the maturity (maturity he lacked  in the first film), not to hold anything against his cowgirl successor.

    The story proceeds to introduce viewers to one new “toy”: a spork with googly eyes named Forky (Tony Hale). For a brief moment, Forky overlaps Buzz (Tim Allen) as Woody’s co-protagonist. Later, Forky fades a bit into the background, and Buzz is given a burst of comic-heroic glory. For the most part , however, viewers are left to watch as the film’s nonchalantly plain poster (it solely depicts Woody) is brought to life.   

    Woody is never without other toys, but unlike in Toy Story 2 and 3, it’s not the familiar gang of Slinky (Blake Clark), Ham (John Ratzenberger), Rex (Wallace Shawn), the Potato Heads (Don Ricketts and Estelle Harris), Jessie and Bullseye. Instead Woody is met by characters along the way including Gabby Gabby (Christina Hendricks), Giggle McDimples (Ally Maki), Duke Kaboom (Keanu Reaves) and Ducky & Bunny (Keegan- Michael Key & Jordan Peele), all of whom occupy their own, solitary worlds.

    The old gang, meanwhile, is there but it doesn’t join in on the adventure. Even when used, Jessie, Rex, etc. share screentime with Bonnie’s other toys (Bonnie Hunt, Kristen Schaal, Jeff Garlin and Timothy Dalton). In short, Woody is often alone. 

    A key explanation for the film’s changed-use of characters is that  two of the series’ original voice-actors have died. Slinky’s role was already subtly reduced in Toy Story 3 due to the death of his original portrayer Jim Varney. Meanwhile, recycled audio of Don Rickles’ voice (at the request of his family), was used to provide Mr. Potato Head’s limited dialogue. Had Varney and Rickles been around, it’s possible their characters along with Jessie, Ham and Rex would have featured in the film more prominently. But their fading relevance could also just have been a part of the film’s thematic exploration. As Woody and Forky’s character development suggest, Toys gain at least part of their life force from the imagination of their owner’s. By living in a room where the Andy-gang was no longer as sacrosanct a construct, Woody’s relationship to his old friends naturally faded.

    Secondly, it’s worth noting that even Buzz has a much reduced role in Toy Story 4 (and even Toy Story 3 for that matter). This is because Buzz’s existential qualms have always been tied to his being a toy.  Woody’s anxieties, on the other hand, are somewhat more universal in nature. If Toy Story 3 is about the tough choices that toys face, Toy Story 4 is about Woody transcending toyhood altogether.

    Like all Pixar films, Toy Story 4 is a stellar piece of world-building, and its thematic richness shows the studio has plenty of storytelling strength left to offer. But it is undeniably a second-generation Pixar film, and, perhaps more so than Toy Story 3, is guilty of making itself sadder than it had to be for the sake of seeming profound. If you are intrigued by films that explore our mortality, you should really enjoy Toy Story 4. If not, well, at least you’ll get to enjoy the world’s most loveable spork.