Many have now seen an early test screening of the original Toy Story, in which the protagonist Woody is depicted as far more cruel and callous than his eventual canonical self:
It certainly seems like a jarring departure from the Tom Hanks-voiced character who later appeared in many sequels (the latest set to release tomorrow) and became a cultural icon alongside costar Buzz Lightyear. But is his final version really so admirable?
Let’s recount his actions towards the end of the first installment (spoilers, obviously). He and Buzz are held captive by Sid, notorious for altering and destroying his toys in various ways — unaware of the fact that in the Toy Story universe, they are all actually alive, but always appear inanimate in the presence of flesh-and-blood humans. When Sid is about to get Buzz annihilated by strapping him to a model rocket, Woody rescues him by enlisting the help of Sid’s other toys, dropping all pretenses of inanimateness in front of Sid, and warning him to treat his toys better, sending him running off screaming.
A heroic act, right? But let’s examine his actions further.
I haven’t seen the fourth movie and don’t plan on seeing the fifth — as far as I can tell, the first three comprise a perfect trilogy that doesn’t need to be expounded upon any further. But assuming Toy Story 4 and 5 don’t explore the underlying lore any more than the others, the audience is not very privy to the reasons behind the toys’ charade. The closest we get to a backstory is Woody’s mention that his plan would “break a few rules.”
What rules? Who made them and when? We don’t know. All we do know is how sacrosanct and immutable they are to seemingly every toy in existence.
Consider all the toys that Sid had destroyed prior to Woody’s intervention. Logically, they could have at any time revealed themselves in an effort to be spared: “Wait! Stop! I’m alive! I’m conscious! I’m self-aware! I’m sentient! I can feel pain! I don’t want to die! Please don’t do this!” But no, each and every one of them accepted their fate, preferring to sacrifice their life rather than violate this universal code.
And then comes Woody, who apparently thinks nothing of it.
One must wonder: What would all those destroyed toys have thought about Woody flippantly throwing the Toy Code to the wayside in order to rescue his friend from the same fate they’ve suffered? About Sid’s other toys — their friends, cohorts, and essentially family members — offering their assistance?
And Woody’s intentions notwithstanding, what would happen if more toys shared his flexibility with the rules, and abandoned them for the sake of rescuing one of their own? Perhaps most humans witnessing the toys’ true nature would keep quiet about it out of belief they were hallucinating or fear they would be seen as insane. But surely some the-Emperor-is-naked types will go to the press about it, and more and more will corroborate their claims, and eventually the secret will be out and warlords will order massive “toys” ten feet tall with several limbs for wielding massive weapons to be built to serve as their armies. (At least, that’s what would happen given my best guess as to why toys have this code in the first place.)
Woody’s personality may have been softened for the final cut, but closer analysis still reveals his sense of principles to be murky at best. Sid, at the very least, was unaware of the immorality of his actions, but Woody clearly knew about the “rules”… and made the conscious choice to flout them.
It’s now been fifteen years since the premiere of The Dark Knight, which quickly earned its place as both one of the greatest comic book movies and superhero movies ever, as well as the all-time greatest comic book superhero movie ever. It’s retained those titles with no sign of losing them any time soon, and yet I can’t help but feel the climatic face-off between Batman and the Joker could stand some improvement.