TOY STORY. Grand Opening for Modern Family Cinema.

Thirty years ago, Toy Story premiered—the first feature-length animated film by Pixar and, at the same time, a milestone in the history of cinema. These, however, are merely encyclopedic facts. For me, it is an absolute masterpiece, probably the most important cinematic experience of my life.

My room was littered with toys: plastic Batmen, plush animals, some dinosaurs, Lego bricks, board-game figurines. I was very careful not to hurt them—never to step on them, never to crush them, never to let them fall into some dark corner or get covered in dust. I didn’t want much in return. One sentence would have been enough: “Thank you for taking such good care of us,” or “You’re awesome—we love playing together!”—and they could have fallen silent forever. Even less would do: let any one of my toys wave at me or give me a slight smile. I won’t even mention how many times I flung open the door and rushed into my room, hoping to catch my wards in the middle of some activity.

Perhaps I was too loud. The toys had those few seconds to freeze. Shamelessly, they pretended nothing had happened. I had another strategy. I would fake a nap. I slowed my breathing, covered my head with a blanket, and simulated snoring—but in truth all my senses were sharper than ever. I was convinced that when I slept, my toys came to life. That was when my Batmen should have been setting ambushes for the figurines of their antagonists—whom I also owned, of course. The plush toys should have been climbing onto my desk to play Chinese checkers. But nothing. Complete silence. Nothing happened. The toys didn’t even twitch. I felt a little cheated, casting suspicious glances at my companions.

And then the brilliant Toy Story appeared. It’s hard for me to estimate how much of an impact John Lasseter’s film had on me. It was my first conscious cinema screening. Before that, I recall only fleeting impressions—vague images, misty frames from Disney films. Toy Story, on the other hand, I remember very clearly: how frightened I was as I entered the enormous auditorium, how its darkness enveloped me. I think only a child experiences cinema in a truly mystical way; only in the perception of the very young does the Big Screen appear as a gateway to another world, a window opening onto an unknown reality.

I’m glad I encountered Toy Story at just that age, when it could become such a breakthrough experience for me. To this day I remember drawing in a breath, grabbing my dad’s hand, and—together with Woody, Buzz, and Mr. Potato Head—taking to the air to reach Andy’s car. Together we “fell with style.” We landed perfectly. Like never again.Toy Story rekindled my faith in toys. I forgave them for not wanting to so much as twitch when I was around—especially since, after the Pixar film, I realized what kinds of problems they had to face when I wasn’t there. We were even.

Lasseter’s film is not just a childhood memory for me. I feel as though I’m still growing into it. The frequency with which I watch Pixar’s work increases every year. Toy Story is my founding film, the bedrock of who I am as a viewer. There is magic in this animation that I keep trying to reach. Perhaps it lies in how Lasseter’s film connects generations. From an apparently obvious childhood experience—one everyone has had, animating toys in their imagination—the director builds a universe everyone wants to believe in. That’s a huge asset for younger audiences, who immediately feel at home in the world of Toy Story.

For parents, in turn, it offers a perfect glimpse into a child’s psyche. Pixar used a similar scheme in Monsters, Inc., drawing on another primal childhood experience: fear of dangerous strangers prowling the room at night. In Inside Out, this perspective is shown even more vividly. At the center of Pixar’s interest there is always the child—its inner, emotional, imagined world. Toy Story was a grand opening for modern family cinema. Pixar’s film cut itself off from the Disney fairy-tale tradition.

Lasseter’s masterpiece was, on the one hand, a technological revolution—spectacular use of CGI and a level of photorealism previously unseen in animation—setting the Seventh Art on new tracks; on the other, it was a tribute to all of its achievements. Woody, Buzz, Rex, Mr. Potato Head, Bo Peep, and the little green army men represent successive eras in the development of cinema and classic American genres, while the film itself guides us through several aesthetic conventions. Pixar’s animation is total cinema. Inspired cinema.

It would be a sin, however, to reduce Toy Story to a simple postmodern game. For me, it is above all a film of enormous emotional weight. Buzz singing ““Goodbye, my ship””I Will Go Sailing No More” is one of the most sublime—and paradoxically painful—scenes I have ever experienced as a cinephile. Toy Story taught me to accept disappointment and prepared me for many failures. Through that defeat, Buzz could later realize that he is something far more than just a toy. What matters most is the child whose name is written on the sole of his foot.

The way the characters of Toy Story evolve and change their attitudes toward one another deserves every screenwriting award in the world. Alongside Woody, we experience a full spectrum of emotions and moods—from anger and bitterness to selflessness. His conversations with Buzz, a character who changes just as dynamically, are written with a wit and humor that Aaron Sorkin would not be ashamed of.

At the end, after a sea of lies, hundreds of arguments, and shouted insults, the two main characters unite to once again find themselves under Andy’s care. At last they shake hands; at last they share the same goal—they both want the same thing. I know no other scene so uplifting; none has ever moved me so deeply. In his film, Lasseter defines what friendship is, what trust is. He does so in the purest and most sincere way.

I have bound myself to Toy Story forever. It has entered my bloodstream. It is that one—my film. Quotes from this animation filled my language; images of the characters appeared on countless school gadgets and items of clothing, of course on my computer wallpaper and smartphone screen. Recently I finally grew into having an original, collector’s toy on my desk—a real Woody. Sometimes I find his hat in unexpected places around the room. I don’t even wonder how he lost it. The answer I need is simply: “There’s a snake in my boot!” when I pull the string on his back. Then I know everything.