The End of Pixar’s Storytelling—or the Dawn of Formalism?
Written By Adnan Nassari
The Glory of Classic Pixar Storytelling
Over the past three decades, Pixar has not only pioneered animation technology but also succeeded in restoring narrative to the heart of the cinematic experience. Rather than relying solely on visual spectacle or dazzling graphics, the studio placed story at the core of its filmmaking process. As John Lasseter famously said, technology at Pixar was nothing more than an expensive pencil—what truly mattered was what you drew with that pencil.
Pixar didn’t reinvent the wheel. Instead, it drew upon classical screenwriting principles—from Aristotle to Syd Field, Robert McKee, John Truby, and others—and fused them with its own creative brilliance and distinct sensibility to craft narratives that felt original, simple, and deeply affecting.
The narrative structure of Pixar’s classic films—such as Toy Story, Finding Nemo, Up, and Inside Out—typically follows a three-act arc with a clearly defined character journey. These films often begin by introducing us to the characters in their everyday world, which is then disrupted by an unexpected conflict. From there, the protagonist embarks on a transformative journey that ultimately leads to growth or revelation. Yet much of Pixar’s magic lies not merely in its structure, but in the depth and emotional complexity of its characters—believable, multidimensional figures whose inner motivations make them feel startlingly real.
What truly set Pixar apart wasn’t simply the use of classic structure, but the emotional depth it gave its characters. Even within fantastical settings, these characters were anchored by human struggles and relatable emotions. In Finding Nemo, a father’s anxiety over his child lies at the core of a sweeping undersea adventure. In Up, the experience of grief and aging is rendered through the unlikely journey of an elderly widower and a buoyant young boy—resulting in a profound meditation on loss and connection.
In all of these cases, Pixar employed time-tested screenwriting tools, but infused them with emotional honesty, psychological nuance, and a layered narrative sensibility. For Pixar, storytelling was not merely a matter of plot mechanics—it was a deeply human, affective experience, rooted in meaning.
Pixar also gave special weight to the role of antagonists—but with a twist. Its most narratively compelling films are often those where the traditional external “villain” is absent, replaced instead by an internal emotional struggle. In such cases, the central conflict becomes one of self-confrontation, not conquest.
Take Toy Story 1, for example. The true antagonist is not Sid, the mischievous neighbor boy, but Woody’s jealousy. Pixar’s finest villains are often not villains at all, but honest, emotionally resonant shadows within the protagonist—challenges that are deeply personal and internally driven. Even when antagonists are present, they are usually framed not as absolute forces of evil, but as supporting characters who function as mirrors, reflecting aspects of the protagonist’s psyche.
This approach leads us to one of Pixar’s most brilliant narrative devices: irony. By pairing characters with opposing traits—joy and sadness, youth and age, strength and vulnerability—and forcing them into shared journeys, Pixar reaches moments of emotional and human discovery that are both dramatically effective and profoundly sincere.
Irony as the Narrative Essence of Pixar
One of the most prominent narrative elements in Pixar’s classic works is its masterful use of conceptual contrast, or irony—not in the sense of humor or sarcasm, but as a central force within the architecture of the story. In this approach, Pixar places two opposing forces—embodied in seemingly incompatible characters—side by side, and allows growth, transformation, and emotional depth to emerge through their interaction.
These fundamental oppositions often arise from emotional, psychological, or even generational differences, shifting the narrative logic away from the conventional “battle against evil” toward an internal conflict of understanding and acceptance. Thus, the story is no longer about defeating a villain but about embracing the “other” and reconciling with the self.
Here are some iconic examples of this creative contrast:
- Inside Out
Joy, the main protagonist, can only save the inner world when she accepts that without Sadness, there is no meaning or emotional balance.
Irony = Joy + Sadness
Character growth occurs not through the elimination of conflict but through the resolution of inner paradox. - Up
Carl, an isolated elderly man grieving his past, is forced to journey with a spirited boy (Russell). In the course of this unlikely companionship, both undergo profound emotional and human discoveries.
Irony = Old + Young - Toy Story
Woody’s jealousy of Buzz Lightyear threatens his place in the world. Yet this negative emotion gradually becomes the engine for character development and emotional maturity.
Irony = Loyalty + Jealousy
Through these layered contrasts, Pixar creates complex, dynamic characters—individuals who are not in search of conquest but of understanding. And it is precisely in this space that Pixar distinguishes itself from other animation studios: by crafting characters who are neither entirely good nor bad, but who are simply human—entangled in the experience of being.
The Decline of Narrative in Recent Pixar Films: Form Over Meaning?
In recent years, many loyal fans and critics of Pixar’s classical style have begun to approach the studio’s newer films with a more critical eye. The central question arises:
Is Pixar no longer a storyteller? Has form replaced substance? And is this shift an intentional artistic decision—or a sign of creative disorientation?
- From Character to Concept
Recent films like Soul, Luca, Turning Red, and even Elemental—despite their dazzling visuals and inventive premises—often feel more focused on conceptual setups than on dynamic, character-driven storytelling. At times, these films appear to prioritize thematic ideas over emotional progression.
In Soul, the metaphysical idea of the afterlife and the meaning of existence becomes so dominant that the character arc of Joe Gardner feels overwhelmed by abstraction. The character serves more as a vehicle for philosophical exposition than as a fully realized emotional subject.
- The Absence of Effective Irony
Classic Pixar thrived on fundamental emotional oppositions—calm vs. chaos, old vs. young, sadness vs. joy, control vs. surrender. In the newer works, however, these tensions are either diminished or rendered superficially.
In Turning Red, the coming-of-age tension between mother and daughter is present, but it lacks the psychological complexity of earlier works like Inside Out or Brave. Suppressed emotions have given way to direct statements and, at times, oversimplified messaging.
- Formalism and Emotional Detachment
In some recent films, the visual design and animation technology have become so advanced and mesmerizing that they risk becoming ends in themselves rather than tools for storytelling. Yet Pixar, as John Lasseter insisted, always viewed technology as a “very expensive pencil”—a means, not the message.
In Elemental, while the color palette, textures, and environmental design are striking, the characters themselves feel comparatively flat and emotionally underwhelming next to earlier generations.
Coco: The Last Golden Link in Pixar’s Narrative Chain
Among Pixar’s recent releases—many of which have faced criticism for weakened storytelling—Coco (2017) stands out as a brilliant exception. It is a film that not only remains faithful to Pixar’s narrative legacy but, in some respects, even expands upon it.
- A Return to Classic Pixar Structure
Coco begins with a child protagonist (Miguel) who has a clear desire: to become a musician, despite his family’s strict ban on music. This initial conflict blossoms into a multilayered narrative: buried family secrets, the boundary between life and death, and the true meaning of being remembered.
This is Pixar’s golden formula in action:
Character + Desire + Internal/External Obstacle + Truth Revelation + Personal Transformation
- Brilliant Contrast and the Role of Irony
At the heart of Coco lies an emotional and narrative contradiction:
Miguel fights to keep his great-grandfather’s memory alive, yet it is precisely that memory that has forbidden music in his family.
As the story unfolds, an even deeper contrast emerges: an artist who has gained fame, only to forget why he became an artist in the first place.
Irony = Love of Music + Music Prohibition
This contradiction not only drives the plot forward but continuously engages the viewer in the emotional discovery of identity, family values, and legacy.
- Cultural, Emotional, and Symbolic Layers
Unlike many other recent Pixar films, Coco is rich in cultural depth and emotional resonance. Mexican culture is not treated as decorative, but rather as the structural foundation of the story. Concepts like Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead), remembrance, and family heritage are intricately woven into both the narrative and visual language of the film.
Music, too, functions not merely as a background element, but as an expressive and emotional form—central to Miguel’s identity and his connection to both the past and the future.
The End of an Era or the Beginning of a Transformation?
Pixar was once the creative epicenter of cinematic storytelling in animation. A studio that successfully fused cutting-edge technology with classical narrative forms and deep human sensitivity to produce universally beloved stories—from Toy Story to Wall-E, from Ratatouille to Inside Out.
But in recent years, signs of a shift have emerged in the studio’s storytelling approach. While Pixar’s newer films remain visually stunning and technically advanced, many have slowly drifted away from the narrative elements that once defined the studio. It seems that form has replaced story, and message has replaced character. At times, “concept” becomes so dominant that the hero’s journey, transformation, and emotional stakes fade into the background.
The pressing question is:
Has Pixar lost its way?
Or is it exploring a new expressive language for a changing audience?
Perhaps Pixar’s current state should not be seen as a decline, but as a transitional phase—an attempt to redefine its narrative identity in an era where audiences have changed, platforms have evolved, and the culture of viewing is no longer what it was a decade ago.
But in this transformation, one vital truth remains:
Without its narrative heart—without characters who grow, without emotional contradictions that spark meaning—Pixar risks losing the very magic that once made the world fall in love with its stories.
Thus, a return to its roots should not mean repetition, but rather a rediscovery of the essence that made Pixar what it was:
Stories that are human, complex, honest, and full of feeling.
Written by Adnan — forever caught between the weight of meaning and the freedom of dreams, a follower of the shadows of thought in search of the light within the heart of story.
