THE BRAVE LITTLE TOASTER. It feels neutral and digestible—until it doesn’t

Animating and personifying the human environment has a long tradition in family cinema. Animals often come to mind first, accompanied by an almost endless list of examples: from Lady and the Tramp to The Secret Life of Pets. Human traits are also bestowed on flora in Pocahontas, natural forces in Moana, toys in Pixar’s Toy Story, and vehicles in Cars. We’ve seen haunted houses, and in Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, food began to think and feel. The possibilities are endless, and creators of animated films continue breathing life into new objects. With that in mind, I should have been prepared for the world-building of The Brave Little Toaster. I wasn’t.

The protagonists of Jerry Rees’ film are a vacuum cleaner, a blanket, a radio, a lamp, and a toaster—everyday objects left behind in a suburban home. This group has been waiting for a long time for the return of their owners, particularly a boy named Rob. Bonded by fond memories of him, they decide to embark on a journey to the city to find him.

At first glance, this setup feels neutral and digestible—until it doesn’t. The characters’ peculiar sense of longing is expressed through a rather odd sequence. The toaster reminisces about Rob smiling ear-to-ear as he put slices of bread into it, eagerly awaiting the beautifully toasted results. The lamp recalls the moment the boy replaced its burned-out bulb. This awkwardly justified bond between the objects and Rob is narrated from the perspective of the items themselves, for whom toasting, lighting, or covering is their sole purpose and meaning in life. Unfortunately, this heavily idealized closeness between objects and their user fails to resonate convincingly. It neither tugs at the heartstrings nor stirs much emotion—unless one finds vacuuming particularly moving.

This emotional disconnect extends to Rob, who is preparing to leave for college. While the main characters journey to the city, Rob drives to his old suburban home to retrieve them. His mother wisely suggests he take newer items from his current room instead of these old relics, but Rob is driven by the same attachment that motivates the objects. Rees is clearly interested in themes of longing, nostalgia, and separation, but his film falters in delivering them effectively.

The core issue is that it’s challenging to empathize with anyone’s needs. Most films of this type draw from genuine emotional bonds between humans and anthropomorphized subjects. Grandmother Willow was a mentor and guide to Pocahontas; Pongo in 101 Dalmatians was Roger’s closest companion, sharing in his hardships and triumphs; and the bond between Woody and Andy in Toy Story has inspired entire books. In The Brave Little Toaster, however, the relationship between the objects and the child lacks anything unique. It is grounded in mundane, routine interactions, leaving the motivations of both the objects and Rob feeling unsteady and unclear.

The film struggles with its primary narrative axis, and when Rees introduces side plots and new characters, they are, to put it mildly, questionable and confusing in their moral undertones. For instance, a repairman collecting broken devices to salvage usable parts is portrayed as a heartless, brutal butcher—recycling becomes a nightmare scenario. The climactic junkyard sequence devolves into a chaotic blend of cartoonish absurdity and improbable coincidences, featuring a menacing crane with a magnet chasing the heroes. Meanwhile, modern items like a flashy TV or a newer lamp are not just rivals but embodiments of evil. Jerry Rees seems less concerned with critiquing technological progress and more with muddling messages about what behaviors or choices are virtuous.

The takeaway? It’s apparently better to salvage a toaster crushed at the dump than use a brand-new one—because it’s small, brave, and has nostalgic value. While I understand the ecological message about frugality and opposition to wastefulness, these lessons feel incidental, coming alongside and even outside the film. It’s hard to discern the true intentions behind Hyperion Pictures’ production.