Bart The Daredevil (aka Kids Say Such Stupid Things)

When discussing "Bart The Daredevil" (7F06), we might as well start right at the very end. The entire story, delightful as it may be, is all but an excuse to get us to that final twisted set-piece, in which Homer takes not one, but two excruciating tumbles down the wall of a steep gorge, encountering jagged rock after jagged rock and accumulating an increasing number of visible injuries. Debuting on December 6th 1990, this relatively early entry in the show's second season was by and far the most morbid Simpsons outing to date (outside of the original "Treehouse of Horror"). It set out to answer a burning question - what does consequence look like in the Simpsons universe? Creator Matt Groening had a vision of a more grounded cartoon than mainstream audiences were accustomed to, but what did this mean in practice? What differentiated the rules of The Simpsons from the more traditional cartoon physics that governed the realms of Porky Pig, Tom & Jerry and indeed Itchy & Scratchy? When you pricked a Simpson, did they bleed? Absolutely they did, as "Daredevil" demonstrated with wild abandon. When you poisoned them did they die? Probably, but the show was thankfully uninterested in exploring that particular extreme. "Daredevil" was rebellion enough, a gruesome exercise in establishing limitations, but also a gleefully subversive one in pushing boundaries. Homer might have failed at defying gravity, but The Simpsons itself was soaring to ever more giddy heights - with this sequence you can feel the show becoming more confident, more emboldened and more excited about exploring where else it could possibly go. The production crew would continue to regard it as a watershed moment in The Simpsons' development, judging by the large number of callbacks across the series. It naturally found a place in the show's first "Greatest Hits" complication "So It's Come To This: A Simpsons Clip Show". It was also featured prominently in the faux behind-the-scenes documentary "Behind The Laughter" of Season 11, which largely revolved around a fictitious version of The Simpsons and contained precious few other references to events from the series we knew. In Season 13's "The Blunder Years", Lisa shot down Homer's attempt to revisit the occurrence with the objection, "Everyone's sick of that memory!" And the climax of The Simpsons Movie (2007) included a sequence where Homer and Bart both fell down the gorge, with considerably less gruesome results. There are probably more I'm overlooking. I'm pretty sure that, somewhere out there, there's also a fan theory proposing that Homer was really killed by the fall and everything that's happened since is part of an elaborate Waking Life-esque fantasy from within his dying brain. There's an element of the series that has always stayed in the gorge, haunted by that fateful leap that forever changed its trajectory.

The secret of the sequence is that it crafts such a deft balance between discomfort and hilarity. Homer's agonising pain is emphasised with each and every thud, yet his fall is played intrinsically for humor. The particulars are harrowing and grotesque - we'll likely be unsettled by that thick layer of blood accumulating around his mouth - but are accomplished with an incongruously farcical tone that offers one hell of a safety net. And when we're blessed with that absurdly gratuitous sight of the ambulance crashing and Homer going down the gorge a second time on a gurney, we know for certain that we couldn't be in more loving hands. In practice, there maybe isn't such a pronounced difference between the rules that govern the adventures of Itchy & Scratchy (wherein Itchy can brutally cut up Scratchy, but the cat is always back to normal by the next installment) and Homer's mishap here. In both cases, our reaction is coloured by an understanding that it is only a twisted joke and that any consequences will expire with the end of the story. When Homer ends up in traction, in a hospital bed adjacent to that of world-renowned daredevil Lance Murdock, and delivers to him the punchline of the episode ("You think you've got guts? Try raising my kids!"), we know that it is only a punchline, and not the beginning of a whole new chapter in Homer's life, the wheelchair years.

All the same, when we wind back the clock and consider how Homer got here, the path to the gorge is a grisly one all over, strewn with physical calamities, maimed children, and the threat that something even more horrific might transpire. Not only is Homer just one of several casualties, he doesn't even suffer the most gloriously over the top injury of that tally (that honor goes to Murdock, who's hospitalised after a mauling from an aquatic lion). The plot involves Bart witnessing one of Murdock's stunts and getting it into his head that he could be a world-renowned daredevil too. His first ill-calculated attempt to leap over the family car on his skateboard ends in disaster, resulting in a trip to the emergency room and stitches in his forehead, but this doesn't dissuade Bart. Instead, he finds the adrenalin rushes he gets from making these perilous leaps addictive, along with the rapturous applause he receives from his peers, prompting him to seek bigger and all the more stomach-churning thrills. Finally, he discovers the gorge and decides that this will be the challenge to end all challenges. Superficially, he acknowledges that it could also end his life then and there -  he announces to his peers his intention to jump the gorge with the concession that "there is a good possibility I will plunge to my bloody death" - but he hasn't absorbed the implications of this. To him, the prospect of things going horribly wrong is just something to be flaunted as part of the daredevil performance, a further attempt emulate the showmanship of Murdock, who kept his audience on the edge of their seats by similarly advertising that the spectacle they they were about to witness "may well be my grisly death." The one thing Bart does not understand is consequence. The problem Homer faces is in figuring out how to get across to his son that his reckless behaviour could reap truly regrettable results. How do you explain consequence to a child who's already convinced himself that if he leaps off a cliff it's no big deal?

On the one level, "Bart The Daredevil" is a tale of callow hero worship and how it impacts a person's values, for better or for worse. But at its core it's mainly about the trials and tribulations of child-rearing. It feels appropriate that it aired directly ahead of "Itchy & Scratchy & Marge" in the series' running order, as the two episodes play like deliberate sister stories. Both revolve around scenarios that are parental nightmares, in which children have started to answer to external authorities that conflict with the parent's own and maybe don't have the child's best interests at heart, raising the question of where and how the parent should draw the line. "Itchy & Scratchy & Marge" dealt with the ultra-topical concern of media violence, and as such was a more bitingly satirical installment, whereas "Daredevil" is a far goofier, more tender look at the relationship between Homer and Bart and how the former struggles to maintain control of his son. An allusion that hadn't occurred to me until I heard the DVD commentary was that this was as close as the series would get to doing a story in which substance addiction was the particular wedge being driven between them, with Bart seeking increasingly dangerous highs and Homer and Marge finding that they can't let him out of their sight without his compulsions tearing him away. In both cases, we have examples of children being led astray by a failure to understand consequence - or, more specifically, a failure to distinguish consequence in the real world from the kinds of consequences shown to them through popular entertainment. After Bart's first try at leaping over the car causes him minor injury, Dr Julius Hibbert, in his debut appearance (fun fact: Hibbert was originally written as a woman named Julia Hibbert, but was gender-flipped in subsequent drafts), attempts to set him straight by taking him on a tour of Ward C, a children's ward specially reserved for patients who've been more seriously injured attempting to imitate the happenings in  television, movies and the legitimate stage (among them, the cliche of the kid who broke his leg trying to fly like Superman raises its head). For now, most of these entertainment-addled children are dangers only to themselves. The flip-side to this parental nightmare - the possibility that media exposure might transform children into raging sociopaths who think that violence to others is glamorous or funny - would have to wait until "Itchy & Scratchy & Marge" to be examined in depth, but it gets a small nod here. At least one kid in the ward was injured through no fault of his own, but by his brother hitting him in the head with a wrench, mimicking the deciding blow in a televised wrestling match we saw at the start of the episode.

In Bart's case, the toxic influence doesn't come from television, although television plays its part in getting him to the arena where Murdock is performing. Bart and Homer are mutually drawn to a monster truck rally being held that Saturday at the Springfield Speedway by a commercial hyping the appearance of one Truckasaurus, a car-crushing robotic T-Rex modelled on the real-life Robosaurus. As the entire opening sequence is at pains to emphasise, Bart and Homer are governed by the same crudely exhilarating impulses, and neither one can resist something quite as ridiculously ostentatious as a giant robotic dinosaur that devours puny vehicles. Truckasaurus transpires to be something of a narrative fake-out. He's the carrot that lures the family to the speedway, but the female mud-pullers and of course the Lance Murdocks are what they stay for. His role in the story peaks early on, when the Simpsons accidentally drive out into the arena and are nearly destroyed by the hulking metal monster, in a sequence that doubles as a subtle PSA - even sharper than the one Murdock later explicitly delivers - about the importance of wearing a seatbelt (Maggie, the only family member to be buckled up, avoids being thrown around with the others).

This being a Season 2 installment, there's an emphasis on the slice of life elements of the story and on further mapping out the internal dynamics of the family. Before we get to the real narrative hooks, we have a preliminary conflict involving the family already having plans that Saturday to attend a school recital where Lisa is performing, ie: the very antithesis of the evening the boys have in mind. Sensing that her father might be tempted to skip her big night in favour of a date with Truckasaurus, Lisa presents him with a consequence of another variety: "I'll be playing my first solo; if you miss it on Saturday I advise you to start looking for a child therapist on Sunday." This might be a Bart and Homer episode, but it's still Lisa who gets all the best lines (there's also "I'm afraid the forces of history have changed wrestling - perhaps forever"^[1],  and "I'm sorry Bart, but if you got hurt or died, despite the extra attention I'd receive, I'd miss you."). Marge suggests that the timing might work out for them to attend both events, provided the recital doesn't overrun. And so they must go first to the recital, with Homer spending most of it glancing anxiously at his watch. The recital doesn't add anything in terms of Bart's impending daredevil arc, but feels like such an indispensable part of the overall picture, offering a brilliant window into the family's disparate priorities and adding in generous extra helpings of relatability, heart and energy. This is meant to be the boring portion of the evening, but it's really as much an exercise in glorious excess as the monster truck rally, culminating in a rousing rendition of Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture" that manages to incorporate everything from a bourdon to the traditional cannon fire. The entire interlude also contains a lovely miniature arc for Lisa. While Homer is off bonding with Bart over their shared love of high-octane mayhem, all she wants is for him to see the value in what she does. And ultimately he does, if mostly on a subconscious level. As they're driving away from the recital and making haste toward the Speedway, Homer is unwittingly humming the aforementioned overture. "I reached him," Lisa observes, with a quiet elation that suggests this is a greater achievement than she'd dared to hope for. With that all-important box ticked, her attentions soon shift from her father to the worrying direction her brother's mind is leaning. Enter the man of the hour, Captain Lance Murdock.

Murdock, an Evel Knievel-type stunt rider with a penchant for dangerous leaps (and animal cruelty), has arrived in Springfield to perform what's billed as his most daring endeavor to date. He will jump over a water tank populated by all manner of unfriendly aquatic fauna (sharks, piranhas and electric eels), a drastically misplaced lion and, just to make the feat that extra bit more precarious, one drop of human blood. Bart, enraptured by the proposition, is the lone audience member who can bear to watch it play out. Murdock pulls off the stunt itself, but his showmanship ends up being his undoing, when he drives back up the ramp to take a bow and topples over into the tank. After that, he manages to swim to the side in one piece, only for the lion, of all things, to catch up with him and drag him back under. He's subsequently retrieved by paramedics, and summons enough strength to give the thumbs up sign to his audience before being carried away. This traumatic spectacle isn't enough to put a damper on the occasion - Marge comes away commenting what a fun-filled evening it was. And Bart's takeaway from Murdock's misfortune is that getting yourself brutally lacerated is a deeply noble business if you're able to make an entertaining display of it. Thus, his daredevil career is kicked into motion.

 

Anyone else reminded of that old NSPCC campaign?

It's hardly surprising that Murdock would leave such a strong impression on Bart. He appeals to the kid's  wayward, mayhem-thirsting nature. He's an intrepid rebel who goes about defying countless authorities - among them, nature, gravity and common sense - winning applause and admiration for his efforts. He lives life on the edge, repeatedly pushing himself to do what anyone else would consider courting disaster on a grotesque scale. He's exactly the kind of person whom Bart would idolise and aspire to be just like. When Bart has his first setback and is confronted by Dr Hibbert, he doesn't take the lecture as seriously as he should, because to him Hibbert's is just another authority to be defied (it's also a transparently two-faced one - see below). He returns to his skateboard, and before he knows it has seemingly perfected the art of the foolhardy jump. Having gotten this far, why would he be inclined to listen to anybody who tells him that he cannot leap over the gorge? Aren't they just imposing false limitations on his path to greatness?

Still, the notion that Bart's compulsion to tempt fate is all down to the toxic influence of the entertainment industry doesn't exactly ring true. There is another, more pressing problem facing Bart throughout the story, and that is the woeful lack of adult oversight or interest in what he's doing, until he's seemingly at the point of no return. When Bart first announces his desire to be a daredevil to Homer, Homer's immediate reaction is to laugh about how "kids say such stupid things", not taking into account that they also do stupid things. Marge likewise seems curiously relaxed over Bart's aspirations, based on how she shrugs off the circumstances behind his injury as a case of "Monkey see, Monkey do." One of Bart's stunts involves leaping over a sleeping Homer, who is entirely oblivious to what is going on. The most disturbing aspect of Dr Hibbert's tour is not what we see in Ward C, or even the horrors hinted to be lurking in the unseen Three Stooges ward, but Hibbert's jarringly callous conclusion that, "as tragic as all this is, it's a small price to pay for countless hours of top-notch entertainment," (to which Homer enthusiastically responds, "Amen!"). Bart would surely be shrewd enough to detect the hypocrisy in Hibbert's words - despite his seeming interest in Bart's well-being, he openly admits that good entertainment is a bigger priority. On learning of Bart's intention to jump the gorge, Otto initially sounds as though he's going to take an unusually serious tone ("As the only adult here I feel I should say something...") before lapsing right into character ("Cool!"). And of course the man who inspired his morbid fascinations turns out to be as mind-bogglingly irresponsible as everyone else. In an act of desperation Lisa takes Bart to see the hospitalised Murdock, hoping that he'll hear straight from the horse's mouth that daredevil stunts are to be performed strictly by the professionals. Alas, it backfires horribly when Murdock expressly encourages Bart to pursue his death-or-glory ambitions: "A lot of people are gonna be telling you you're crazy, and maybe they're right, but the fact of the matter is, bones heal, chicks dig scars, and the United States of America has the best doctor to daredevil ratio in the world!"

In an act of greater desperation, Lisa squeals to Homer and Marge, who get up to speed, too late, on how badly Bart's daredevil aspirations have escalated. Suddenly Homer must rise to the occasion and become the kind of authority figure who can out-impress Murdock in Bart's psyche. What tricks does he have at his disposal? He first tries taking the punitive approach and sending Bart to his room, but Bart, now totally impervious to his father's jurisdiction, openly flaunts that Homer can't keep tabs on him 24/7, and as soon as his back is turned, he'll be sneaking out to the gorge. Homer's next tactic, on the urging of Marge, is to reach out to Bart on a more emotive level, imploring him to promise to not head out to the gorge and to adhere to this as a matter of trust. He alludes to his history of perfunctory parenting when he tells him that this isn't "one of those phoney-baloney promises I don't expect you to keep." He wants Bart to know that there is something more at stake than the possibility of him plunging to his death. He could successfully make the jump across the gorge and become the toast of school-aged Springfield, and yet things would never be the same between himself and his father again. If he were to break this particular promise, he will have lost all credibility in Homer's eyes. Bart seems genuinely taken back by his father's ultimatum and ostensibly complies with wishes. But inevitably the call of the gorge proves too strong and he sneaks out anyway, to find his adoring fans (including Otto) waiting. Homer cottons on and follows Bart to the gorge, just in time to intercept his attempted leap. As it turns out, there is one further tactic that's occurred to Homer. He will take the skateboard and attempt to jump the gorge himself, so that Bart may experience the situation from his perspective.

What Homer's proposing is, objectively speaking, profoundly messed up, but there is a kind of twisted narrative logic to it. Bart's recklessness stems from his assumption that it doesn't matter what happens to him because he has (or so he thinks) made peace with the idea that putting himself at extreme risk is what being a daredevil entails. If he dies, he'll at least go out in a blaze of valorous glory. Homer forces him to see his actions from a wider perspective. It's one thing to conquer your fear of bad things happening to yourself, but try conquering your fear of bad things happening to those you love. Bart comes to understand something of the distress he's been causing his family, and the pain they would suffer if he were to be hurt or killed. Now that's consequence. Homer's gambit works, and the prospect of jumping the gorge loses its lustre for Bart. He pleads with his father not to jump, promising to give up his daredevil ways in return, and the two of them tenderly embrace. But of course no Simpsons ending is quite as straightforward as that. Homer is so relieved at having regained Bart's fidelity that he neglects to maintain control of the skateboard on which he's still standing. A momentary lapse of attention sends him hurtling down the slope and flying out over the gorge, getting us to our infamous climactic set-piece.

It's a bitter twist of fate that, having set out to force Bart into his own position of hand-wringing helplessness, Homer becomes immersed in Bart's delusions, although hardly a surprising one. We had already seen in that opening sequence just how fundamentally alike the Simpson boys are. Naturally, Homer would succumb to the same exhilaration as Bart while he's flying as deceptively high. When, for a glorious moment, it looks as though he might just make the jump, his terror dissipates and, like his son before him, he gets intoxicated from his own adrenalin. Very soon he's whopping about this bring the greatest thrill of his life and declaring himself king of the world, seven years before Leonardo DiCaprio did the same in Titanic. Whatever nobleness he might once have exuded in wanting to make the leap to save his son is all gone. What this means, in practice, is that Homer must learn the very brutal lesson that was formerly earmarked for Bart. His elation proves short-lived, for as he nears the other side he runs out of momentum and fails to close the gap. Had this happened to Bart, then it's unlikely that it would have been in any way funny. But since Homer was supposed to be the rational adult in this equation, there is far greater glee to be had in undercutting his hubris. What we get is a reversal on the story of Daedalus and Icarus, in which the parental figure who should have known better demonstrates that his own judgement can be as clouded by the stupefying lure of the sun, only for the gods to cut him down with even less mercy. He plummets painfully to earth, and the show enforces its reality by fully embracing the fact that it's a cartoon, giving us perhaps the grisliest twist of all. The possible outcome that was a mere moment ago being treated with grave serious - that Homer would attempt to jump in Bart's place and fall horribly - becomes a reality, and it's played not as a grievous development but as a great (albeit unsettling) joke, so that Homer, unlike Icarus, doesn't even have the dignity of going down tragically. The harshest consequence to all his suffering is that there is no real consequence, beyond the intense physical punishment he endures in the moment. He is not king of the world, but a cartoon doofus, and he exists purely to provide entertainment to the legions of spectators on the other side of the fourth wall.

In the final scene, Homer ends up even with Murdock, the character with whom he's been indirectly competing all this time to be viewed as the example that Bart should follow. Both are now in the exact same position, laid out in traction and exposed as injudicious adults who got to where they were not through acts of glory but through stark demonstrations of their vincibility. Kids say such stupid things, and they do such stupid things, but the adults clearly aren't above those same imprudent impulses and have failed to steer the kids right in so many ways. Homer still insists that the kids are the problem, when he delivers the punchline to Murdock, proposing that child-rearing is a prospect more daunting and hazardous than any stunt a daredevil could envision. "You think you've got guts? Try raising my kids!" We might think that assessment is a mite unfair on Maggie, who didn't do anything to hurt or inconvenience Homer throughout the episode (Lisa, I suppose, did have him sit through her recital). But just give her time. By the very next episode, Homer will be back to normal, and she'll be poised to hit him with a mallet and put him out of commission all over again. So Homer has a point. As the centre of this madcap universe, his life is a cycle of unending punishment that a character of the day like Murdock could never know. In other words, more Sisyphus than Icarus. Icarus only had to endure his cosmic pummelling once.

 

[1]  I'm still not 100% sure if that's a reference to the Cold War ending or a more specific comment on the historical reputation of Grigori Rasputin. For years, I presumed the latter but then it dawned on me it was more likely the former. But either interpretation works!