Toys R Us' Fragile Cartoon World...
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Narrative
In the 1980s, there was concern among academics about the practice
of character licensing. Scholars who study animation usually do
so because it offers a glimpse into the experience of children's
culture. Whether the debate du jour is violence or commercialism
or education, one insight is the stories and images children are
drawn to, and what they do with them. When the intermingling of
toons and toys became so obvious, and distressing, academics began
to note its impact on children's experience and imagination. Of
particular concern was a new sequence of events: once, stories were
told because they were compelling as stories, and related toys merely
followed; now it seemed the toys and the toons were born together,
and often designed simply to help each other sell. Tom Engelhardt
dubbed this seemingly new approach to children's media "The
Shortcake Strategy," after its most strawberry-scented example.
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The concern about licensed toys was that
they tend to substitute commercial pleasures for narratives ones.
The toys sell because they have a fantasy world already created
for them, but that fantasy world was designed simply for commercial
appeal, not psychological resonance. In the `80s heyday of the "program-length
commercials" of Care Bears and He-Man, the distinction
nearly disappeared. Today things have calmed a bit, but the worry
remains: are the fantasy worlds of children's imagination depleted
by licensed toys?
If the toy is fitted with a pre-existing story -- this is not just
some plasticine hero, it's Tarzan, and we know what he does -- does
it spur the imagination, or eliminate any need for it? Did the child
play more creatively when they toy they manipulated was storyless,
an empty narrative ready for the child to fill? One thing that is
clear exploring Toys R Us, the toys are trying very hard to invite
the child into a pre-existing fantasy world, one that is appealing
because it has been fully thought out.
An example: in recent years the Koosh, that glorious little spindly
ball, has morphed into a series of characters -- Koosh balls with
plastic faces and arms protruding from a rubbery center. These have
often been licensed characters -- Koosh Bugs Bunnies and Koosh Daffy
Ducks. But the newest in the series are the "Cool Scenes Kooshlings;"
the box proclaims they are "Doin' the same stuff you do!"
Apparently kids are surfing, painting works of art, and playing
electric guitar, because these Koosh creatures come with plastic
paraphernalia for each specific hobby. Ignore for the moment the
decision to spoil the strangely compelling Koosh with hard plastic
protrusions that nullify its capacity as a ball. What is fascinating
here is this insistent imposition of narrative, which suggests that
today's toys are made appealing by constructing a fantasy world
for children, rather than giving them the materials to do so themselves.
Many critics cite this kind of example as proof that modern marketing
is steamrollering children's imaginations. But this criticism is
based on a nostalgia for some collection of toys that inspired vast
imaginary worlds -- a nostalgia that may be more hazy fiction than
hard fact. But more importantly, the world of animation might remind
us that we do not need vacant playthings to inspire creativity.
The pleasure of the cartoon has always been engaging with an already
fleshed-out fantasy world. And despite the assumptions of many parents
and politicians, children are not passive, brain-dead, unimaginative
lumps when they watch cartoons. They play, they react, they make
up stories about their favorite characters. All this even though
children are experiencing a fully formed fantasy world. Clearly,
imagination is made of hardier stuff.
