Things Only Adults Notice In Inside Out

The last few years have been a rollercoaster for Pixar Animation Studios. Between parent company disdain, critical ambivalence, box office struggles, and competition from rivals such as Sony Pictures Animation, it seems like the studio is having trouble navigating this new landscape. Where they used to produce masterpieces year after year, we're now going on nearly a decade without an unambiguously, inarguably classic original Pixar film.

Still, the fact that the last unambiguous classic in question was "Inside Out" is reason enough to remember that Pixar can never be counted out. Like the best Pixar films, it makes greatness look casual, to the point where we forget what a wild, bold swing it was because of how effortlessly it endeared itself to worldwide audiences. Unlike other excessively extended brands in the studio's catalog — such as the "Cars" franchise — "Inside Out" is a film that lends itself effortlessly to new stories. This makes the prospect of a sequel genuinely exciting.

While we wait for the Kelsey Mann-directed "Inside Out 2," let's take a closer look at all the details in "Inside Out" that make it such an enduring film not just for kids, but also for adults. Here are some of the things that you might only pick up on if your Headquarters had gotten the adult upgrade.

The main message of "Inside Out," is that all emotions have their place and are important to a person's development, including Sadness (Phyllis Smith). But what a more seasoned viewer might also notice is that the film goes beyond that important yet simple message, and into more incisive thematic territory in the way that it analyzes the role of Joy (Amy Poehler) in Riley's mind.

Joy is undeniably at fault for suppressing Riley's more negative and nuanced emotions and futilely attempting to keep her happy 100% of the time — that much is evident. But pay closer attention to the character's actions and their consequences in the film, specifically the way that Joy keeps desperately replaying Riley's old happy memories when she's reacting to the move to San Francisco. Because it's difficult for Riley to find things to be happy about in her new situation, her mind keeps clinging to old, bygone sources of joy. But those memories can't do anything for Riley in the present except remind her that things are not the way she wants. In clinging to them, she is unable to process her current situation, and, in refusing to process it, she forfeits hope of forming any new happy memories, which is what would make her new life more bearable.

In the case of a child, the question of which emotion is dominant in Headquarters proves to be much more crucial, since only one emotion can operate the controls at a time. Indeed, it's Joy's autocratic central role that eventually makes everything fall apart. In adults, meanwhile, it appears that there is a "central" emotion at Headquarters — but it's more of a team coordinator, making sure everybody's actions are aligned. It's never confirmed if the emotion sitting at the center of an adult control panel is constant or changes from moment to moment as the situation dictates, but, whatever the case, the emotions seen exercising leadership in Riley's parents are very revealing.

In her mother's mind, the leader is Sadness — which makes perfect sense for an adult who is currently experiencing a melancholy life change, and constantly fretting over her family's emotional wellbeing. Sadness is, after all, the emotion that powers empathy. Riley's father, meanwhile, is having his emotions coordinated by Anger, which is also a very understandable adult response to the series of setbacks and logistical issues he's having to deal with at home and work during the movie.

As previously mentioned, Anger is the emotion that oversees Riley's father's Headquarters. But what's even more interesting is the fact that Fear appears to be Anger's second-in-command, keeping him informed and co-signing his decisions — which leads to poor parenting during the dinner argument scene. This makes perfect sense, as the stress Riley's father is experiencing during the move is ultimately a result of his fear for the well-being of his family. Just like in real life, Fear and Anger interact to deal with situations perceived as threatening, and the decisions they produce might leave something to be desired in terms of empathy and delicacy.

In Riley's mother, meanwhile, Fear and Anger don't play such a central decision-making role, but their behavior is still fascinating. When things go south during the argument scene, it's the mother's Anger that remembers the handsome Brazilian helicopter pilot and calls up the memory of him. It seems that momentarily fantasizing about what could have been is a useful escape valve when Riley's mother gets mad at her husband. Then, at the end of the film, Anger throws away the memory of the pilot — but Fear awkwardly runs to fetch it, "just in case." When the present is unsatisfying, Anger compares it to the past, but when it's valued, it becomes something that can be lost, so Fear keeps nurturing the comparison.

"Inside Out" may be a kids' movie, but it's also a Pixar movie, and, as such, there was no way it would pass up the opportunity to make at least a couple of adult-oriented jokes about San Francisco where the film is set. The maddening traffic, the young apathetic cashier with a purple sidecut, and the broccoli pizza are the obvious ones. But the funniest joke is arguably the one that's most expressly designed to go over kids' heads and make their parents laugh.

We're referring, of course, to the bear joke, in which the noise of a loud vehicle makes Fear wonder "What was that? Was it a bear?" In response, Disgust says, "There are no bears in San Francisco," prompting Anger to remark "I saw a really hairy guy. He looked like a bear."

To some extent, "a guy so hairy he looked like a bear" is technically descriptive enough to work as a joke even if you're unfamiliar with a certain terminology. But what's funny about the joke is the reference to the San Francisco LGBTQ+ community, and specifically to the concept of "bears" — which is gay slang for plus-sized, hairy guys. If you're an adult who's aware of the city's status as a worldwide queer capital, the phrase "There are no bears in San Francisco" alone is enough to make you start giggling.

It tends to be the case that, when a major character in a movie has a big, tear-jerking death scene like the one Bing Bong has in "Inside Out," the movie will later take at least a moment to memorialize or mourn that character in some way. In this film, conversely, the characters don't even acknowledge Bing Bong after he sacrifices himself to allow Joy to escape the Memory Dump. When he's forgotten by Riley and fades away, it seems like the movie forgets about him as well.

It's a decision that may feel odd and unsatisfying, especially for younger viewers, all the more so given how abrupt and definite his death feels. But adult viewers understand exactly why the movie depicts Bing Bong's demise that way. The very source of the melancholy underlying Bing Bong as a character is the fact that he's an anachronism, a relic of early childhood with no place in an older mind. He's a walking reminder that not only does childhood end and never come back, but once it's gone, it's also largely forgotten. All the little details and ideas and imaginative adventures that make up each child's universe fade away after a while. They're not mourned, they're not eulogized, they're not missed — they just go, and so does Bing Bong. That's just how growing up works, and that's why that part of the movie stings so much.

At the end of "Inside Out," it's implied that Riley has attained the hard-earned gift of emotional complexity. She can now produce blended memories of more than one emotion, and her expanded control panel suggests that her emotions will finally be able to start working together. But that's not the end of what the movie has to say about the interplay between emotions.

It does not seem to be a coincidence that Joy is the only emotion that features another emotion's color in her design — deep blue, in her hair and eyes — as well as the only one that experiences another emotion besides her own to a blatant degree. If Riley's early childhood was spent clinging to Joy to the detriment of other emotions, Joy realizes, as maturity comes knocking, that she'll have to start getting used to sadness.

The film's ultimate point appears to be that, as a person grows up, there comes a point when joy can only really exist insofar as sadness does. There's inherent loneliness and despair in the human condition, a fear of loss and displacement that follows us all through adulthood, but there's also joy — and that joy comes as a direct result of the sadness. Once we stop taking our lives for granted, as Riley is forced to, the good things become even more special and beautiful, exactly because they're finite and rare. Joy learns it, Riley learns it, and Sadness is right there to guide them through what comes next.