Hollywood has always had daddy issues.
On screens big and small, the fathers Tinseltown tosses our way are always too something: too dumb (Simpson, Homer), too murderous (Vader, Darth), too perfect (Cleaver, Ward), too self-absorbed (Tenenbaum, Royal), too likely to snap his fingers and literally destroy the world (Thanos). Complicated mothers capable of having meaningful, adult relationships? That we’ve had aplenty. But if Pop’s on the scene, you better believe he’s about to deliver either menace or mischief, never anything that too closely resembles actual, relatable, human emotion.
Well, dads, our long, national nightmare is finally over: We now have an on-screen dad capable of all of the above-mentioned empathy and then some. His name is Woody, and he’s a toy; maybe you’ve heard of him?
By now, of course, the mere mention of Woody and his franchise, Toy Story, may provoke even Pixar’s biggest fans into asking whether we really needed a fifth chapter in the series. The answer, I’m thrilled to report, is you betcha: No. 5 is easily the best of the Toy Story films, a surprisingly deep, frequently hilarious movie that has more to say about the current state of human affairs than anything Hollywood has produced in ages.
It’s also a remarkable meditation on fatherhood.
