Some stories are so effective at establishing a fully-realized world that on first look the plot seems incidental. J.R.R. Tolkien, writer of Lord of the Rings and known for creating languages first and figuring out the story later, often leaves the reader feeling that his Middle Earth boasts countless stories that were never included in a novel. It may not seem like an obvious comparison, but I feel the same way about Inside Out. There are playful hints that every character’s head contains a hidden, bustling control room. The central conceit of emotions battling for influence, each of them imbued with a unique appearance and personality, is a rich storytelling device, but it is anchored by an extremely focused narrative about one pivotal week in a child’s life. It would have been easy to jump around between different character’s heads throughout the film, but maintaining focus on Riley proves to be an effective choice. Staying within an isolated mind allows the story to drill down into the difficulty of living through major transitions.

My family went through a big move from Colorado to Maryland when I was 11, so there are aspects of Riley’s experience with moving from Minnesota to California at the same age that feel particularly familiar to me. The inhospitable new house and awkward social interactions are presented pretty much the way that I remember living through them. Part of that familiarity also comes from the film’s realistic style; there is nothing fantastical or exaggerated about the outer world of Inside Out. The whole film is beautifully animated, but there aren’t any futuristic robots or Tokyo-inspired architecture in this version of San Francisco à la Big Hero 6. For as crazy and inventive as Inside Out’s visuals get within Riley’s mind, there isn’t a moment in the film where those sensibilities bleed into the “real” world. Without the frequent cutaways to fire shooting out of Anger’s head or a literal train of thought jumping its tracks, Riley’s unhappy introduction to San Francisco would be more cringeworthy than entertaining.

The fog that Riley finds herself slipping into, as sunny expectations for a new home are doused in cold reality, stayed with me for about a year after moving. A change in scene doesn’t mean you become a new person, but it does force you to reintroduce yourself to the world. It felt like a lot of my assumptions about myself had become dislodged and I was starting again from scratch. For Riley, moving doesn’t necessarily mean that she no longer values having friends or playing hockey, but those things have to be rebuilt. New friendships have to be developed over time, and playing hockey now means going through tryouts again and adjusting to a new team. Even the pizza in San Francisco is weird and unappealing. There’s a loss of the comfortable and familiar that’s inherent in a such a major life change.

In response to this jarring shake-up of Riley’s world, Sadness begins instinctively to take on an outsized role in headquarters, affecting old memories and producing new ones that reflect her somber blue. As the one in charge of making Riley as happy as possible (or at least that’s how she perceives her mandate), Joy is beyond perplexed that Sadness is ruining everything and acts quickly to stifle her. It’s a response that I can easily relate to. But while Joy desperately wants to avoid allowing Riley to feel sad, she doesn’t have a sufficient answer to the life changes taking place either. Her most frequent tactic is to avoid painful situations entirely or to create distractions, but that leaves emotions like Anger and Fear picking up a lot of slack to cover over the hurt. In my own life I often find myself fending off emotions I don’t like with video games or social media, anything that allows me to turn off part of my brain and retreat from whatever is upsetting me. But there’s not a lot of resolution to be found as long as I keep running from pain or reacting to it in anger. The wound doesn’t heal.

It’s in dealing with loss head-on that Sadness finally shows herself to be completely essential. Because she doesn’t shy away from things that are upsetting, much to Joy’s chagrin, she is capable of incredible empathy. In a pivotal moment, Riley’s long-forgotten imaginary friend, Bing Bong, loses a special reminder of his time as Riley’s constant companion. Joy tries desperately to cheer him up, making goofy faces and promising that they can fix everything, but Sadness reacts with startling directness. “I’m sorry that they took your Rocket. They took something that you loved. It’s gone, forever.” Joy is appalled, but Bing Bong responds warmly and begins to recount old stories about his adventures with Riley. Something has been lost. It is sad. But it was wonderful while it lasted. Bing Bong cries for a moment, comforted by Sadness, then gets up with increased resolve. Joy is blindsided, and begins to realize that Sadness has a role to play after all.

I have a couple of family members in failing health, and it’s starting to feel like I’m watching my childhood fade away. Many of the memories we’ve made over the years will likely be just that soon, memories. In the midst of this, I feel a troubling temptation to be distracted, to not taint better times with sadness by thinking about them now. That’s where I find Inside Out’s climactic visual of a single, multicolored globe so affecting, the complexity of joy and sadness contained in a single memory. When Sadness is finally allowed to work the way it’s supposed to, it isn’t in opposition to happiness. There is joy and healing when we allow ourselves to be sad together. At its core, Inside Out is a story about loss and how we are often bad at dealing with it on our own. Being sad is not a solution in itself, but in trying to avoid it entirely we often cut ourselves off from others, one of the most important forms of comfort available to us. There’s an unseen drama playing out inside each of us, but incredible help is available when we stop hiding it away in our own heads.

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