Toys R Us' Fragile Cartoon
World...
by
Tarleton Gillespie
 |
The
logic of the entrance to Toys R Us is not obvious at first glance.
Whereas many stores put their big-ticket big-promotion items up
front to catch the most eyes, Toys R Us funnels customers through
a long aisle of clearance items. Perhaps it's a way to dump storeroom
overload, but what it ends up being is a graveyard for licensed
toys. Last year's celebrities line the aisle like lost souls; Xena
dolls and Small Soldiers remind us to buy smart and fast, because
this year's model will be the highlight of next year's garage sale.
Tensions run high at Toys R Us -- there is nearly always the sound
of a child, wailing or pouting, piercing the din of the forced air
system. Most often it is a child pleading to a beleaguered parent
about how they simply must have that toy, how they simply cannot
leave the store without it. Much of this agony is a manifestation
of the planned obsolescence built into the toy industry, the same
obsolescence we are ritually reminded of by this toy graveyard.
All toys die, not just the Tamagotchis. Though it was not always
this way, toys are now like young movie stars; they burn brightly,
then disappear from memory, left to expire in clearance bins like,
"Where are they now?" magazine articles. Kids know this
all too well, and what's more, they feel it like a stomach ache.
"I want this one, Mom." "You have a motorcycle at
home, in the closet." "But I don't like my toys!"
That child knows that his closet is a toy mausoleum -- a tribute
to the once beloved, but definitely not to be disturbed.
Licensing
A few steps farther and the clearance aisle is a mere memory, a
shadowy contrast to the zip and fizzle of the rest of the store.
And licensing is clearly the name of the game. The action figure
aisle is like walking directly into the television schedule or the
film listings: Beast Wars battles Wild Wild West,
A Bug's Life crowds out Godzilla, and Major League
Baseball, the NBA, and NASCAR compete for shelf space like it's
air time on SportsCenter. It's hard to locate a character
that isn't already fitted with its own narrative, already appearing
on a screen near you.
From the start, animation has been a commercial venture. Winsor
McCay knew from his days in newspapers and vaudeville that people
would eagerly part with their spare change to see his drawings come
to life. He probably did not know that he could also make Gertie
plush toys that roar when you squeeze them, package them in boxes
that describe Gertie's world and all her dinosaur friends (the woolly
mammoth and the sea serpent are available a few steps down the aisle)
and sell them at a thousand stores nationwide. However, that realization
did come; Felix and Mickey soon graced their own storefront displays.
Now we are not surprised that the cartoon world has been cloned
in durable plastic and die-cast metal -- and, conversely, that toys
can come to life on the screen with the help of ink, celluloid,
or computer.
What is, but should not be, surprising are the extremes to which
licensing has reached -- beyond the Darth Mauls and the WWF stars
and the Catdogs, the licensing ideas often prove downright bizarre
and patently absurd. (Such skepticism must tread carefully; the
market does have a way of making its own opposing argument. If these
toys are moving off the shelf, someone is finding them meaningful
somewhere, and while such interest may need explaining, it should
not be dismissed.) Barbie now has outfits to match all the NBA teams
-- and in these gender-conscious times, Mattel is careful to outfit
their star in the uniforms of the players, not the cheerleaders.
She also wears 101 Dalmatians t-shirts -- not only can the
child buy a licensed product, but they can buy one that "buys"
licensed products herself.
Not to be outdone by the aisle of pink, GI Joe has temporarily returned
to its doll-sized stature to teach a pro-social history lesson:
replicas of Teddy Roosevelt, a "save the tiger" hunter
with his white tiger companion and tranquilizer gun, Bob Hope in
his USO best, and most peculiarly, a Ted Williams "Korean War
fighter pilot" figure -- in his bomber jacket, but nevertheless
holding onto his baseball bat and ball.