The Otto Show (aka That's One Palindrome You Won't Be Hearing For A While)

I like to begin each year by devising a rough plan of the Simpsons episodes I intend to cover each month. Even if I don't stick to it all the way, I find it helpful to have some idea of what I'm working toward, and of which episodes might go well with certain points in the year. It's a list that I'm constantly rethinking and revising, and there will inevitably episodes I've had it in mind to review that end up being passed over. "The Otto Show" (8F21) was one that I had strongly considered cramming in near the end of 2025, to give it proximity to the new Spinal Tap movie, and it very nearly took the spot of "The Homer They Fall" - in the end, though, it just worked out better for me to have covered that episode right before I did "When Flanders Failed" (what with that whole discussion about the sincerity of their respective endings). I figured that "The Otto Show" could wait until January - with the result that there's now a huge air of melancholy hanging over this episode that there wouldn't have been back in November. That is of course down to the tragic death of Spinal Tap director Rob Reiner and his wife Michele Singer Reiner on December 14th. When I went to see Spinal Tap II: The End Continues in October, I wasn't preparing myself for the possibility that this would be Reiner's last film, and certainly not under such terrible circumstances. Given that This Is Spinal Tap (1984) was the first feature that Reiner helmed, there is something hauntingly poetic in the fact that his directorial career was bookended by Spinal Tap projects. The lads in Spinal Tap might be among the most enduring comic creations in cinema history, but for the foreseeable future revisiting them is going to come with this inherent sadness, because inevitably you'll be thinking about Reiner. It's a lot like how it's been watching scenes with Lionel Hutz and Troy McClure in the years after Phil Hartman's death - those performances still feel every bit as fresh and impeccable as they did back in the day, but they are also harrowing reminders of what was lost, and in the most horrific possible way. Reiner had no direct involvement in "The Otto Show", but the episode is nevertheless an extension of his legacy, the coming together of The Simpsons and Spinal Tap being one of those marvellous pop culture intersections that speaks to the richness of both worlds. It opens with England's so-called loudest band stopping by to perform a concert in Springfield, and while it does eventually spill over into a more generic tale about Otto the bus driver losing his job and having to move in with the Simpsons, it's the Spinal Tap reunion that makes the strongest impression.

Debuting on April 23rd 1992, "The Otto Show" was part of a spate of third season episodes centring on the private lives of the show's peripheral characters, following on from the likes of "Like Father, Like Clown", "Flaming Moe's" and "Bart The Lover". To that end, it is easily the least successful of the four, in that it doesn't convince us that Otto has much of a private life worth writing about. He definitely works better as a tertiary character, getting the odd moment here and there but generally taking a backseat to the narrative action. This is something that the production crew are entirely upfront about on the DVD commentary, acknowledging that they never attempted a second Otto show and pointing out how revealing it is that you barely see him for the first half of a story billed as being all about him. They joke about "The Otto Show" being an episode built upon shaky decisions, which they attribute to it being written so late in the season when everyone was running out of fucks given. Truth be told, I appreciate the experimentation. When you're working with a world as vibrant and alive with possibilities as Springfield, misfires such as this are are a necessary part of figuring out where your limitations lie. Besides, it's not always obvious from the outset which characters are going to thrive or shrivel in the spotlight. Common sense ought to have dictated that the aforementioned Troy McClure was a one-trick pony who couldn't possibly have supported his own story, and yet he ended up with one of the most fleshed-out and affecting of all the series' character studies. Otto's just never takes flight; the development of him losing his job and winding up homeless happens too far along in the episode for anything substantial to come of it and runs out of steam almost instantly, once we get into the rather pedestrian plot point about him living with the Simpsons. From there, the episode feels like it's going through the motions, with Otto making a nuisance of himself in the most predictable of ways, before we've accumulated enough time for our inevitable status quo reset. The result is an entirely watchable though largely disposable slice of Simpsons life, in which we don't learn a lot about Otto beyond what was already self-explanatory.

Otto's name might be in the title, but the Taps are unquestionably the headline act - in fact, you get the impression that the writers might have come up with the idea for the Spinal Tap gig first and that everything that followed was always an afterthought. This technically wasn't the first instance of a pre-existing fictional character being incorporated into the Simpsons' reality - Gulliver Dark, the lounge singer voiced by Sam McMurray in "Homer's Night Out", was a fellow alum from The Tracey Ullman Show (where McMurray portrayed him in live action skits), but whereas Dark's appearance had the feel of a fun little Easter egg, Spinal Tap's appearance definitely had an eye toward garnering hype. What has it seeming like a totally logical merging of worlds, rather than a hollow gimmick, is of course the Harry Shearer connection - it was a fitting opportunity for the series regular to reprise his role as bassist Derek Smalls, and to be joined by guest stars Christopher Guest and Michael McKean as his bandmates Nigel Tufnel and David St. Hubbins. As crossovers go, it certainly feels a lot less forced than the ones the series would later attempt with The Critic and The X-Files, in part because The Simpsons and Spinal Tap's respective humor styles are already on such a close wavelength, but also because it doesn't overplay its hand by having the band hang out with the family or anything - Tufnel, St. Hubbins and Smalls are incorporated in a way that feels like a plausible part of the show's broader world-building, rather than one in which the Simpsons themselves are automatically at the centre. None of which precludes the reality of there being a transparent ulterior motive in the form of cross promotion. Spinal Tap had released a new album, Break Like The Wind, only a month prior, and it's no coincidence that the song performed at the truncated Springfield concert is that album's title track, rather than one of the hits from their 1984 film. The Simpsons was, nonetheless, required to pay a hefty sum for the privileging of promoting "Break Like The Wind", with Fox complaining that for that cost they might as well have brought in a real band, so I don't doubt that this was something the series staff were really eager to see happen. You could make the argument (as Nathan Rabin does in his review on The AV Club) that there is something slightly suspect about having Bart be so enthused about the prospect of attending a Spinal Tap gig - after all, one of the major plot points of This Is Spinal Tap was the band's declining relevance in the contemporary music scene, with people widely regarding them as yesterday's news. But then I suppose that their performing in a burg as crummy as Springfield speaks volumes as to how far they've fallen in the world. Supplying promos for idiotic shock jocks Bill and Marty is somewhat of a degrading business, even if you are choosy about the material you'll recite.

The first act, when Spinal Tap are in town, is a lot of fun. Writer Jeff Martin has a really good handle on the little details that made This Is Spinal Tap so delightful. The concert is plagued by an assortment of technical snafus that are enjoyably reminiscent of the things that would go wrong for the band throughout their mockumentary. The lighting is off and misses Smalls as he makes his grand entrance, forcing him to discreetly readjust his position. A giant inflatable devil that reportedly looked very impressive when it hadn't expelled half of its air is lowered onto stage, something the band handles with more aplomb than the comparable fiasco with the Stonehenge prop in the movie proper. It ends in a way that feels more befitting of the culture in Springfield, with a full-scale riot, prompting Kent Brockman to weigh in with perhaps his wittiest editorial: "Of course, it would be wrong to suggest that this sort of mayhem began with rock and roll. After all, there were riots at the premiere of Mozart's The Magic Flute. So what's the answer? Ban all music? In this reporter's opinion the answer sadly is yes." (Is that actually true about The Magic Flute? Historically, classical music audiences haven't been the best-behaved bunch - there were riots at the premiere of Igor Stravinsky's The Rite of Spring - so Brockman's basic point stands, but I can't find any reference to The Magic Flute specifically.) Ultimately the chaos of Springfield puts the band themselves in the shade. The movie's most morbid joke - the running gag about the long line of ill-fated drummers that have worked with Spinal Tap - is not evoked, but the episode turns out to have far more cut-throat aspirations in mind. In an epilogue to the disastrous concert it's implied that the entire band might have been killed, when Otto runs their tour bus off the road, causing it to crash and burst into flames - although I note that Skinner does later say, "It's a miracle no one was hurt", so maybe they all survived unscathed, the drummer included. I mean, being driven off the road by a speeding school bus almost sounds too mundane a way for a Spinal Tap drummer to go (a bus driven by a dog, maybe).

The most fabulous moment in the concert's downfall is of course when Homer is waiting for Bart outside the stadium while singing along to "Spanish Flea" on his car radio, so engrossed in his private karaoke session that he doesn't even notice the bloodshed unfolding behind him. It's a sequence that treads such a fine line between Homer's innocence and his negligence. Acquiring the rights to use "Spanish Flea" was even more of an uphill battle than getting "Break Like The Wind", so much so that the sequence was very nearly jettisoned, but prevailed in the end thanks to a) Dan Castellaneta's exquisite performance, which charmed everyone at the table read and b) Jay Kogan having a personal connection that enabled him to pull strings with somebody involved with Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass.

Otto is glimpsed early on, in attendance at the Spinal Tap concert alongside Snake (Snake having been introduced as a friend of Otto's in "The War of The Simpsons", although that connection was basically dropped from here on in). In fact, he and Snake are the characters who incite the riot, but we do have to get through a whole other plot development before we eventually circle back to our nominal star. The ever-impressionable Bart, unfazed by his brush with the uglier side of rock and roll, gets it into his head that he too could be a heavy metal musician. At this point the episode looks as if it might be going a similar route to "Bart The Daredevil", the key difference being that Marge and Homer are only too happy to nurture this particular aspiration by investing in a guitar. Bart discovers that, compared to leaping over vehicles on his skateboard, strumming does not come quite so easily to him and is quickly discouraged. This eventually leads to him showing the guitar to Otto, insisting that it's broken, and Otto dazzling his young passengers by playing it like a boss. Otto gets so carried away with his performance that he loses track of the time, causing him to make a dash for the school at breakneck speed, driving Spinal Tap off the road, disrupting the annual police picnic and finally crashing the bus. Skinner uncovers the scandalous truth, that Otto has no driving license, and suspends him without pay, reasoning that since he drove an all-terrain vehicle in Vietnam, he can shoulder the bus driving duties in his absence. Shorn of his status and source of income, Otto rapidly hits rock bottom, failing to pass a driving test and facing eviction from his apartment, until Bart finds him sheltering in a dumpster and invites him to bed down in his family's garage. In the meantime, the entire narrative thread about Bart wanting to become a rock musician is simply left to fizzle. I will give the episode this - it at least fizzles out in a way that feels realistic in terms of a child's expectations, with Bart admitting to Homer that he gave up the guitar because he wasn't good at it right away. Obviously, playing the guitar isn't the kind of thing that you should expect to be good at right away, but when you're a kid you often don't have the patience to see these things in the longer term, and not getting that instant gratification can be enough to severely dampen your interest. We immediately trade in realism for a window into Homer's well-intentioned but totally warped parenting, when in lieu of impressing the responsible teaching about the value of hard graft and perseverance, he praises Bart for having reached one of life's great epiphanies, namely that if something is hard to do, it's not worth doing. Why waste time with demanding interests like guitars, karate lessons (nice nod to the subplot of "When Flanders Failed" there) and unicycles when you can partake in the totally passive alternative of reclining in front of the chattering cyclops, irrespective of what's on? What's on was never the point.

Fair play to Martin's script for tying such an upfront bow on its own listlessness, although I suspect that a narrative where Bart got to do something with his guitar-playing aspirations before inevitably packing it in would have been a notch more interesting than the one we get with Otto. Having him move in with the Simpsons feels, as I say, like somewhat of a stock development, one we'd be seeing a lot more of throughout the course of the series, where stories about down and out characters seeking refuge under the Simpsons' roof have happened with more frequency than you might first think - heck, this wasn't even the only example from the back-end of Season 3, with Herb Powell showing up on the family's doorstep just two episodes along in "Brother, Can You Spare Two Dimes?". Elsewhere, we had Krusty move in during the events of "Krusty Gets Kancelled", Apu in "Homer and Apu", Lampwick in "The Day The Violence Died", Cooder and Spud in "Bart Carny", and I think that Artie Ziff might even have lived with them at one point. Some of these scenarios have the ring of plausibility more than others. I certainly find the prospect of the Simpsons accommodating Herb a lot more believable than I do Otto - Herb's family, and he had a grievance the Simpsons were anxious to atone for, whereas Otto isn't even someone they know particularly well outside of his profession as a school bus driver. Wanting to help him is one thing, but I'm not sure that I buy Homer and Marge allowing him to stay with them indefinitely, even with Marge justifying it as an act of Christian charity (Marge: "Doesn't the Bible say, whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto me?" Homer: "Yeah, but doesn't the Bible also say thou shalt not take...moochers into thy...hut?"). Arguably, it's an example of a problem that episodes looking to focus on the supporting characters tend to run into, in that their hands are often tied by the obligation to keep the Simpsons at the centre of events, even in situations that shouldn't be logically their business. One of the reasons why the Troy McClure episode worked as well as it did is because it didn't try to shoehorn the Simpsons in any more than was necessary (being a Selma-centric installment, it perhaps wasn't perceived as so disconnected from the main family). But then it's not as though there were a wealth of possibilities for where Otto's arc might otherwise have gone; the staff are clear in the commentary that they didn't have the same passion for crafting an episode around him as they did one involving Spinal Tap and Homer's rendition of "Spanish Flea". What else could Otto have done if he didn't have the Simpsons to turn to? Move in with Snake? 

Otto is in some ways comparable to Moe, in that both are bereft of basic dignity and nearing the bottommost rungs of Springfield's social ladder - Otto, though, doesn't share Moe's bitter misanthropy or his desperation for acceptance, being so laid-back and oblivious that his lowliness barely registers. He has the air of a perpetual teenager in the body of a grown man, with little impetus for joining the adult world. I'd say he was a take on the Gen-X slacker archetype that was being sent up a lot at the time, except that Otto's year of birth is given in this episode as 1963, so he is technically a Boomer (albeit almost as young as a Boomer can possibly be). For the most part, Otto even seems happy with his lot in life, so he doesn't invite quite the same opportunities for pathos as Moe. "The Otto Show" only allows him to reveal one hidden depth and, unfortunately, it's a variation on the one Krusty just did - his father, a naval commander, disapproved of the lifestyle he chose and now wants nothing to do with him. This is brought up at two separate intervals to give context for Otto's predicament, but isn't developed in any way as a plot point (presumably because it would be too reminiscent of "Like Father, Like Clown"). At most, when Otto takes a disliking to Homer during the episode's climax, it's possible to project a subtext about Otto using his friction with the Simpson patriarch to gain catharsis for his own daddy issues, but this isn't explicitly stated. Another possible avenue might have been to have centred on Bart's relationship with Otto, something that was explored more insightfully in their brief interaction in "Bart Gets an F", when Bart confides in Otto his fear about the possibility of being held back a grade. Bart finds it easier to relate to Otto than to most adults because he behaves less like an authority figure and more like an overgrown school kid, but given his blank-eyed reaction to Otto's response - that being held back isn't a big deal, because it happened to him twice, and now he drives the school bus - it seems that Bart has, in that moment, seen through him. There is a clear discrepancy between the message Otto thinks he's conveying and the one Bart is receiving; Otto sees himself as someone who mastered his situation and ascended to the top of the elementary school ladder, whereas Bart sees him as someone who never transcended the cycle and is now permanently stuck in the mentality of a fourth-grader. Bart respects Otto for the subversive mayhem he brings to the otherwise monotonous school routine, but deep down inside recognises that he isn't looking to emulate him; even at this point in life, he senses that he has greater ambition than Otto. Here, Bart gives Otto encouragement by assuring him he's the coolest adult he knows, with no such complexity.

Otto's cohabiting with the Simpsons, however questionable, doesn't come without its share of laughs. I like the scene where he terrifies Lisa with his overly intense retelling of the urban legend about the killer in the backseat, and his request for reading material "from the vampire's point of view" (er, you mean like Anne Rice?). The most interesting thing to arise is Homer insisting that, "This is not Happy Days, and [Otto] is not the Fonz", only for Otto to walk in and casually address him as "Mr S". I'm not massively well-versed in Happy Days lore, but as I understand it that's a reference to Fonzie's practice of addressing his host Howard Cunningham as "Mr C". What's curious about this moment, with hindsight, is how it foreshadows the appearance of Roy, the radical young man who was inexplicably living with the Simpsons in the Season 8 episode "The Itchy & Scratchy & Poochie Show", and who also referred to Homer as "Mr S". We sense, fleetingly, that there is some intention to playfully mock the sitcom tendency toward contrived co-living situations in which contrasting characters get on one another's nerves, with Otto's addition suggesting a certain hackneying of dynamics in the Simpsons household. Overall, though, "The Otto Show" ends up not quite being the sum of its parts. Perhaps befitting for a program about Otto, it feels hampered by a fundamental lack of ambition. There is a clear enough narrative vision in the sense that everything flows fluidly from one point to the next, but it is largely a matter of "this happened...and then this happened...soon followed by this". What it doesn't do is to stop to unpick a great many of the possible characterisations lurking beneath each of these story decisions, to the extent that the episode never quite settles on what it's even about until literally the closing few seconds. It isn't about Bart's fleeting ambition to become a rock star, or his relationship with Otto. It isn't about Otto's relationship with his estranged father, his conflict with Homer or even his desire to salvage his barely existent self-esteem. What it is about, in the end, is Skinner's perception of Otto. Skinner has only a minor role in "The Otto Show", but he is very much where the heart of the story lies. It's thanks to Skinner that everything does eventually come together in the end.

In many ways Skinner can be seen as the antithesis of Otto. If Otto is an unusually cool adult, then Skinner is the absolute epitome of how Bart perceives the adult world, being an uptight, no-nonsense stickler for model behaviour, overly occupied with tedious duties and with little room for fun in his life (ironically, Skinner is even more of an overgrown schoolboy than Otto). It's no surprise that he would feel disdain for Otto, a grown man so disorganised and devoid of pride that he can't even show up to work wearing his own underwear. After suspending Otto, Skinner initially seems to vibe well with his stopgap transportation responsibilities, as the children welcome him with a collective rendition of "Hail To The Bus Driver", a spirited song sung to the tune of "O du lieber Augustin". Skinner, though, has a harder time navigating the route than Otto, not being assertive enough with his fellow motorist and becoming frustrated with the lack of consideration he receives in return. He struggles to make a turning because nobody will let him in and ends up a complete nervous wreck. By the end of the episode, when Otto has been restored to his position and the children are celebrating his return with a reprise of "Hail To The Bus Driver", it's Skinner who gets in the final word, watching from his office as Otto drives off into the distance, and reciting the lyrics of the song with a thoroughgoing reverence. Having had a first-hand taste of how difficult Otto's job is, he's come to see the value in what Otto does and is thankful to have him. That's why I consider Skinner to be the heart of this episode - he's the only character who undergoes any real growth as a result of his experiences in "The Otto Show". Bart misses the opportunity to develop a new skill and is potentially set back further by Homer's false pearl of wisdom. We're given no indication that Homer's opinion on Otto ever softens. As for Otto, while he eventually summons the resolve to retake his driving test and regains his job, he doesn't do so because he made any improvements as a bus driver, but because of who had chosen to like him on a given day. Although Patty was thoroughly unimpressed by Otto on his initial visit to the DMV, on his second visit he and Patty build a rapport over their shared dislike of Homer, and she's willing to overlook his many failings. (Incidentally, I don't know how people feel nowadays about that part where he offends Patty straight out the gate by asking if she's a transwoman - it's hard to dispute that a joke is being made about Patty's perceived lack of feminity, but there's an extent to which it feels also partly at Otto's expense for his presumptions of good allyship: "You can tell me, I'm open-minded".)

What makes Skinner's final expression of admiration for Otto particularly resonant is that he, perhaps more so than Homer, serves as a proxy for Otto's unseen father - he's also from a military background, and he's the one who banishes Otto in disgrace from familiar turf. It means that he is, at least on a subliminal level, able to bring some resolution to this otherwise untouched on narrative detail. Unlike Krusty, Otto doesn't go into depth about his father, so we don't learn the full story of what caused their relationship breakdown, but we're left to presume that it was likely influenced by their differences in values. There is a telling moment where Otto, boasting to the busload of kids about how playing the guitar was all he did back in high school, lets it slip that his father told him he was wasting his time and would never amount to anything, followed by a pause and a dissatisfied murmur. Otto has, for a second, inadvertently cut through his own obliviousness and is left contemplating if maybe his old man was onto something after all. Unlike Bart, he had the dedication to master the guitar, but otherwise lacked the gumption or discipline to make anything of himself, at least according to his father's standards, and deep down Otto is perhaps no more immune to life's disappointments than anybody else. It's no surprise that he'd want to savour the opportunity to show off his guitar skills before the kids on board the bus, and to soak up that meagre drop of personal glory. But really, in spite of Otto's momentary insecurities, there is intrinsic worth in what he does, which is to be a dependable source of conviviality for the community's children whilst taking them to and from their education. And Skinner, in lieu of Otto's father, is able to extend him the respect that he's due, now that he understands that it's not a role that just anyone can fulfil. There might not be a ton of prestige attached, but he's clearly appreciated by the people for whom it matters the most. Maybe there's not such a massive gulf between the stadium's applause for Spinal Tap and the enthusiastic response Otto receives when he returns to his young charges at the end. 

There's not much left to say, other than to dedicate this review to the memory of Rob and Michele Reiner. As much as I love Spinal Tap, my favourite Reiner film is actually When Harry Met Sally. Word has it that we got the version we did because Rob and Michele happened to fall in love during its production. What a beautiful legacy for them both.

Safeway: Little Harry Goes Shopping

Shopping at Safeway is an undertaking I never got round to in this lifetime. Growing up, they were this inoffensive brand that was always there somewhere in the backdrop, but I don't think I ever so much as set foot in one of their stores (same deal with Somerfield). My parents were long-term Sainsbury's devotees, and by the time I was old enough to manage my own food acquisition they were already disappearing, in the process of being swallowed up by Morrisons (an unfortunate fate, since Morrisons is the UK supermarket chain I'm dead-set on avoiding). The Safeway experience is one that I'll forever have to partake in vicariously, through the televised adventures of Little Harry and chums, the array of highly articulate tots who promoted the chain through the mid to latter half of the 1990s. What better way to establish your chain as a warm and family-friendly place to hang than to show small children having the time of their lives while on their weekly shop with their parents? Meanwhile, the accompanying tagline, "Lightening The Load", asked that we equate not just convenience and efficiency, but also wholesome good fun with the brand.

The child star who originally fronted this campaign was known as Little Harry. He was played by a boy named Jack Hanford, who was reportedly chosen from more than 1500 prospective young actors, although his innermost thoughts were delivered in the droll tones of Martin Clunes, best known for playing Gary in the contemporary sitcom Men Behaving Badly. The campaign owed an obvious debt to the then-recent Look Who's Talking films, which used a similar gimmick in pairing grown-up voiceovers with footage of ankle-biters. Harry would experience the various perks of shopping at Safeway with the fascination and naivety of a young child, but expressed through the sardonic musings of an adult, an approach that allowed for an easygoing mix of endearment and absurdism. The idea was to emphasise that Safeway was a particularly ideal choice for shoppers with little kids in tow, but even if you didn't fall into that demographic, you could perhaps still see a bit of yourself in Harry's wry observations. No matter what your age, your weekly excursion around your supermarket of choice was such a major part of your routine that there was something infinitely relatable and charming about following a single family and how their lives revolved around the contents of their grocery bags. Somerfield had a similar premise going (under the banner of "Shopping In The Real World"), but in their case the ads centred on an adult woman played by Suzanne Forster, and her slightly drippy husband with the tendency to misinterpret shopping lists ("I meant mincemeat for mince pies!"). 

In 1996 Harry was joined by a new co-star in the form of Molly, who was played by Rosie Purkiss-McEndoo and voiced by actress Lesley Sharpe, and was initially introduced as a romantic interest for Harry. Molly's encounter with Harry was treated by Safeway as a major event (it even came with its own line of tie-in merchandising), although it attracted its share of controversy at the time, from those who felt uneasy about the amorous overtones given to the tykes' interactions. Still, the outcome was ultimately not a pre-school recreation of the Gold Blend couple, with Safeway likely having broader motivations for adding new blood to the cast than to sell a few themed tea towels. The disadvantage in using children as the long-term faces of brands is that they'll grow up significantly within the space of a few years, so unless you're willing to build that into your campaign narrative, you might have to accept that they'll only have a limited shelf-life. I would hazard a guess that this is why Harry was all but phased out in later stages of the campaign, with ads shifting their focus toward Molly and her Paul Whitehouse-voiced brother, as well as a few additional "guest" faces, including a Northern Irish kid voiced by Frank Carson, an American girl voiced by Ruby Wax and a Scouser voiced by Cilla Black, although Harry did eventually return for a 1999 installment set at a millennium party. It served as a neat send-off for the campaign as a whole, as going into the Y2K Safeway made the decision to move away from television marketing altogether, and didn't have much longer to go as a brand. But of course the memories live on in our VHS recordings.

The first of the ads, from late 1994, saw Harry making his introductory visit to Safeway. He'd dared hope that his mother (Michèle Winstanley) was taking him to Toys R Us (the shopping locale where every child wanted to be be in the 1990s) and was initially disappointed to discover that they were headed for a supermarket, but was swiftly won over by the ease of the Parent & Child parking, and by the opportunities to comment on his fellow patrons from the vantage point of a trolley seat (including two sisters in a trolley with handy double seating). He was less sure about the bag-packing and carry-out service, since he could only interpret the helpful clerk as a stranger tampering with their goods before following them out of the building - the underlying narrative being that Harry was not accustomed to seeing such convenience from wherever he and his mother had shopped previously, so it was all new and alarming to him. (The ads often included shots of the Safeway employees smiling at the children, thus emphasising the genial service you could expect to receive within, although in this guy's case he cracks a curiously half-hearted smile, causing him to come off as being just as wary of Harry; not sure what the intended narrative is there.) Safeway's infinite friendliness to the young family crowd came to our hero's aid, when he and his mother were able to "hide" from the perceived stalker in a baby changing room (presumably helping his mother to deal with an entirely different kind of predicament), with the subsequent dissolve into the Safeway logo imparting the implicit message that parents would do well to view Safeway as a refuge from less accommodating venues. The ad went out of its way to cram in as many perks as possible - the option of gifting your loved ones with a Safeway voucher was not explicitly cited by the narrator, but was cunningly slipped into the mise-en-scene, when Harry and his mother walk past a poster promoting this very service.

Clunes' voiceovers naturally did a lot of the heavy-lifting humor-wise (slickly matched with Hanford's expressions), but for me the real high point of this ad is a moment where Harry has no words, and is instead having a grand time pretending to wield a sword - amid all the witticisms, it is heartening to see glimpses of the kid just being a kid.

The World's Most Horrifying Advertising Animals #54: Gold Label Retrieval Squad

Paranoia over light-fingered pub patrons was the basis for this early 1980s campaign for Gold Label brand lager, which proposed several creative means of combatting the perceived problem with help from various formidable members of the animal kingdom. Each installment opened with a hand extending toward a (seemingly) unguarded pint of the coveted liquid, prompting the indignant cry of "Oi! You're nicking my beer!", and triggering some kind of mechanism in which a dormant beast is awakened and, as implied by the campaign tagline ("A man and his Gold Label lager are seldom parted"), prompted to retrieve the stolen beer, and maybe a limb in the process. Being miniature man vs nature narratives, they did the routine thing and had the wrathful critter's entrance be accompanied by John Williams' theme from the 1975 film Jaws - even a slim seven years removed from the Spielberg shark film, I suspect this was already starting to feel like a hackneyed device, although it suits the tongue-in-cheek tone of the campaign, which struck a deft balance between skin-crawling tension and knowing absurdity. They were playful exercises in drawn-out suspense, milking each bizarre set-up for all its gleeful worth and leaving the actual moment of reckoning to our imaginations; the ads understood that the real joy came from the countdown to carnage, and in watching that omnipresent sense of menace assume the form of something tangible and deadly.  The subtext was, of course, that the nightmares of nature of display were all fiendish metaphors for the Gold Label drinker's own bestial urges to protect the contents of his pint glass. The lager was so enticing that wayward hands would brazenly scavenge whatever morsels were up for grabs, forcing the rightful owner to unleash their grisliest tactics in order to stay on top. It's a jungle out there, with the Gold Label patron emerging as the meanest, most ferocious beast of them all, because the stakes for them were always highest.

The campaign consisted of four ads in total: 

• Alfred Hitchcock Presents: This one is very consciously looking to evoke Alfred Hitchcock's seminal natural horror The Birds (1963). Stealing the booze causes a caged mynah bird to sound an alarm call, summoning a murder of voracious crows that bore their way through a wooden door with the presumed intention of pecking out an eyeball or two within. As a set-piece, it's by far the most intricate of the series, and also the most unrelentingly spooky, since the implication is that by fucking with a man's beer, you've fucked with a force of nature, as opposed to a single specimen deployed to guard it. This uncanny alliance doesn't merely extend to the avians either. The faux horror atmosphere is lovingly set in motion with the swaying of those slender tree branches in the backdrop, signifying the brewing disturbance before the thief's hand is even in sight (eerily, the shape of the branches appears to mirror the hand's grasping movements), and providing a ready platform on which the rabble of ill-disposed bird silhouettes can duly materialise. It is as if the entirety of the natural world is in on the vigilance, the violation of Gold Label ownership an act so intrinsically egregious that it will bring the combined retribution of every living thing upon your head.
• Trapdoor Spider: Technically I think the featured arachnid is a tarantula and not a trapdoor spider, but the visual pun is nevertheless implicit. Lifting the glass causes a hidden door to spring open, from which our eight-legged menace is unleashed. From a narrative standpoint I'd consider this to be the least interesting of the bunch - there's not a whole lot going on besides a big hairy spider inching with painstaking stealth across the screen - though I enjoy the unsettling way in which the spider's legs resemble grasping fingers, again recalling the beer thief's own tricky digits and manifesting as a malevolent counterforce to their rapaciousness.
• Twisted Tale: A simple, somewhat crude but ultimately effective visual gimmick in which the beer is lifted from a silhouetted enclosure that is subsequently shown to be the coils of a hulking great python. Against all odds, this emerges as my personal favourite of the four - narratively, it's no less straightforward than that aforementioned spider ad, but the punch it packs feels a whole lot juicier. The way the python's silhouetted body initially stirs and wavers is, admittedly, not very snake-like, making it plain that the lower coil is really a prop; nonetheless, the payoff that the scenery is alive and poised to transform into a threat is all shades of delectable eerie. As a pint defender, we could knock points off the snake for the slowness of its technique - all of these animals take their sweet time in going for the kill (as is the campaign's big appeal), but in the snake's case it allowed the thief to lower his hand into its coils without chomping him then and there, which arguably comes off as a bit slack. Still, we wouldn't doubt from the ultra-intent pose it strikes at the end that it means business.
• Here Kitty: The most purely humorous of the lot. The glass is attached to a blue cord that slowly tightens when pulled; we follow the path of this cord, watching it twist around various items, before discovering that the other end is hooked up to the neck of a tiger. The sequence fades out just as the cat is roused into action with a gleaming flash of its razor-sharp fangs. Implied bloodshed that could have been avoided had the thief been perceptive enough to remove that entirely conspicuous blue cord. All four ads are self-evidently silly, but this one is revelling the most in the ludicrousness of its premise, and you have to love that about it.

 

Each ad ends with a teasing tailpiece, where the beer thief's hand is again seen reaching for the pint, but on this occasion a simple "Oi!" from its unseen owner is enough to dissuade them from the theft (except for the bird ad, where they're also deterred by the added detail of a crow perched beside the beer pint taking a swipe at them) and a second confrontation is swiftly averted. Ideally, messing with a pint of Gold Label is not a mistake you should make twice in a row. That's just good survival sense.

The Mourning After (Brought To You By Seagram)

At first glance "The Mourning After" seems entirely self-explanatory. The onscreen title makes it obvious that this is a piece on the subject of bereavement; that it did the rounds in UK ad breaks and cinema reels during the Christmas and New Year period (initially in 1982-83, although it was rerun elsewhere in the decade) means that we can already connect the dots as to the probable cause of the loss in question. Still, our assumption that we're watching a public information film on the perils of drink driving transpires to be only half-correct. The first drop of discrepancy comes when the text informs us that "Seagram sell more wines and spirits than anyone else in the world", followed by "Naturally, we like you to take a drink". This is immediately tempered by the disclaimer, "But always in moderation. And never when driving", but it is hard not to be thrown by that slight air of incongruity - an ad selling us on the virtues of a product whilst confronting us with a grim reminder of the potential consequences if we are not judicious consumers. It's an oddity, to say the least.

"The Mourning After" is what could be termed a pseudo-PIF. It does the work of a public information film, but it's really a bog standard advert and as such is looking to double as promotion for a brand. There is certainly an element of the (now defunct) Canadian drinks company looking to have their cake and eat it - amid the sombre display, they cannot help but brag about their stature in the world of alcoholic beverages, and to work in the implicit suggestion that Seagram's wines and spirits are very good when partaken under the appropriate circumstances. But in spite of these ostensibly contradictory intentions, "The Mourning After" still packs quite a heavy punch as a drink driving film, no less so than many actual PIFs on the matter. There is something hauntingly lyrical in its approach, which feels markedly different to that of the more infamous "Drinking and Driving Wrecks Lives" PIFs that would begin their run toward the end of the decade. Whereas D&DWL focussed on the voices of those impacted by drive drinking incidents, "Mourning" contains no spoken dialogue, allowing an instrumental piano piece (a track from the KPM library, "Recollections" by Dennis Farnon) to convey the mood, while lingering on a series of static black and white images with deliberately minimal human presence. It is effectively a statement on drink driving delivered via a tone poem. Pun-tastic title aside, there is very little onscreen grieving - an early shot of the bereaved gazing longingly at the unoccupied pillow beside her (with a worn-out tissue at hand) and a subsequent still giving a face to the deceased, via a framed photograph, supply us with enough information to fill in all of the crucial narrative blanks, but what we're shown is largely a series of empty spaces, the remnants of a life vacated and abandoned. Clothes hung within a closet, no longer worn, a vacant spot in a garage that presumably once housed two vehicles, an unfilled chair beside a pair of unfilled slippers. The personality of the deceased is communicated through the array of personal items he leaves behind - we can deduce that he was a keen outdoorsman, as implied by the stack of books on fly fishing and the pair of binoculars glimpsed on the bedroom shelf. Meanwhile, the assortment of artefacts scattered around his photograph (car keys, rings, wristwatch, pocket journal) appear to have been arranged as a monument to the life he led, being the items he kept closest to him at all times, while forebodingly indicating the accidental nature of his death (since these were in likelihood the items found about his person in the aftermath).

Compared to D&DWL, the emphasis is not explicitly on the life attempting to function in the aftermath of the tragedy, although the loneliness of the grieving spouse is omnipresent within the subtext of the images - the two chairs at the breakfast table, only one of which has crockery set before it, and the solitary car in the garage. We are all throughout seeing snapshots of her corrupted world, of the rawness of waking up into a home where her husband should be, but isn't, and yet still feels so tauntingly near through these innumerable tokens of his existence. The colourlessness of the images suggest an emotional austerity, while their stillness suggests inertia. We might be put in mind of the D&DWL film "Jenny", which illustrated how both the comatose Jenny and her quietly devastated mother were prisoners of a mutual entrapment, for "Mourning" conveys a similar sense of two intertwined lives that have been brought to a standstill - the husband whose life has literally been reduced to an assortment of inanimate artefacts and the spouse who has become a part of this deserted landscape, its crushing emptiness now her lived reality. The tragedy only deepens as we venture beyond the house and encounter a pair of wellington boots that presumably belonged to the deceased, and beside them a much smaller pair, the advert's sole indication that there may be a bereaved child in this equation. Given that the smaller boots are also shown unoccupied, there are multiple ways of interpreting this particular image - as a glimpse the spouse's interior world, it could be a symbol for the child they will never have. Alternatively, it could point to a child in the present who can no longer follow in their father's footsteps (both literally and figuratively) now that his role as a mentor and protective figure has been voided. In either case, the invisible child stands for the cancelled future. I note with some curiosity that this is also the still with which the text "Naturally, we like you take a drink" is juxtaposed, perhaps implanting the subliminal message that Seagram can be seen as a nurturing entity to the consumer, offering them pleasurable watering but also protective guidance on where to draw the line.

As we journey deeper into the grounds surrounding the house, we happen across a lawnmower left out upon the grass, possibly indicating some unfinished business on the part of the deceased, although it may have a more disquieting significance still. Our final image is of a tennis court, with leaves scattered across one half, as a ladder seen to the left of the court points to a trimming job that our deceased protagonist was unable to complete before his accident. It is here that the fateful text "And never when driving" appears onscreen. Something that "Mourning" obviously lacks is imagery overtly tying the featured grief to a drink driving accident - in lieu of this, the debris upon the tennis court appears to substitute for the wreckage of the crash, with the unsecured gate in the foreground suggesting an inattentiveness to safety. It is a poignantly understated means of illustrating what went wrong. That only one side of the court should be covered in leaves is yet another emblem of that broken union between the deceased and bereaved, this site of vibrant play now off-limits to them both. There is a solemn irony in the insinuation that the garden, traditionally a place of regrowth and rebirth, should serve as our final symbol of stifling devastation. The deserted lawnmower and scattered leaves are indicators of a battle against a metaphorical wilderness that has already been lost, the disordered garden signifying the dangers that lay outside the safety of home in the allure of those alcoholic beverages (whether Seagram brand or otherwise) and their potential for calamity when combined with driving. At the same time, we sense that this is only the beginning, and that the garden is about to fall into a even deeper state of disrepair. The lawn will get evermore overgrown and the volume of leaves on the tennis court will merely increase, as this erstwhile paradise becomes all the more lost and buried in the passage of time.

"The Mourning After" is an oddity, sure, but a supremely affecting and intriguing one. It was acclaimed at the time of its debut, picking up a British Arrow Award in 1983, and while it since seems to have fallen into obscurity, I reckon it deserves to be remembered and celebrated. As its legacy, Farnon's "Recollections" will forever be a track that tears hard on my heartstrings.

Note: At least two versions of the ad exist, the only difference being Seagram's parting words at the end. In one they wish us a safe Christmas. In the other, a safe New Year. Presumably they were swapped out according to whichever occasion for intoxicated revelry was next on the horizon.