NOTE: As one of my blogging outlets has recently gone on hiatus, I am left with a minor backlog of unsolicited opinions. Here’s the one I was working on for this week.
Spoiler alert! These are getting a 10.
What can I say? I’m a sucker for molded plastic figurines. The way they smell right out of the box, the way the interlocking pieces stick a little bit when they move, they way the accessories instantly disappear forever. Action Figures were my one true passion and joy from ages 3 to 13, as well as 15 to 17, 23, half of 25 and the last few months.
Of course some children had other interests, such as playing with trucks, blocks, or going outside, but I was always an action figure man. My love affair began when, at four years old, I found a used Skeletor toy from the “Masters of the Universe” collection on the streets of San Francisco. I still remember my mother’s horror at her son’s affection for this macabre, ugly figurine. “What about He-Man?” she offered, “We could get you one of those.” But in my young mind, given the choice between a creatine-soaked ken doll and a dude without a face, it was a no-brainer who truly ruled the universe. I went on to collect many of Skeletor’s associates, including “Stinkor,” the unpopular skunk man, and “Modulock,” the build-it-yourself villain who’s secret power was fending off lawsuits from Mr. Potato Head.
Eventually I saw through He-Man’s charms, due in part to his insanely redundant name. Thankfully, some genius had just developed a line of figures in which the heroes were just as hideous as the villains they faced, often more so. I am, of course, referring to the mid-nineties phenomenon that was “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.” Through a stroke of marketing brilliance, what started as a comic book spin-off quickly escalated into an unending series of plastic figures, where the formula “any animal” plus “any profession” equaled “I want it.” I’m talking about a Moose Mountie with a squirrel sidekick. I’m talkin’ about a Hipster Gecko on a skateboard. I’m talking about dozens of permutations of the main characters, so that no sooner had I bought “Baseball Playin’ Raphael” than I was whining for “Hard Rockin’ Raphael.” I’m talking about whatever that thing is in this picture. Seriously, what is that? Whatever it is, I wanted one so, so bad. “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” (I restrict the use of the acronym to this past decades atrocious redux) had to be the highest ratio of merchandising to actual content ever. A concept that started as a joke became deadly serious as the creators started building houses out of money.
The one major action figure line of the time that never graced my shelves was “G.I. Joe.” This is because my parents, possibly as part of an elaborate Vietnam War protest flashback, opposed action figures that endorsed violence. Correction, REALISTIC violence. In other words, a duck aviator who carried a sidearm was O.K., but if I even glanced at Commander Hawk, I ran the risk of confusing toy guns with real guns, play war with real war, and patriotism with awesomeness. I guess I can’t fault their methods; the only fight I ever had was with that little fucker who stole my Hard-Rockin’ Raphael.
I was a part of the hypocritical generation who embraced “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” as the second coming, but mercilessly ridiculed “Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers” as little kid’s stuff. Looking back, I can see that only a couple of years dictated which ludicrous combination of four random words would have deep, eternal resonance for me. Still, when the Rangers morphed, I jumped the action figure ship. Or at least docked the ship in a box in my closet. One that still glows with the memories of my youth, and a secret dream…
My qualifier for personal success has always been pretty simple: an action figure crafted in my likeness. Isn’t that truly every boy’s dream? Girls have dolls; they play house or dress-up, imagining what their adult lives will be like. Similarly, young boys imagine their faces on the body of a ninja, robot, alien, or robot-fighting alien ninja. Girls tend to see their childhood fantasies realized 20-odd years down the line. Boys never do, which, I would argue, is the leading cause of male-depression, infidelity, and most wars.
While highly unlikely, this goal is not entirely unattainable. For the last 30 years or so, mid-level movie stars have been seeing their five-inch likeness in stores everywhere. The pursuit of this dream is 90% of the reason that I threw my undergraduate education away at acting school (sorry mom!). Of course, if I ever do somehow reach this peek, all other, lesser accomplishments will cease to interest me and I will instantly die a blissful death, with the request that my remains and accessories be buried in a blister pack.
Action Figures: 10 out of 10 (the best thing ever)