Ring Tones

I’m in Britain right now which is struggling through a tropical heatwave and not surprisingly there’s a national shortage of ice (the cubed kind) and ice cream (the soft kind). Mr. Whippy is synonymous with childhood, summer and holidays at both ends of the world, but the season is naturally shortened up here in the North, so van drivers are making creamy cones while the sun shines. On the downside the melted flakes are too soft to poke into the whip and are handed out wrapped in serviettes but everyone’s gamely adapting.

The flurry of ice cream van activity brings with it waves of nostalgia. And bureaucracy. Britain has its fair share of Rules to ensure ice cream vendors don’t go rogue. Chimes, i.e. Greensleeves, aren’t allowed to ring out for more than twelve seconds or within fifty metres of schools, hospitals or places of worship. I can’t for the life of me think why they’re singled out as the most likely to have people in need of succour but there you go.

In general, the Brits don’t mind because the vans have a teeny tiny run each summer. Councils turn a blind eye to the odd extra chime and before you know it the bleak midwinter has descended once more and everyone’s got better things to worry about like leaves on train tracks.

Not so this year with heat wave after heat wave rolling in, and it’s only July. People (by which I mean miserable citizens of the world with nothing better to do) are complaining about the van influx to local councils who are issuing bans to repeat offenders in specific streets.

Meanwhile said complaints are outweighed by the bucketload with calls from Nan to talkback radio saying how they loved an ice cream in their day and it’s a great shared experience with their grandchildren. Perhaps today’s kids will reminisce about visiting Ye Olde Facebook pages with their grandchildren, but we won’t be around to find out.

The idea of technology invading childhoods is one we all think but can’t say because the genie’s out of the bottle. Traditional toys = good, technology/screen time = bad. Pixar have leaned right in to this cultural clash of nostalgia versus tech in the fifth Toy Story movie out this month. They’ve earned the right too; the first movie came out in 1995, a staggering thirty-one years ago.

‘I don’t know Jessie,’ says Woody in strained tones. ‘Toys are for play, but Tech is for everything.’ The glazed look on the face of the real-life child Bonnie as her father tries to take ‘Lilypad’ from her before bed is one we’ve all seen. Meanwhile the toys have been toiling in the wings all summer to help Bonnie make friends ‘irl’ (in real life). No irony at all.

Whether Pixar imagined this innovative and novel animation technique would and could evolve from cute cartoon movies for kids to something much more profound for the adults is a mystery. From recognising the bittersweet feelings of growing up or the heartbreak of your child leaving for college, it’s all there. Throw in the fact we’re now watching the movies with our grandchildren, and you’ll never miss a trick.

But the true magic of the franchise is not its groundbreaking animation software and rendering technology. It’s the enduring nature of its themes. Friendship and loyalty, identity and purpose and the inevitability of change are all played out time and again. Everyone grows up and everyone has to learn to let go. With or without the aid of tech.

Tom Hanks brings to life the indomitable Woody, loyal and devoted but prone to jealousy and with a rich seam of a fear of abandonment. Even toys age, and the longevity of the franchise takes a hysterical turn when Woody turns up in the toys’ house, light bouncing off his bald patch. ‘Someone needs a brown marker,’ comments Trixie the Triceratops drily, the toy equivalent to a men’s trip to Turkey. Hanks was recently with a parent and child in a lift and saw the boy’s doubtful face as his dad told him he was standing next to Woody. Hanks told the boy to close his eyes, whereupon the lift filled with Woody’s familiar discourse instructing the other toys about a yard sale.

I reckon that’s what’s needed these days. When the ice cream runs low, the choccy flakes are melting and Greensleeves is orbiting the hood, close your eyes. For twelve blissful seconds (fifty metres from the nearest church, obviously) let the movie of your childhood play out in your mind with no need to visit TikTok.