The trailer premiered on October 29th, when fear and monsters came knocking at the door—a beautiful little girl in her pink costume—and once again, a children's movie began to make quite a stir. Ever since the company started releasing films in 1993, in just four years, it had produced some of the best animated movies of its time, each one undeniably fantastic and rewarding in its own way.
—It's one of those stories for kids that will stay etched in people's minds. —said Billy, perfectly aware of Pixar's magic hold over young audiences for years now. There was Ice Age, Shrek, A Bug's Life, and Gigantic—each film, for every studio, a masterpiece in its own right. People saw the Pixar name as a seal of quality; the merchandising sold like hotcakes, and everything it touched became an intrinsic symbol of creativity and wonder.
—We've got Monsters Inc., and we've got other enchanting worlds. —whispered John Lasseter, watching the pilot alongside six or nine people who were reviewing the final stages of editing. Billy's eyes gleamed with awe, realizing the marvel before him—a work that would stand out among many others.
Two months ago, Pixar had been hailed as the baton bearer of animated films, almost without pause. It had won every animation battle since the postwar era. Much to the surprise of many, every one of its projects found life and memory—surpassing Disney, which for some time had been losing its spark. Yet, Disney grew stronger in other areas, like television production, media networks, and Touchstone Pictures, running with such precision that it was intimidating. The once small company had become a giant, moved only by the weight of its own legacy, needing nothing more than its name to command respect.
—1998 will be our year. —said Andrew Stanton, who understood Billy's decisions perfectly. For 1998, they had Robots, The Polar Express, and Dinosaur—three films with different focuses, all with sequels tucked up Billy's sleeve. He planned to turn Robots into a closed trilogy and Dinosaur into a feature film, followed by a series and a concluding movie—the perfect structure to end the age of dinosaurs.
—None of that. I think 1999 will bring tougher challenges. I still don't know how the geniuses will manage to create software capable of giving humans real movement—or make films that can take to the sea—or the battles that will soon unfold. —said Jeff Camelio, the set design genius, imagining the impossible landscapes of the deep blue sea, the jungles of Madagascar, and the eerie fights in haunted castles. His vision was for a colossal masterpiece that spoke for itself—a dark fairy tale titled Bluebeard, a horror story unlike any other.
—For everyone, no matter who they are, excellence is the bare minimum. —said Peter Docter, who had long tried to keep up with Billy's pace and match his brilliance. How hard—and how wonderful—it was to write a script for a company already juggling six ongoing projects and two more waiting in line. It was the contradiction every creator lived with.
—I love what you did with the characters; that fur-rendering software is a perfect ten. —said Billy—what a flawless image, and what brilliant movement you gave them.
In San Francisco, everything bore the unmistakable mark of California.
…
Billy watched with mixed emotions. People from every walk of life had gathered again for the event. Los Angeles welcomed them—now wearing Pixar badges and surrounded by a higher, more refined budget. From the figurines to the press to the crowds waiting at the sides, everything carried that same air of splendor and excitement.
—You like movies, don't you? —whispered Billy.
—Actually, I adore them; they're delightful. I watched some of Disney's princess movies, but yours are better—they're imaginative, and they have beautiful endings. I'd say they're truly one of a kind. —said Monica, wearing a green textured dress and a James Sullivan cap.
—Well, the first thing I see is your lovely James Sullivan outfit. —Billy replied.
Fast, accessible, and beloved by anyone who loves a good movie—it starts simple and friendly, a children's story where everything real and tragic falls perfectly into place. In a city called Monstropolis, two characters work with doors that lead to the bedrooms of small children. Their fear feels so vivid and direct that it gives meaning to everything. The magic lies in telling a story through lateral thinking: children's screams are the city's energy source.
We meet the main characters, James Sullivan and Mike Wazowski—both endearing in their own way—who live in a world where any contact with humans is forbidden, almost as if it were a pandemic threat. A little girl, three or four years old, enters their world—by accident or by fate.
—How sweet everything is. —said Monica beside him, leaning against his chest as she watched the little girl's every move. It was a total change of perspective—the monsters feared children. That reversal shone brightly, giving the story its heart.
The adventure to return to her home is touching, and the way James grows through his care, love, and the chaos of a factory in turmoil brings him face to face with the real villain—Randall, Sully's sneaky, invisible rival.
—You might like the ending. —said Billy, planting a soft kiss on her head.
The ending doesn't disappoint—it's charming, full of meaning, and transforms into a moral lesson about change, kindness, and respect. It's a reminder of the good that lives in people, for anyone willing to watch and think about the message behind a great film.
—No wonder. —whispered Monica, watching the final scene. She thought of how much people would have to do by the end of the year, while Billy quietly filled his coffers. What a wonderful movie, she thought, seeing how every piece came together into something new.
—I see the ending surprised you. —said Billy.
—Well, where's Boo? —whispered Monica, asking a question that seemed to drift into another life.
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