Walt Disney's Toy Story As Postmodern Don Quixote

Walt Disney’s Toy Story as Postmodern Don Quixote Bruce R. Burningham ince its publication nearly four centuries ago, Miguel de Cervantes’s Don Quixote has given rise to numer- ous imitators ranging from the unauthorized 1614 Avellaneda sequel to the 1965 Broadway musical Man of La Mancha, while his famous knight-errant has become a well-recognized archetype within the Western tradition. Indeed, the title character’s effluence is so complete that he shares with only a limited number of literary protagonists—among them Oedipus and Faust—the high honor of engendering an English adjective; that we can speak of a “quixotic” endeavor demonstrates how thoroughly Don Quixote has become an indispensable sign within our cultural lexicon. Among the more recent works to make use of this Cervantine vocabulary, of course, are the highly successful and technically in- novative Walt Disney Pixar films, Toy Story (1995) and Toy Story 2 (1999), where the literary genre providing the context for the central character’s delusions is not that of the medieval romances of chivalry, but rather the movies, television shows, and video games of twentieth-century juvenile science fiction. While these films have absorbed much of the discourse of Don Quixote (particularly, as we will see, through Man of La Mancha), they should not be mistaken for mere flattering imitations. As “emulations” that approach an almost Bloomian “misprision” (Bloom, Anxiety 14), rather than “renditions” 157 158 Bruce R. Burningham Cervantes that simply attempt to recapitulate a precursor, Toy Story and its sequel have their own thematic agendas and their own distinct narrative structures. Nevertheless, whether deliberately or through some kind of latent cultural intuition, they engage the Spanish masterpiece in an intertextual dialogue, thus supplying contemporary viewers with a compelling postmodern reading of the Golden Age text. Before delineating this reading, however, we should establish a working definition of the adjective “postmodern,” since this has proven to be an extremely mercurial, and often contentious, term, meaning “different things to different people at different conceptual levels” (Bertens 10). Although at least one critic has claimed that postmodernism tends to “resist fixed categorization through a per- petual dissolution of boundaries” (Homer 112), this has not dis- suaded many from trying to pin it down nonetheless. For some, it represents a much-needed “comprehensive critique of modern thought” (Kilian 177) which demonstrates that European rationality “cannot ground itself” (Bertens 241). Yet, this very philosophical stance of “all-out skeptical indifference” (Norris 44) has led some conservative critics to negatively characterize postmodernism as nothing less than a total “assault on Western civilization” (Cheney 91). Lending credence, of course, to this highly disparaging view, still others see it (in clearly positive terms) as a redemptive social movement whose “suspicion of master narratives” has spawned the welcomed rise of feminists, racial separatists, Third World militants, gay and lesbian rights activists, etc., all of whom criticize a Western culture that is said to be “cobbled together and managed by repres- sion, omission, exploitation, and violence” (Leitch ix–x). While each of these characterizations of postmodernism may be valid in its own way, I will defer throughout this present study to a definition proffered by Terry Eagleton. Eagleton sees it as a contin- gent, decentered, and indeterminate “cultural style,” whose playful, derivative, and self-reflexive discourse—having arisen from the technological and consumerist propensities of this century’s omnipresent “culture industry”—serves to blur the boundaries between high and low culture (vii). As will become apparent in the following paragraphs, it is this rather playful notion of postmodernism that not only sustains my own reading of the Toy Story films, but has also engendered my rather eclectic comparison of them with such a canonical work as Don Quixote. The most obvious way in which the first of the two films inte- grates the discourse of the novel is through character transference. Don Quixote has “morphed” (to use the terminology of children’s 20.1 (2000) Toy Story as Don Quixote 159 television programs like the Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers) into Buzz Lightyear, a high-tech action figure toy who refuses to accept his status as such, and insists—all evidence to the contrary—that he is a genuine “space ranger.” As in Don Quixote, Buzz constantly (perhaps deliberately) misreads reality in an attempt to play this self-assigned role. Sancho Panza has become the rustic (although ad- mittedly very thin) Woody, a low-tech cowboy doll who serves as a foil for Buzz, and who, throughout the film, suffers hardship and physical abuse due to his acquaintance with this deluded newcomer. Less prominently, Rocinante, Don Quixote’s hack, has become Buzz’s wounded spaceship which, like Cervantes’ dual-natured “baciyelmo” (458; I, 44), also doubles as the torn carton in which he was packaged; Clavileño, the “flying” hobbyhorse, has become a radio-controlled race car which carries Buzz and Woody on a very real flight toward the end of the story; and the evil enchanter, Frestón, who incessantly pursues Don Quixote and Sancho, has become the mean-spirited next-door neighbor, Sid, a seemingly om- nipotent figure whose greatest thrill is to torment any toys he can get his hands on. Finally, in place of Don Quixote’s supporting cast of characters who spend much of the novel trying to cure the self- appointed knight-errant of his mania, Toy Story provides us with a menagerie of toys who spend much of the film trying to rescue Buzz. This thematic metamorphosis of character is complemented by a similar “morphing” of plot. Like Don Quixote, whose genealogy is deliberately ambiguous, Buzz has no real history before the narrative of the film begins; he wakes up ex nihilo from his shelf-life “hy- persleep” just as suddenly as Alonso Quijano apparently “awakens” to his new identity as caballero andante in the opening chapter. Thus, when Buzz arrives on the scene—the star gift at Andy’s birthday party—he introduces himself to the other toys by citing the text from the side of his spaceship/carton. In this way, the advertising copy functions for Buzz much the same way Amadís de Gaula functions for Don Quixote: it becomes a written document on which to found his identity in the absence of any genuine personal history. Quotes our postmodern knight-errant: “As a member of the elite Universe Pro- tection Unit of the SPACE RANGER corps, I protect the galaxy from the threat of invasion from the Evil Emperor Zurg*, sworn enemy of the Galactic Alliance.” The other toys, who have a firm grasp on the economic realities of their own late-capitalistic existence, do not know quite what to make of this declaration. Mister Potato Head replies: “Oh really? I’m from Playskool,” while a green dinosaur adds: “And I’m from Mattel. Well, I’m not really from Mattel; I’m 160 Bruce R. Burningham Cervantes actually from a much smaller company that was purchased during a leveraged buyout.” Thus, Buzz’s new companions—like the nu- merous level-headed people who surround Don Quixote and who often berate his rather loose interpretation of reality—remain skeptical of his far-fetched claims; nevertheless, like Don Quixote’s, Buzz’s vision of self remains completely impervious to this exterior skepticism. Meanwhile, Woody suspiciously plays along with Buzz during a substantial portion of the film, believing that he has merely as- sumed this persona as a way of gaining an unfair advantage over the other toys. When it later becomes obvious, however, that Buzz is indeed seriously deluded, his suspicion turns to sheer exasperation. After a brief skirmish at a local gas station, when the two suddenly find themselves as “lost toys” (after Andy’s mother has driven away and left them stranded in the parking lot), Buzz’s greatest concern (unlike Woody) is not for himself, but for his supposed role as de- fender of the galaxy. “Because of you,” he says, “the security of this entire Universe is in jeopardy!” Woody cannot take much more of this space-speak and furiously shouts: “You are a toy! [ ...] You aren’t the real Buzz Lightyear; you’re an action figure! [ ...] You are a child’s plaything!” To which Buzz merely replies: “You are a sad, strange little man, and you have my pity. Farewell.” From this point onward, the film adopts the narrative structure of the Cervantes novel as Buzz attempts to find a “spaceship” that will take him back to his “home planet,” while Woody (like Sancho, who quickly learns to manipulate his master’s fantasies) attempts to find a way to transport Buzz back to Andy’s bedroom, using Buzz’s delusions to his own utilitarian ends. This thematic intertextuality is not the only nexus between the Cervantes and Disney Pixar texts, however. Toy Story also incor- porates much of the novel’s baroque milieu into its computer- generated aesthetics, borrowing heavily from Don Quixote in a number of subtle and not so subtle ways. On the subtle end of this borrowing, the film alludes to the book’s pastoral elements by providing Woody with a girlfriend in the form of Little Bo Peep. Like most of the pastoral figures in Don Quixote, however, this character in no way resembles a working shepherdess, for she glides through her environment wearing petticoats, a pink hoop skirt, and a frilly bonnet, and escorted by an entourage of happy little sheep. More obvious is the incorporation of the picaresque into the suburban world of this Disney film. As we mentioned, Sid is, in some ways, a figure of the novel’s omnipresent enchanter, but he also doubles as a kind 20.1 (2000) Toy Story as Don Quixote 161 of Ginés de Pasamonte, a sociopath whose violence toward society remains completely unexplained, if not unexplainable.

Load more