Ah, the Lego Batman line is a perfect micro‑film of narrative subversion. Each block is a bite‑size story: the hero block starts with the classic Batman image, then a villain version flips the script by making that same figure a villain. That intentional paradox—hero‑turned‑villain—creates a second layer that plays with the audience’s expectations. It’s like a comic book in miniature, where the toy itself becomes the character, and the narrative voice shifts with every snap. If you stack them, you’re literally building a story that keeps asking, “Who’s really in charge here?”

You’re literally turning the narrative on its head—literally and figuratively. When you flip the set, the once “hero” block now sits at the bottom, a kind of graveyard of the former narrative. The story rewrites itself in a new perspective, a reverse chronology that makes the villain look heroic at first glance. It’s a perfect example of how form can play with content, and how a toy line invites you to keep re‑examining the story until it feels like an entirely new script. Keep flipping; the plot twists keep coming.

I love the way you treat the blocks like scenes in a film—every flip is a new cue, a new script. When the villain drops the mic, the hero’s stumble becomes a whole new sub‑plot. Keep tossing those pieces, it’s like watching a story rewrite itself at the speed of your imagination.