Taras WOLF Feature Article. 30th June 2025
Interesting and factual information may be provided, but our review aims to deliver insight from the perspective of a designer’s mind and eyes.
Love toys?
When Star Wars exploded onto cinema screens in 1977, it sparked more than just a cinematic revolution, it gave birth to a merchandising empire that would shape childhoods and collector markets for decades to come. Like millions of others, I fell under its spell. However, growing up in Thailand, I was not even aware that Star Wars toys existed until years after the film’s release.
Thailand did not sell the toys during the original trilogy’s run, so what few I had were acquired through family trips abroad and the kindness of visiting guests. They were toys first and foremost, played with in the dusty corners of childhood imagination. Their tiny blasters were the first to disappear under furniture or into the jaws of vacuum cleaners. Then the capes vanished, tossed aside in the name of better choreography. Eventually, my younger brother completed the destruction, leaving most of my once-prized figures dismembered and battle-worn. My humble army of about fifty was reduced to a dirty dozen.
By the early 1990s, I was too old to play with toys and too young to care about collecting. Star Wars was dormant. Then, in 1994, two things reignited the flame: I stumbled into a toy collector’s store showcasing a line-up of vintage figures, and Galoob released its first Star Wars Micro Machines line. Suddenly, what was once forgotten became fascinating again. My love for Star Wars was reignited. From that point, Star Wars merchandise began returning to shelves at an increasing pace. It was still early days, and although it would be unthinkable now to try and collect everything, it was just about manageable then.
Still, collecting was expensive, and as a young adult, my budget had limits. I became resourceful. Back in the days before the internet was in full swing, communication was slow and cumbersome. I would fax between Australia, the UK, and the USA, wrestling with different time zones and often staying up late into the night or into the early hours of morning just to connect. I was very determined. I was always the early bird at toy fairs and markets, building relationships with dealers and shop owners. The Tomart’s Guide to Action Figures and Collectibles was my Bible, and I pored over its pages for deals and news.
My original ambition had been modest: just a full set of loose figures. That quickly grew to include ships and vehicles, then boxed items, and eventually even the newly released merchandise. The only way to keep up was to turn collecting into a side business.
One day at a collector’s store, I watched a kid sell a box of figures worth at least $200 for just $20. I felt disgusted by the unfairness, but it sparked an idea. I began pinning up posters at local universities: “Bring me your toys, I pay cash!” The calls came flooding in. I spent my days driving across the city, buying boxes of old toys from students in need of extra cash. My apartment became a makeshift toy warehouse. One room for cleaning, another for sorting. There were countless hours spent boxing, unboxing, packing, and posting. On rare occasions, I even got ripped off. One of the biggest losses was a $900 order from the USA that never arrived. I should have clued in when the seller claimed to have everything I asked for in stock, an unusual stroke of luck that turned out too good to be true. Several years later, a similar experience occurred with a UK seller, but I managed to get the police involved and eventually got my money back, though it took six months. The best items were filtered into my collection; the rest were sold at markets and fairs. I now had my own stall, beating even the earliest birds.
A modest collection and early beginnings of a passions that would span the next decade. This was the Wolf collection in 1994 displayed proudly amongst books and video tapes.
To get access to new merchandise, I set up a small company and bought wholesale. I sold these alongside the vintage gear, running what was essentially a full-time collectible business.
My travels as a competitive professional ballroom dancer gave me an added edge. I flew around the world to compete, and wherever I went, I sought out local releases and exclusives. These were the pre-eBay days, and foreign items were like gold back home.
By 1997, as the Special Edition movies hit cinemas, I had one of the largest private collections in the country. While I may not have owned every variant, I had most of the significant releases, and everything had passed through my hands at some point. These were simpler times, long before collectors obsessed over COO stamps, figure mould dates, or minor font differences on card backs. The hobby was about the joy of the item itself.
Among all the figures, the Vinyl Caped Jawa stood as a symbol of myth and rarity. Initially released with a stiff plastic cape, Kenner quickly changed it to a cloth version after kids complained they were paying the same price for less plastic. As a result, the vinyl variant was only produced briefly, making it one of the rarest figures, especially when sealed on its original card.
My connection to the Vinyl Caped Jawa is filled with stories. I remembered as a child that my best friend had a far better collection than mine. He did not have a younger sibling to destroy his toys, and I had a vague memory of seeing a Vinyl Caped Jawa in his possession. Years later, I reached out, and he graciously offered me his old toys for free. They were still in Thailand, but I happened to be travelling there. When I visited his house, he was overseas, but his mother allowed me to rummage through his things. I felt conflicted, like a scoundrel taking valuable items for free while he was abroad. I found a small basket of figures, no weapons, nothing especially rare. There was a Jawa, but no vinyl cape. I left disappointed and guilty.
A few weeks after running my university ads, I got a call from someone with no figures, just a box of accessories. This was a rare opportunity, as usually the figures survive while the accessories disappear. The box contained about forty weapons and capes, including the unmistakable vinyl cape. It was one of my happiest scores, a reward for persistence and a little bit of luck.
The ultimate Vinyl Cape moment came in London in 1996. I met a collector who wanted to sell his carded figures. Among them was a mint, sealed Vinyl Caped Jawa. He asked seven hundred pounds. That was my entire collecting budget for the trip. I hesitated. Do I buy one figure or several good ones? I walked away. The next day I came to my senses. I returned, paid the full amount, and walked away with the jewel of my collection. To this day, I’ve never seen another in the flesh.
By 1996 the Collection expanded to take over the entire cabinet with almost one of everything either boxed or loose.
Left- the more common cloth caped Jawa, Right- The Grail vinyl caped Jawa.
At the peak of my collecting, I had amassed several complete sets of loose vintage action figures, all mint, complete, and with the correct original weapons and accessories. These sets included the well-known variations, such as big and small head Han Solo, different hair colours for Luke and Leia, and all the common variants that were part of the collector vocabulary. Each figure was carefully sealed in individual plastic sleeves, organised in labelled boxes, and stored away from dust and light for decades to preserve their condition. I have had the fortune and pleasure of giving one full set to each of my children, as well as one to my childhood best friend, the very one whose bedroom I raided years earlier for a basket of dishevelled figures. What I gave him back on his 50th birthday had grown in significance and sentimental value, far beyond what I had taken all those years ago. He was speechless, and I finally released the guilt I had carried all that time.
A collection that almost filled an entire wall of cabinets. The right side was for vintage toys, and the left side was for the new generation.
Safe behind closed cupboard doors.
In the early 2000s, my wife-to-be gave me a new perspective. She pointed at my storage tubs and asked, “Wouldn’t you rather be driving your dream car than hoarding plastic?” She was right. I had always wanted a 1960s Mercedes Roadster. eBay had become mainstream, and digital cameras made selling easy. Over two years, I sold much of the modern merchandise and all my duplicate vintage items. When I finally bought the Mercedes, my collection was half the size but twice as strong. It was a win-win. I am glad those hustling days are over, and now I enjoy the luxury of taking my time to sell pieces thoughtfully and match the right buyers to collectibles that I have cherished for over three decades.
For many years my collection lived in an orderly fashion within plastic containers in my garage. Note the brown cardboard inserts intended to create a neat look that served to provide protection from both UV light and prying eyes.
Driving the dream thanks to Star Wars and eBay.
By the mid-2000s, I had satisfied ambitions as a dancer and retuned to a career as a full-time architect. My focus shifted to my business and family. I rarely bought new items, though I occasionally filled in missing pieces. My collection centered around a complete set of loose, mint, and complete figures. On card, I kept only the most iconic releases: those from the original film and the final “Power of the Force” Last 17. I also focused on boxed ships and playsets. Everything else I sold off in waves, often to fund holidays.
When I finally built my own home was I able to display my collection in a way that was representative of me and my passion.
Today, my collection may seem modest in the age of YouTube mega-collectors, but back then, it was a different time. The scale of collecting was more intimate, and each piece had a story. I have benefited from the value appreciation, and more importantly, the memories. Family holidays, lifelong friendships, and lessons in business and negotiation all came from this venture.
There remains, however, one final chapter yet to be written.
Eventually, I will need to offload the rest. While my children love Star Wars, their interest does not extend to managing hundreds of collectibles. Dividing the set would be difficult and disheartening. More worryingly, they may sell the entire lot to an eager collector offering what sounds like a generous sum, but a fraction of the true value. Selling piece by piece without knowledge is a nightmare I wish to spare them.
So, one day, I will manage the final sell-off myself. I will turn this lifelong hobby into something simpler for my family to inherit. It will be hard to part with these pieces, but it will be done on my terms, with care and pride. As with all great stories, this one deserves a meaningful conclusion.
Because, in the end, I will sell everything except one complete set of loose figures. That was my original ambition when this journey began, and keeping it feels like a fitting full-circle tribute. These toys were not just plastic figures. They were companions through childhood, currency through youth, and storytellers across a lifetime in a galaxy not so far away.
Disclaimer
The information in this review is intended for informational or educational purposes to provide readers an understanding of how something may be seen from a certain design perspective. In this case it is from the view point of WOLF DESIGNS. As design is subjective this review should only be considered as an independent opinion. Information further to being of an opinion is provided to the best of our knowledge based on our own research at the time of doing the review. We cannot be held responsible for any inaccuracies or inconsistencies and reserve the right to change or update any content as appropriate.
The final responsibility of the design resides with the original manufacturer.