In one of the finest moments in Jerry Rees’s animated film The Brave Little Toaster (1987), a young man bound for college returns to the summer cottage he hasn’t visited since childhood. Hoping to collect a few appliances for his dormitory, he instead finds the place in ruins and the items he wants missing. Before leaving, the young man repairs the cottage’s wrecked air conditioner and gives it a farewell pat. The camera lingers on the appliance as its corner vents lift upward, revealing a pair of eyes. (As in the Toy Story series, the objects in this film come alive when their human companions aren’t looking; and their happiness is dictated by how often they’re used.) The air conditioner, which resented his owner for never having been played with during the latter’s youth, is touched by the new life he’s been given and silently cries. The result is a genuine pure cinema moment wherein a story and all accompanying emotions are conveyed through visuals.
Based on the novella by Thomas M. Disch, The Brave Little Toaster was one of my favorite movies growing up. As a kid who liked to pretend his toys had feelings and loved me as I loved them, I was enthralled by the film’s anthropomorphism of inanimate objects. Looking back as a (still-sentimental) adult, the movie continues to work its magic on me. The central plot revolves around five old-fashioned appliances—the eponymous toaster, a grouchy vacuum, a dimwitted desk lamp, a tube radio prone to theatrics, and an emotional electric blanket—who leave the aforementioned cottage in search of the young man, whom they refer to as “the master.” Their polarizing personalities create occasional clashes, and they encounter numerous obstacles—some natural (a thunderstorm), others specifically dangerous to them (one of the film’s most nightmarish scenes is set in a used parts store). Along the way, there are also sweet moments of camaraderie: the characters learn to cooperate and be kind to one another as they traverse through beautifully drawn settings.
Nostalgia is not the only reason The Brave Little Toaster continues to warm my heart. In some ways, my appreciation for the film has deepened because it connects to broader thoughts and experiences one attains in adulthood. To begin with, the screenplay—co-written by director Rees and Joe Ranft—is chock-full of references to history and pop culture. What the younger me assumed to be a mere snappy line of dialogue I now recognize as a salute to Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest (1959). A ceiling lamp with distinct facial features and a Hungarian accent is now an instantly identifiable homage to Peter Lorre. (Said ceiling lamp is voiced by the late Phil Hartman, who also plays the air conditioner—in the latter’s case via an obvious Jack Nicholson impersonation.) Elsewhere in the film, one finds references to Theodore Roosevelt, Harry Houdini, Vincent Price, and a slew of other names more resonant with adults than kids.
But perhaps most interesting of all: The Brave Little Toaster leaves the adult me nostalgic for the charmingly simple appliances of yesteryear. As mentioned before, the five central characters are outmoded even in their world. The toaster’s been replaced by microwave ovens; the radio is dated thanks to massive stereos and other elaborate home entertainment systems; even the blanket is obsolete compared to what the latest sewing apparatus can put together. All of this is visualized in a key third-act scene wherein the protagonists reach the master’s city apartment, only to be confronted by a mob of modern appliances. The hostile machines demonstrate their ‘superiority’ via a song about “the cutting edge.” They flash their many lights, show off their many functions, and proclaim how they offer consumers “More! More! More!”
And yet, it is the anachronistic toaster and its companions that—like their real-life equivalents—remain appealing to me (and to the master, who chooses them over their modern counterparts). As someone who grew up in the 1990s—before the smartphone, social media, and AI epidemics—I have nostalgia for at-home devices whose value wasn’t based on limitless bells and whistles. I remember, for instance, my grandparents’ wall-mounted telephone, complete with a spinning dial and a hook that one tapped to connect to an operator. I remember the plastic musical radio I’d play for my childhood dog Copper (yes, named after The Fox and the Hound); said radio merely featured an on/off switch and a wind-up dial—no various modes or ability to connect to the internet. Much like the characters in The Brave Little Toaster, these items each performed a single function and did so efficiently. As such, they felt like individual characters and not variations of one another.
The heroes in The Brave Little Toaster remain appealing for the same reason. They are uniquely different, yet simple in function and simple in design: the toaster is pleasing to look at with its reflective surface and black handles; the radio with its adjustable antenna, clock-like face, and blocky on/off button; the electric blanket with its knob-nose; and so on. Simplicity is part of their visual character and outshines the excess “buttons and knobs and dials” that define their “cutting edge” counterparts. The latter, by contrast, are ornate to the point of lacking appeal. And whereas the five protagonists each have a distinct personality, the modern appliances—fittingly—are one and the same: pretentious, self-entitled, and gossipy.
Arguably the film’s most memorable sequence—and the one that most fervently generates empathy for old objects—is the climax. Set in a junkyard, the scene features the protagonists fleeing from a giant electromagnet: a great villain who lacks speech but whose menace is manifest through expression and action. Before the chase begins, the sequence focuses on automobiles that have been left to rot by their owners. In a song titled “Worthless,” the cars recall their time on the road and how they no longer “have the heart to live in the fast lane.” A race car remembers participating in the Indy 500. A pickup truck remembers being abandoned while its owners took a bus to Santa Fe. All the while, the electromagnet tosses the vehicles onto a conveyor belt to be pulverized by a crusher. Admittedly, cars have never been my favorite machines; I’ve always considered them a means of getting from Point A to Point B and would be content to get by in life without one. Nevertheless, this sequence makes me think today about my past vehicles and what they would say about their journeys across the United States.
I have countless childhood memories of watching The Brave Little Toaster. A television broadcast was taped for me, and I watched the film so often that, in hindsight, I’m surprised the VHS didn’t become scratchy and wear out. The qualities I admire and appreciate about this animated gem only multiply with age. I remain transfixed by the lovable characters, the mix of wonder and terror that defines their adventure, and the catchy songs. But the adult me now takes pleasure in recognizing things designed for adults to notice (“North by northwest! Watch out for low-flying aircraft!” says the radio when homaging Hitchcock) and is reminded how much he misses those charming old-fashioned appliances that were once part of daily life.
Postscript: I wish to acknowledge that the topic of this article originated from conversations with my friend and budding essayist Alyssa Charpentier, to whom I give full credit for sharpening my awareness to how the character of objects has changed with time. Thanks to our talks about how automobiles, appliances, and general technology have “improved” in making life even more convenient than it already was—at the expense of one’s sensibilities and the character of objects—I have a greater appreciation for one of my favorite animated movies.
