As the neoliberal monsters they are, the scoring websites Toy Story 5, which premieres this Wednesday, is the worst installment in the saga, the least inspired of all, even when compared to the usually undervalued – and, however, stupendous – Toy Story 4. Despite everything, Toy Story 5 is many other things, and all of them magnificent: a delightful entertainment, a demonstration of narrative talent, a (nuanced) critique of the influence of screens on children, and, above all, an almost existential reflection on our own obsolescence as human beings, toys in need of affection who pass through life, amuse ourselves for a while, love, and fall into oblivion.

When in 1986 Steve Jobs, co-founder of Apple, bought a small computer division of Lucasfilm –producer of Star Wars– for five million dollars, he probably didn't imagine he was acquiring the studio that would revolutionize and dominate world animation. That company came to be called Pixar, and this year, 2026, it turns 40. An anniversary that arrives at a bittersweet moment: after a profound crisis, the release of Hoppers in March – with 45 million dollars grossed on its opening weekend – suggests that the studio has once again found its way.

One of the theories that have tried to explain Pixar's creative slump is the proliferation of sequels in a company that, during its first and magnificent era, released nine original films and only one sequel (And which one: Toy Story 2). Starting in 2010—and in line with the current Hollywood franchise hegemony—Pixar became a nostalgia-fueled, saga-lengthening machine. The solution to the artistic crisis seemed to lie in a return to original stories and creative risk. The problem, quite simply, is that Pixar's new original films aren't very original. And by repeating the same narrative and aesthetic ideas, they're getting boring.