Logo Case Study: Pixar's Luxo Lamp

2026 marks the fortieth anniversary of Pixar's founding (when the Graphics Group, a special effects team that made up part of Lucasfilm's Computer Division, was acquired by Steve Jobs and established as an independent company), so what better time to pay tribute to the plucky little desk lamp who's been attached to their output for as long as they've been making feature films?

I can remember a time when the existence of Luxo Jr. was a secret, an intriguing little Easter egg you'd be rewarded with should you make it all the way through the closing credits on the VHS release of Toy Story. Nowadays, we're fully accustomed to the lamp popping in at the start of each Pixar release as well as after, but that wasn't the case with their premier feature. Although Toy Story was heavily touted in its marketing as the first completely computer-animated feature film, Pixar themselves had essentially no brand recognition among the general public in the mid-1990s, and there does seem to have been a mindset that it should be packaged foremost as a Disney film - as something bold, new and exciting, but under the warmth and familiarity of the Disney banner. On the original print of Toy Story, the Disney logo had the opening all to itself, while the Pixar logo was tucked away discreetly at the tail-end of the picture. And quite frankly, that's where little Luxo thrived. For me, the hopping lamp was poetic, a perfectly quirky manifestation of the fact that we were venturing a little far beyond our comfort zone and were getting dangerously close to the spooky oblivion that awaited at the end of every VHS tape. He came bounding into view, eager to play with the I in the text that spelled out the company's name, only for these larks to be cut short by the I's inability to withstand his rambunctious thumping atop it, before some unseen power turned the lights out on him. Luxo Jr., now substituting for the ravaged I, would direct his bulb toward the camera (his eye, for all intents and purposes, so a possible visual pun), emitting a final warm glow into the abyss, before that too was extinguished with a genial click. At the time, Disney were in the business of inserting extra previews at the end of their tapes, so we still had a couple of items to get through before we would also be plunged into total blackness (in this case, a promo for the few blessed Disney releases that got to live permanently outside of the vault, and an ad for an interactive Toy Story CD Rom that supposed that Woody and Buzz might emerge from your PC screen as soon as you left the room), but the refuge and excitement of the main feature was now behind us. I can think of few closing logos that quite so slickly captured that feeling of "Show's over, eject" as the frisky desk lamp that saw out Toy Story.

Of course, as Pixar's stature in the entertainment industry grew there was no reason to keep Luxo confined to the pictures' sign-offs, and he became a familiar, reassuring sight in their introductions as well (including updated prints of the first Toy Story). For the most part, the sequence works as aptly as an opener, with the enthusiasm the lamp exhibits at the prospect of getting to tamper with the Pixar lettering mirroring the audience's anticipation for whatever experience the studio is about to serve up next. All the same, an important distinction was maintained between the opening and closing versions of the logo, indicating that the powers that be were entirely aware of the special power the lamp's antics had exuded at the end of their original feature. In the standard opening version of the logo, the sequence simply fades to black as Luxo's gaze turns directly toward the cinema. The intense glow in the darkness and the concluding click happen only in the end version, preserving their association with that sense of finality. I will admit to being a total purist when it comes to the latter version of the logo, meaning that I strongly disapprove of any variant in which music from the end-credits continues to play as little Luxo makes his entrance. I don't mind one iota when the reverse occurs, and the opening version of the logo is overlaid with the score from the film's beginnings, but as I see it, the sound design is too quintessential a part of the closing experience to jettison. It wasn't just the click and the total immersion in darkness that signalled that we'd reached the end of this particular journey. Every last thud and squishing sound that accompanied Luxo's movements, in addition to making the logo feel all the more alive, also emphasised the loneliness of the space around him, like he was hopping around a deserted venue after everyone else at Pixar had packed up and gone home for the evening. The narrative I always projected onto the sequence was that Luxo was looking to eke a scrap of added enjoyment from the experience, not wanting the thrill of the feature we'd just watched be over, but his efforts were brought to an abrupt halt once he'd obliterated the I, at which point he was left shut inside the Pixar studio as the last of the employees switched off the lights. Which perhaps sounds a little bleak, but I was fairly confident that the last click was voluntary, and that Luxo was embracing in the darkness, signifying the completion of this particular Pixar project, and the promise of the next one to come. The lamp wasn't deserted, merely dormant.

I know that there are a number of folks out there who report finding Luxo Jr. unnerving in their school-aged years, on account of that fourth wall-breaking moment where he surveys you with his glowing, inhuman "eye", but in the main I think his impact on viewers was overwhelmingly disarming. I was utterly fascinated by the character - never mind toys, there was something innately beautiful in the suggestion that desk lamps could be brought to life and exhibit playful personalities. It all made sense, for you could look at a desk lamp and pick out the outline of a creature, with a head, elongated neck and foot, and Pixar were really able to make the most of that, imbuing their subject with a convincing heart and motion without the need to implement additional anthropomorphic features. It's all in the movements and the gestures - the eager spontaneity as he races into the picture and the lettering appears to catch his attention, the frantic confusion as he attempts to pinpoint the flattened I, and the stunned abashment with which his displacement of the unfortunate letter sinks in. Meanwhile, the various little creaks and clangs emitted by Luxo's metallic form are assertions of his fundamental otherness; in working within the limitations of something as inanimate and inhuman as a lamp, Pixar managed to give him a vitality and expressiveness that is uniquely his own. The patch of light that accompanies Luxo and is carefully matched to his every movement (a demonstration of Pixar's capacity to have light and shadow interact with their computer-generated landscapes) is another invaluable touch. 

At the time, I was vaguely aware that the character had originated from a short film, Luxo Jr. (John Lassester, 1986), thanks to a documentary I'd seen close to the UK release of Toy Story in the spring of 1996. I'm pretty sure Luxo Jr. came up somewhere in that, although my main interest in said documentary had been in getting glimpses of the upcoming feature and a lot of the background information went over my head (still, I've distinct memories of gasping when they played the test footage Lasseter had prepared for a proposed adaptation of Where The Wild Things Are, and being properly gutted when they subsequently indicated that the project had been canned). Like many people, I didn't see the short in its entirety until it did the theatrical rounds, attached to Pixar's 1999 release Toy Story 2 (though it had previously been available on the 1996 VHS release Tiny Toy Stories), with added text explaining that "This is why we have a hopping lamp in our logo", as if it had been a matter of serious confusion beforehand. Originally created as a technical demonstration of what the Pixar Image Computer could do, it creates an irresistible narrative, cramming a lot into its efficient two minute running time - the bond between Luxo Jr. and his "parent" lamp Luxo Sr., Luxo Jr.'s education on death, or at least consequence (thankfully, the ball he flattens doesn't actually appear to be alive), and the endearing visual punchline where Jr. rebounds from his setback and with the renewed confidence to take on an even bigger escapade in the form of that beach ball. Some of the narrative detail from the short was transplanted directly into the logo - notably Junior flattening the I in the same manner in which he does the smaller ball, although in the original short it was Luxo Sr. who made the fourth wall-breaking gesture of looking directly to the camera. The electrical cord that trailed Luxo Jr. in the original short (another crucial feature in establishing the characters' "lampness") was not incorporated into the logo, presumably in the interests of greater fluidity.

The logo worked its magic, implanting the Pixar brand name firmly inside my skull and getting me genuinely excited for what might be next on the studio's horizon. It offered such an intriguing contrast to Disney's logo - one was elegant and grandiose, while the other was quirky and ultra-modern - making it clear early on that Pixar's output was going to have a touch and character quite distinct from that of the Mouse. It was likewise a much busier logo than the grey shape that had accompanied Pixar's preceding projects, boldly announcing that a new dynamic era had begun. Mind you, the Beveled Square with a Dent still has its charm. It seems like such a primitive piece of computer animation now, but once upon a time it was the future.

Lisa The Beauty Queen (aka T Is For Her Tooth-Filled Mouth)

Something I very rarely talk about in these Simpsons episode coverages are the couch gags, but I couldn't let the one preceding "Lisa The Beauty Queen" (9F02) pass without comment. It's a sequence that I'm sure tells a fascinating story - we enter the living room to find Maggie already seated on the couch, as Homer, Marge and Bart rush past her, overshooting their mark so drastically that they almost run off the film strip altogether and into the white abyss beyond, only to pivot in the nick of time and make it back to the couch, at which point Lisa finally shows up and takes her place beside them. Even as a child, the gag always stood out to me as weirdly incomplete. The intention is clear and charming enough. It's a tribute to the kinds of fourth wall-breaking antics that were endemic to the golden age of animation, in which characters would appear to wittily interact with their theatrical surroundings (for one such example, see the ending to the 1948 Bugs Bunny short Rabbit Punch). But it always seemed profoundly odd that only Homer, Marge and Bart were permitted to participate in the homage, when ordinarily the family are in these couch gags as a team. Wouldn't it have made more sense for all five of them to have run off the strip in unison? What is the purpose of having Maggie already seated, and Lisa appearing only when the joke's already over? Unless there's an additional reference that I'm missing, I would hazard a guess that something went awry with the animation in this sequence, and that removing Lisa and Maggie from the main action was done either as a cost-cutting measure, as a result of the full sequence not being completed in time, or perhaps because the effect simply looked too cluttered with all five characters running off the strip at once. The pairing of couch gags and episodes is usually arbitrary, but doesn't it have that extra tang of curiosity that Lisa should be good as omitted from the sequence before an episode she headlines?

"Lisa The Beauty Queen" was in an interesting position when it debuted on October 15th 1992, arriving at a time when The Simpsons was undergoing something of a tonal retooling. There is, in my opinion, a discernible gulf between "A Streetcar Named Marge", the last holdover from Season 3, and "Homer The Heretic", the first of the Season 4 batch proper, signalling the end of one era in the series' history and the dawn of another. "Streetcar" was as bold and ambitious an episode as The Simpsons had ever attempted at that stage, but its foremost strengths lay in the quieter, melancholic qualities that had grounded the family's earlier adventures, and in that regard it plays like a finale to the show's original phase (the point at which, in a parallel universe, it might plausibly have bowed out for good). "Heretic", meanwhile, loudly announced the direction the series would be taking in Al Jean and Mike Reiss's second year as showrunners - brash, outlandish, and driven more by gags than emotional honesty or plotting (notice how dragged out the resolution is, once Ned has saved Homer from the blaze?). Following it up with a relatively unassuming entry like "Lisa The Beauty Queen" was a smart neutralising move, demonstrating that this new era was still capable of crafting sensitive dramas that were in tune with the characters' vulnerabilities, even if they didn't hit quite the same melancholic notes as before. "Lisa The Beauty Queen" isn't exactly the most down-to-earth of Simpsons yarns - some of that trademark Jean-Reiss outlandishness seeps its way in, including a plot development that, at the time, might have been the darkest in the show's history - but it approaches a relatable topic in a meaningful way, exploring Lisa's quest to recover her self-esteem when it is brutally eviscerated by the sketchy dealings of a carnival cartoonist. Homer's solution is to enter Lisa in a local children's beauty pageant, believing that a girl as beautiful as her couldn't possibly lose. Lisa has her reservations but is persuaded to go along with Homer's plan and, with the support of her family, rises brilliantly to the occasion. Unfortunately, the pageant is being funded by a cigarette company, Laramie Cigarettes, who unbeknownst to her have a more sinister ulterior motive than simply circumventing advertising restrictions, in hoping to bag themselves an eminent young spokesperson for a campaign explicitly aimed at getting children into smoking.

On the DVD commentary, the crew joke about how the episode lacks a consistent through line, observing how it lurches from offering a humorous look at the world of child beauty pageants into an outspoken attack on the cigarette industry - which, as they concede, was hardly the bravest of possible targets (Jean notes that networks allowed you to go after cigarettes because they couldn't advertise on television, but a similar diatribe would never have been permitted toward the alcohol industry). It's clear that the beauty pageant story didn't yield enough material to run past the second act and they needed to manufacture a way to keep it going for a few more minutes, hence the participation of Jack Laramie. But as a journey for Lisa I've always felt that it made perfect sense - she's so desperate to gain the town's approval that she's willing to go along with all of these dumb and performative rituals, until she's thrown into a scenario so egregiously wrong that she can't ignore it. What the cigarette angle does mean is that Jeff Martin's script gets to go somewhat easy on the subject of child beauty pageants, regarding them as more of a smokescreen to an evil than an evil in themselves. There have certainly been far more cut-throat depictions in other media - compared to, say, the pageant featured in the movie Little Miss Sunshine (2006), the Little Miss Springfield contest seems like a positively wholesome occasion, a celebration of the town's radiant young girls and their individual talents. If not for that insidious cigarette sponsorship, you might wonder what the harm is. But then this was 1992, and while child pageants had long attracted attracted their share controversy, they weren't quite so hot buttoned an issue at the time. A few years on, and public perception would take a massive swing toward the negative following the murder of JonBenét Ramsey, a six-year-old girl in Colorado who had been very active in the pageant scene, but for now the general aura was a little more innocent. The greatest charge The Simpsons sees fit to level against such competitions is that they are highly vacuous and patently ridiculous affairs, being baby versions of the Miss America competition the family were watching a couple of episodes back in "A Streetcar Named Marge". Ideally, they're not exactly the first place you'd want to go if you're seeking reassurance about your physical appearance, something else that gets jokingly acknowledged on the commentary, but perhaps Lisa's ability to weather that particular challenge is a testament to something else entirely.

Lisa's crisis originates over something ostensibly small, but the hurt it causes is completely palpable. She pays to have a caricature drawn of herself at the Springfield Elementary carnival, and is aghast at the result, which she interprets as an accurate representation of how the rest of the world sees her. By the nature of the beast, anybody who signs up to be caricatured can expect to come out looking a little bit silly, but this specific cartoonist has taken a troublingly crude approach that makes zero attempt to flatter her, depicting her as goofy, wall-eyed and causing a miniature boy to flee in terror. Every time I watch this episode, I'm always astounded at the sheer callousness of this guy, since he is well within earshot when Lisa draws the expressed conclusion that she's ugly, and he does nothing to reassure her. Implying that it actually was his intention to make her feel that way? Or that he'd sooner she arrived at that conclusion than the more obvious one, which is that he's just a lousy artist? Either way, not a good look for him. It does make you wish that the giant pack of cigarettes that shows up in the third act had landed on him as well as Menthol Moose. What's more, there are a bunch of onlookers, kids and adults alike, who laugh uproariously at the drawing, and while it's not clear if they're laughing at Lisa or just the inaneness of the caricature, the fact that they're partaking in the humiliation of an eight-year-old child, who won't have the resilience to shrug this off, is seemingly of no odds to them. In reality, Lisa is no more freakish-looking than the next Springfieldian, but the damage is done. A subsequent scene shows her checking out her reflection on the underside of a spoon; it shows an obviously distorted image, but by this point there is no distinguishing between that distortion and how she perceives herself in her own mind. 

Elsewhere at the carnival, we find Skinner being accosted by a team of Disneyland lawyers for his infringement of their trademarked slogan, "The happiest place on Earth" - and yes, it is difficult to watch this sequence nowadays without musing on the irony that Disney has since gotten its hands on The Simpsons, along with a formidable proportion of popular culture, in spite of some of the anti-Disney sentiments they once cheekily expounded. My favourite joke, which might not have been intentional, is the sneaky, misshapen way they've drawn the Mickey Mouse ears on the blue-haired lawyer's briefcase, so that the series as it stood in 1992 wouldn't court any actual accusations of copyright infringement, and to my mind it kind of looks like a nuclear reactor symbol (coincidence, or underhanded satire on the animators' part?). Homer, meanwhile, is having a prosperous time of it, winning first prize in the school raffle, a ride on a Duff-themed blimp (a rare occasion on which he's able to one-up Ned Flanders, who has to settle for the raffle's second prize in the form of a shoe buffer). His elation is undercut when he realises how miserable Lisa is about her caricature, and is unable to convince her that she shouldn't see herself in that way - she dismisses his encouragement as the kind of meaningless babble that all parents are obligated to say to their children, even as he proves his point by asking his own emotionally abusive father to comment on his appearance ("Dad, am I cute as a bug's ear?" "No, you're homely as a mule's butt!"). He tries consulting Moe for advice, but Moe insists (somewhat suspiciously) that he has no experience in feeling unattractive. Then, a promotion for the upcoming Little Miss Springfield pageant feels like a godsend, for what better way to lift Lisa out of her despair than for her to compete and be crowned the winner, thus demonstrating how beautiful she really is? The possibility that it might not work out that way never so much as crosses his mind. He believes so strongly in the idea and is so determined to put his daughter first that he's willing to fund the extortionate $250 entry fee by selling his ticket for the Duff blimp to Barney, who has recently been making a killing as a human guinea pig.

Although the Homer-Lisa dynamic isn't exactly front and centre for a large chunk of the "Beauty Queen" narrative, it is where the emotional thrust of the episode lies, cementing it as part of an already rich tradition of stories dedicated to demonstrating how these two characters, who on the surface seldom appear to be on the same wavelength, could be bound by such a fundamental tenderness. Previous entries had tended to focus on Homer's repeated failure to meet his daughter's needs, either because he was too apathetic in general ("Lisa's Substitute"), unable to prioritise them ("Lisa's Pony") or exploiting them for his own selfish ends ("Lisa The Greek"). "Beauty Queen" offers an interesting variation on the formula, with Homer once again putting Lisa's feelings on the line through a questionable decision, but his heart is always shown to be in the right place. His actions, while boneheaded, are driven by a steadfast belief in his daughter's worthiness of taking that crown - when Marge puts it to him that the judges are going to hold Lisa to a very different standard to a parent, he responds in the most grotesque yet wholesomely loving of terms: "If I could gouge out somebody else's eyes and shove them into my sockets I would, but to me she's beautiful." What's more, he is actually vindicated by the episode's end; by then, even Homer can't fathom what he was thinking when he filled out the application, supposing that he must have been drunk, but Lisa assures him that he has, in his unorthodox way, enabled her to see herself more positively. She stops short of explaining why she feels better about herself and doesn't resent the final arrangement, which is a big part of what makes the ending so impactful. It isn't exactly hard to figure out, but the episode's final message feels all the more valid for the fact that it is essentially shown and not told. 

More than just a Homer and Lisa story, "Beauty Queen" is really a tale of how all of the family is able to come together to help one of their own in a time of crisis. I'm not sure how readily I swallow the specific moment where Marge persuades a reluctant Lisa to participate in the pageant by explaining how Homer funded her application - it feels reminiscent of the scene from "Lisa's Pony" where Marge comes clean with Lisa about the financial realities of owning a horse and the sacrifices made by Homer for Princess's upkeep, except in this instance Lisa didn't ask to be entered into the pageant, nor did Homer consult her before making the application, so it seems unfair that she should feel pressured into shouldering any of the responsibility. Not to mention that this is a major 180 from Marge's earlier stance that entering an insecure Lisa into a contest of this nature was a dicey proposition at best. You've got to keep the story moving somehow, but I think it might have felt more authentic if Lisa had discovered how Homer got the money and made the decision to take part on her own terms (alternatively, have Homer's sacrifice be framed as a testament to how much he believes in her, rather than something she potentially owes him for). Otherwise, the episode is a shining example of Simpsons solidarity at its mightiest, with all of the family getting to play their part in Lisa's becoming a force to be reckoned with. Marge takes her to a salon to show her to how to make the most of her appearance, Maggie role plays as her opponent in practice sessions, while Bart teaches her several cosmetic hacks that he's inexplicably well-versed in ("taping a swimsuit to your butt, petroleum jelly on your teeth for that frictionless smile, and the ancient art of padding"). He also points out that it is a much awkwarder business for siblings to pay compliments to one another than it is parents to their children, but assures Lisa that she isn't ugly. Amid all this preparation work are various smaller character moments, including the continuation of a running gag where Homer will make some teasing allusion to what we presume to be Bart's sexual innocence, only for us to get a direct window into Homer's thought processes and it to be revealed that he wasn't thinking about sex at all (prior examples showed up in "The War of The Simpsons" and "The Otto Show"). On the flip side, there's an early instance of another running gag that allows us to glimpse into Marge's thoughts and her private lusting over male celebrities (in this case professional golfer Jack Nicklaus), and I'm not sure, but Bart's surprising mastery of the high-heeled strut might be the first occasion on which we've seen him cross-dress. It certainly wouldn't be the last.

With the support of her family, Lisa's confidence slowly regenerates, giving her the moxie to put her all into the pageant, although at this stage she continues to fall victim to the fallacy that her self-worth should be staked on whether or not she can actually win. Her chances of doing so seem in doubt when she learns that she'll be competing against one Amber Dempsey, a seasoned beauty pageant contestant with such mass appeal that she was crowned Pork Princess in the same week as she became Little Miss Kosher. The figure of Amber is about as cut-throat as "Beauty Queen" is prepared to get in its lampooning of child beauty pageants. All things considered, she is a fairly mild caricature of the kind of kid who gets dragged around the pageant circuit (one of the major controversies surrounding child beauty pageants has to do with the sexualisation of contestants, and Bart's padding remark notwithstanding, this is something the episode steers well clear of, with Amber's presentation being cutesy rather than sexualised), but she's also the kind of pandering little terror who can get to the top through the most egregiously hollow of tactics, jeopardising all of Lisa's hard work with a single bat of her illegally-implanted eyelashes (well, not illegal in Paraguay). I do wonder if the episode might have gotten a little more mileage out of the pageant side of the story if it had delved a little more into the psychology of her character - as it is, Amber is really more of a plot device, getting only minimal dialogue (courtesy of Lona Williams, who worked as a writing assistant on the series) and barely any interaction with Lisa. Then again, it may be the point that she never comes off as very much more than a vacuous, perfectly plastic baby doll whose only real function is to flutter her eyelids up and down in an endearing fashion, making it especially galling that she should have the edge over a performance as impassioned as Lisa's. (I also like the small glimpses we get of Amber's mother from the sidelines, looking every bit as glitzy as her daughter, which I guess tells its own story.) The only other contestant who gets any degree of focus during the pageant is Apu's niece Pahusacheta, a relatively obscure character who would later get another speaking cameo in "Grade School Confidential" of Season 8, and whose valiant efforts to perform the entirety of "McArthur Park" on the tabla win her little support among the audience, but do enable Krusty, on top form as the pageant's presenter, to make one of his most hilarious observations (for years, "That just kept going, huh?" became something of a stock response in my household to anything interminable). Also of note is that the panel of judges consists of the woman at the ice cream parlour from whom part had wheedled a free sundae in an earlier scene and, even more randomly, Jake the barber, another relatively obscure character who had nevertheless been a part of this world since the Ullman days (and isn't it weird how he showed up to the panel in full barber attire?).

Lisa's gusto, sincerity and determination shine through, allowing her to make a strong impression with the judges and be named a finalist along with Amber. Alas, such laudable qualities are no match for those freakishly extended eyelashes, and Amber gets to bask in the glory while Lisa has to make do with the reserve position, to be called upon only in the instance that Amber is unable to fulfil her duties. (Krusty points out that there is precedent for this, alluding in his typically sleazy way to the case of Vanessa Williams, who was crowned Miss America in 1983 but forced to relinquish her title to runner-up Suzette Charles the following year over a scandal regarding nude photographs.) After this, Lisa becomes despondent once again. That she came second out of all the contestants is of little consolation - she failed to get the validation she'd convinced herself was most important, thus reinforcing her old insecurities that she simply isn't good enough. But a dark twist of fate comes to her aid, when Amber makes her first public appearance as Little Miss Springfield and is struck by lightning and hospitalised (it's a proper day for disasters, since Barney had just prior crashed the Duff blimp and caused it to go full Hindenburg, yet this gets comically little attention). With that, The Simpsons flashes some almost uncharacteristically morbid fangs - it would be a slippery slope from here into Frank Grimes' miserable demise - mitigated by script making it crystal clear that Amber survives and is on the road to recovery (according to Dr Hibbert, she has already been named Little Miss Intensive Care), even though she doesn't reappear for the rest of the episode. One way of looking at it is that it represents an act of divine intervention, with a bolt from above striking down the unworthy recipient and procuring Lisa her rightful position. Another is that it is Amber's sceptre, one of the key symbols of her glory, that attracts misfortune her way, which might have clued Lisa in that the title is something of a poisoned chalice.

Having been sworn in as Amber's replacement (in the style of Lyndon B. Johnson after the assassination of John F. Kennedy, with Marge dressed up as Jackie O, an inspired allusion to their shared maiden name), Lisa discovers that there is indeed a dark side to the vapid smile and wave rituals in which she's expected to partake. She finds herself powerless in the face of the endless chaos and despair unfolding around her, be it in the form of the mournful deportees she's expected to see off at the Springfield docks or the rioting troops during Bob Hope's appearance at Fort Springfield, angry that Tony Randell cancelled and that they got stuck with Little Miss Springfield. The full magnitude of what she's signed up to doesn't completely kick in until Jack Laramie unveils his nefarious plans for Lisa to become the new face of Laramie Cigarettes, citing a need to replace their depleted clientele with young smokers and thoughts that it might be time to put their current mascot, Menthol Moose, out to pasture. Menthol Moose is of course a parody of Joe Camel, the infamous mascot of Camel brand cigarettes, who at the time was the subject of a deluge of controversy, when studies suggested that he'd emulated the same level of cultural recognition among children as Mickey Mouse, and that his popularity had coincided with an increase in young smokers (and it's just dawned on me that Menthol Moose has the same initials as Mickey Mouse, making that particular allusion all the more razor-edged). Menthol Moose is every bit as much a tool for evil, as is confirmed during a parade where Lisa is required to ride atop a float shaped like a packet of cigarettes, while the man in the Menthol costume rides at the front, dispensing free cigarettes indiscriminately to adults and children alike. Even Maggie gets hold of one, and is prepared to trade in one orally fixated habit for another. Lisa is at first inclined to fall in line with her duties, until she looks down and sees her legions of adoring young fans (and at least one pregnant woman) staring up at her with those addictive cancer sticks protruding from their mouths, and finds that she can no longer hold her tongue. She realises that with a position of influence comes tremendous responsibility; at the pageant she had expressed a desire to become Little Miss Springfield so that she could help to make the town a better place, and in order to do so she needs to be more than just a pretty and inoffensive face. She finds her voice and takes a stand, kicking the giant packet of cigarettes down onto Menthol Moose below - an unusually violent move on Lisa's part, but then this is essentially The Simpsons giving the middle finger to Joe Camel and all that he stood for. The moose (or camel) totally had it coming.

Lisa's refusal to be a corporate shill, or to remain silent about any form of injustice that she brushes up against, quickly makes her a liability for the powers than be, rather than a testament to the community and its ability to demand something better. Before long the town's officials are baying for an excuse to oust her from her post, and ultimately resort to disqualifying her on a pedantic technicality - on her application form, in an area marked "Do Not Write Under This Space", Homer had written "Okay". Homer expects Lisa to be angry with him that his blunder cost her her title, but she takes it in good spirits, reminding Homer of why he entered her into the pageant in the first place. He wanted her to feel better about herself, and she assures him that does. We see here a subtle evolution in Lisa's priorities from the beginning of the episode - the crown, the esteem and the official recognition of her beauty aren't important to her, as she's no longer looking to the approval of others to validate her self-worth. In the end, that kind of needy dependence would only have opened her up to being easily exploited. Having the rest of the family behind her gave her the resolve to put herself before the judges, but she's since gone a step further and realised that true confidence can only come from within. She's seen what she's capable of and how she had the courage to speak her mind when it would have been easier just to keep on waving, and therefore has no reason to doubt herself. And she's thankful to Homer for enabling her to go on that journey. It's a thoughtful statement on the superficiality of society's notions of beauty and on the importance of being able to value one's own virtues, delivered with a gentle conviction that doesn't need to sell itself upfront. It's also a deeply heartwarming moment that's tempered by just the right level of subversion and self-awareness, with Homer asking Lisa if she'll remember this the next time he wrecks her life. "It's a deal" she gamely replies. As we'd already seen from the likes of "Substitute", "Pony" and "Greek", things move in a cycle with Homer and Lisa. Sooner or later Homer, who can barely remember how the events of this particular story got in motion, will let his daughter down all over again, but that underlying connection that allows them to see past their differences will assuredly prove as much of a constant. "Beauty Queen" begins with Homer seeing the best in Lisa, even when she feels she has cause to believe otherwise. The ending demonstrates how that goodwill goes both ways.

West Country Tales '82: The Breakdown (aka Said The Spider To The Fly)

"The Breakdown" is often singled out as one of the oddities of West Country Tales, largely on account of its lack of any supernatural content. Written by Josephine Poole and based on a contribution by Janet Holt, it is a brooding little drama about the perils of getting caught in remote places with the wrong sort of company, with a gleefully macabre closing twist that wouldn't have seemed at all out of place in an episode of Tales of The Unexpected. That being said, you're not actually going to mistake it for Tales of The Unexpected, for it does that very West Country Tales thing of having a voice-over narrator do most of the talking, shouldering the burden of dropping all of the cumbersome exposition while the characters make more minor chitchat in the backdrop. It is the voice-over narration that I suspect tends to get stuck in some people's craws about West Country Tales, keeping it from becoming a classic in the league of Tales of The Unexpected.  But it's also the use of the voice-over narration in "The Breakdown" that makes it such an unsettling entry to the West Country archive.

I noted in my coverage of "The Beast" that the seeming purpose of the voice-over narration was to impose a degree of distance between the viewer and the action on screen, something that might initially frustrate us but that recreates the experience of hearing a story second-hand and only being able to get so close to the truth (an important aspect of the series' texture, given that these tales were supposedly based on real-life testimonies). "The Beast" was told in the first-person, from the perspective of a character who was grappling with the inexplicable and whose objectivity as a storyteller we would certainly question were he to share his account with us in the real world, however much we enjoyed hearing it. We don't get quite the same effect with "The Breakdown", where the voice-over takes on a very different form to that of "The Beast". For one, it is supplied by a third-person narrator (Keith Barron), with the story being rather short on internal characters who could have convincingly fulfilled this duty (the eventual outcome would make it extremely difficult for either of the principal players to be relating it first-hand, and while a third character does show up eventually, he's in the dark on a lot of the details). Likewise, no attempt is made to give Barron's narration any kind of context in terms of local lore - he isn't recounting this as something that happened to a friend of a friend, or as a legend attached to a nearby building (one wonders what Holt's own connection was to the story she submitted). He is simply an all-knowing (if not all-sharing) observer who seems eerily fascinated by the pivotal encounter. There are times where he comments on the characters' actions with a cool matter-of-factness, as if they were subjects in a nature documentary, and other times where he comments for them, his words providing a sinister inner monologue that contrasts with the mundaneness of their own muted dialogue. "The Breakdown" is a cautionary tale about the banality of evil, where Barron's narration articulates a taster of the less-than-savoury impulses lurking below a surface of overwhelming quietude. It is a slow-brewing story, with little in the way of overt drama until the very end, but the commentary ensures that we are always aware of that omnipresent menace, the silences and the relative ordinariness of the characters' interactions exuding an incongruity that becomes all the more chilling. Meanwhile, the action is punctuated by a succession of abrupt fade-outs, indicating the slightest passage of time, but also the blank, obscured spaces in which the viewer can never quite be certain what is transpiring.

The episode centres on an anonymous woman (Anita Harris) whose car, a green Ford Escort, comes to a sudden standstill in an isolated part of Devon, about an hour's trek from the village of Ipplepen, where the only other human in sight is Bill Foster (John Abineri), a devoted gardener who's lived a solitary existence ever since his wife Aileen died under circumstances that were deemed suspicious, but ultimately not suspicious enough to have Bill tried for her murder. The lingering uncertainty has rendered Bill a pariah amongst the local community, who nevertheless regard his story with a lurid fascination - Barron notes that if Bill were to open his garden to the public, he would have no shortage of gawkers stopping by, but not for how beautiful his flowerbeds look in the summertime. (Unfortunate characters named Bill seem to be something of a running theme in West Country Tales, for it was also the name of the husband from "The Beast" who bore the full brunt of the titular creature's fury). None of this means anything to his unexpected visitor, who is simply seeking help with restarting her car and, failing that, access to a telephone, and who is too good an opportunity to pass up for the companionship-starved Bill. He goes to inspect her car and sneakily dishes out further damage so that she'll be forced to stay put. He then invites her into his house while he pretends to call the garage in Ipplepen on her behalf, claiming at first that he cannot get through before deliberately waiting until past the garage's opening hours to try again and leave a message. When she politely requests that he ring her a taxi, he informs her that the only taxi service in the area is run by the garage, and offers to put her up until morning, which she accepts. All the while, Barron's narrator frames Bill's regard for his guest in distinctly predatory terms that are designed to get our alarm bells ringing. We hear a startling metaphor about a spider and a fly, and repeated emphasis on how much this woman's form and aura reminds him of Aileen, not least in her comparably attractive legs.

There's no question that Bill is a creep, but ample ambiguity as to just what level of creep we're dealing with. It could be that he was wrongly judged as a killer by the villagers and that he was in fact the victim of one of life's great tragedies through the loss of Aileen. Forced into solitude and pining for his wife, he's become sad and desperate enough to want to cling onto whatever scrap of warm human company might come his way. Alternatively, he could be sizing up another potential murder victim, the qualities that make her similar to Aileen being the very things that  might make her susceptible to his machinations. So many of Bill's behaviours are left open to interpretation - for example, when he first becomes aware of the woman's presence outside of his grounds, his immediate response is to study her through a pair of binoculars, an action that could be seen as voyeuristic but also, so the narrator informs us, represents his go-to means of maintaining any semblance of connection with other people. Even the act of gardening seems double-edged, with the observation that Bill is locked in a struggle to prevent his grounds "from reverting to the jungle it seems to determined to be". Does it point to an inner struggle, to keep his own feral tendencies in check, or does it evoke those same themes seen in "The Beast", where the wilderness becomes a symbol for the social isolation that threatens to consume those who cannot find their affinity with solitude? The narrator's description of the garden brims with violent imagery that appears, ostensibly, to paint the surrounding nature as a victim of Bill's attacks - a peacock wandering the grounds "screams like a woman", while the gardening tools are "honed to a razor edge" - but more likely reveals the extent to which he remains cornered and forever pushing back against a past that persists in haunting him. The screaming peacock effectively mocks him, and no matter how hard he hacks away at the undesirable shrubbery, it will simply return to its overgrown form.

The woman, for her part, seems all-too willing to accept the hospitality of this man in the middle of nowhere whom she doesn't know, something that might on the surface read as total naivety. She is an outsider of another kind, a tourist roaming the countryside and going wherever the road takes her, with no apparent purpose other than to enjoy herself, a sure-fire indicator of an innocent who doesn't anticipate what a dangerous place the world can be or what she might in fact be getting into. Or is she more canny than she lets on? The narrator articulates her inner thoughts a lot less than those of Bill, but does make it known that she is also a loner, her husband having left her for another woman. It is another titbit of information that seems to set her up as an easy victim, the kind of individual so desperate for company that she's less inclined to reject the advances of a stranger, but it could just as easily suggest that she has an axe to grind of her own. An additional, particularly curious revelation is made during a sequence where she attempts to prepare a sandwich in Bill's kitchen and accidentally cuts her finger, prompting the narrator to divulge that while she's unfazed by the sight of other people's blood, she can't stomach the sight of her own. Foreshadowing for the the further blood-spilling she's sure to endure if she continues to hang around with Bill? Or perhaps it's letting us in on something else entirely?

Indeed, "The Breakdown" amounts to a rather puckish exercise in confounded expectations and deceptive appearances, culminating a grisly visual punchline when the mechanic who runs the garage in Ipplepen (Brian Jennings) receives Bill's message the following morning and goes out to retrieve, repair and finally return the car. Piecing together the evidence that Bill has had a female visitor and being all-too aware of the man's reputation, he sneaks into the house to have a nose around, hoping to gain insight into what goes on behind the local pariah's closed doors. His salacious curiosity is rewarded with the shock of discovering Bill's corpse, brutally skewered, with the woman nowhere in sight. He escapes the scene in the newly-repaired car, and as he does so, we hear a radio broadcast advising that police are looking for a woman last seen at the wheel of a green Ford Escort. The nature of why they are looking for her is never disclosed (might it have anything to do with her husband and his lover?), but the public are cautioned not to approach her because she's dangerous. Poole's script has carefully engendered one set of expectations, only to have thing go in the opposite direction entirely. Bill's grasping desperation, the characteristic that appeared to make him so menacing, was in fact what made him vulnerable. As he conspired to keep the woman stranded at his abode, he was unwittingly laying out his own trap all along, beckoning in and isolating himself with a total stranger who turned out to be a psychopathic killer. Of all the rotten luck.

Still, what complicates our final assessment of "The Breakdown" is that it never definitively answers the question of whether or not Bill was guilty of Aileen's murder. We might assume that because he winds up the victim of this scenario then he was a misjudged innocent all along, but his meeting his match in a more insidious party doesn't automatically preclude the possibility that he might have been a killer himself. Both things could be true, and we leave the story not knowing what to make of Bill - was he a tragic figure or a villain who got outplayed? Ultimately, his backstory proves to be something of an elaborate red herring, Poole being less interested in delving into the psychology of these characters than in setting the audience up to have the rug pulled out from under them. But the shadow of the deceased Aileen nevertheless looms too large over the proceedings for her to be dismissed as a irrelevant misdirection. As noted, "The Breakdown" contains no supernatural elements, other than in a figurative sense - the narrator wonders if the woman, as she enters the garden, will "catch the ghost screams of Aileen losing her balance, and her life, on the garden path?" Aileen later appears as a static photograph, in ghostly black and white, once the woman gains entry to Bill's living room (his oddly upfront description of her as his "dead wife" is another little detail designed to keep us firmly on edge). As night sets in and the fateful seduction gets underway, the narrator assures us that Aileen's image stands forever vigilant. IF Bill was indeed her killer, then a tempting interpretation would be that she and the woman are somehow in cahoots - that the appearance of the mysterious woman represents a homecoming for Aileen, a reckoning carried out on her behalf by a figure who uncannily evokes her memory. That the woman specifically drives a green Ford likewise seems to align her with the unruly garden that Bill is constantly battling and unable to keep in check for long; she becomes an extension of that same wilderness, which for all we know represents the inexorableness of Bill's guilt and which, in spite of his resistance, was always fated to get the best of him. If Bill is in fact innocent, then Aileen's memory becomes a symbol for him at his most vulnerable; his seduction of the woman is framed as an act of allegorical infidelity in which the sacredness of his wife is affronted through his willingness to let the wilderness in, opening himself up to his inevitable misfortune. The woman is a final, deadly manifestation of the outside world that he worked so tirelessly to keep at bay and which had already driven him to the periphery of civilisation. Her cold-blooded murder of Bill becomes a shorthand for the means by which society has callously condemned him.

On that note, what are we to make of the episode's final sequence, in which the mechanic flees the scene of the crime using the same vehicle that had, only the day before, provided mobility for a homicidal fugitive on the run? If the woman no longer has her wheels, it might be more challenging for her to get about, but it might also be more difficult for anyone who's heard the police warning to identify her, if this is the key information they have to go on. The implication is that she's made a clean break and disappeared into the West Country, absorbed by the same treacherous wilderness from which she mysteriously materialised, and who knows where she'll end up next and strike again? In the meantime, there is something comically incriminating in having the mechanic drive away in the very car we hear described in the police alert, suggesting a degree of complicity on his part. Although he professes (or rather, the narrator professes on his behalf) not to believe the stories about Bill, it doesn't take him long to start entertaining the possibility that he might have been up to his alleged old tricks with this brand new blood. He goes snooping around in search of the lurid evidence, but gets a rather different shock to the one he had anticipated. He is a representative of the local community, with its gossips and gawkers who distrust Bill but also treat his miserable story as a curiosity to be savoured. More crucially still, his perspective aligns with that of the viewer, in being in the dark about what exactly has gone on the night before but having strong pre-conceived notions as to how the scenario is likely to have played out. We head back into the building expecting a properly nasty conclusion, edging ever closer toward it with the same morbid fascination. Our mutual craving is technically satisfied, but comes with the additionally disturbing reminder that danger could be lurking in just about any guise. And now, like the mechanic, we've no choice but to take our ride in that treacherous Ford Escort. The wilderness has gotten the best of us all. 

Maxwell House (We Don't Like Change, Do We Deirdre?)

The Maxwell House "Deirdre" ad from 1994 is one of those campaigns that didn't really catch on with zeitgeist in any significant way, but that I've found definitely made a quieter impression on the people who saw it - particularly if, like myself, they were young and ultra-susceptible to a gloriously uncanny sign-off. For many years, my quest to locate the Imperial Leather spot about the dishonest minimalists that had so unsettled me in 1996 was impeded by the problem that no one besides myself seemed to so much as remember the premise (much less the brand it was promoting). If I mentioned this freaky black and white ad from the mid-1990s about a couple who lived in a surreal abode and were concealing bars of luxury soap from one another beneath the plant pots beside their bathtub, I was met with blank stares all around. But if I brought up the mid-90s ad about another couple who lived in an eerily drab living room and were complaining about their next door neighbours and how they'd stopped liking them ever since they'd switched coffee brands, then it was a different story entirely: "Oh bloody hell! Yes, I remember, that advert scared the crap out me. That freeze frame at the end was diabolical!" I wouldn't go so far as to claim that the eponymous "Deirdre" ever gave me nightmares as a child, but I do have distinct memories of waking up in the early hours, Skinamarink-style, and being haunted by the mental image of her monstrously contorted face in the darkness. I was certainly old enough to know that there was no way that that woman was going to emerge from the television and devour me, but in practice that mattered little. She had already gotten to me where I felt most powerless. She was, without doubt, one of the most terrifying presences to stalk the advertising airwaves in the 1990s, and I say it's high time we gave her her flowers.

There is actually quite a bit of thematic overlap between the "Dierdre" ad and the aforementioned Imperial Leather "minimalist" ad, in that we glimpse their respective products from primarily the perspective of people who would, on the surface, be inclined to shun such things. We could even combine them with the Toyota Roadster "ascetic" ad from 2000 to form a lose sort of trilogy of advertising scenarios regarding people leading deliberately spartan existences, in which said product acquired a haunting and/or intrusive presence as a sinfully destructive item to be resisted at all costs. They were all profoundly odd and disconcerting pieces that hinged on a tension between abstinence and clandestine desire in a way that clearly rattled me at various stages of my childhood development. In the ascetic's case, he lived alone out in the wilderness and had only himself to answer to for his lurid Roadster-inspired fantasies (and, in the extended cut, the suit and tie he had stashed away), but the other two involved deception amongst couples who'd made a conscious decision to forgo certain creature comforts, whether as a bold lifestyle statement or out of a sense of social superiority. For the Imperial Leather minimalists, the deception was mutual (and potentially something that both parties were fully aware of), but in "Deirdre" it was a joke that only one partner was tauntingly in on. Of the three, "Deirdre" is the most overtly comedic, but it's also by and far the most hair-raising, both on account of the fiendish sting in its tail and the repeated atmospheric dissonance to which it subjects viewers on the route to its psyche-scarring payoff.

The genius of "Deirdre" is that it effectively gives you two ads in one. One is breezy and conventional, the other is arch and sardonic. They represent the opposing characters of two different households, which are intercut with an incongruity so jarring as to evoke the sensation of flicking back and forth between two channels. The couples in question frankly don't feel as though they could inhabit the same universe, let alone live side by side on the same street. The Maxwell-drinking couple (never named, but we'll deem them our "protagonist couple", on account of them being the ones we're supposed to want to emulate) are presented in a succession of exuberant cuts that call to the mind the types of ad campaigns that would have populated breaks a few years back, when the 80s were transitioning into the 90s and there was an extensive reliance on upbeat jingles and sun-kissed images (for an example from Maxwell House's own arsenal, check out "Get The Max" from 1988). The time we spend with the protagonist couple is agreeable, if utterly banal. Taken on their own, it's a straightforward demonstration of how an activity as mundane as downing a morning cup of Joe might become an invaluable ritual in reaffirming familial connections and greeting the possibilities that each new day has to offer, with only the excessive jauntiness of the accompanying music track suggesting any kind of parodic intention. The cliched nature of the images is given a more thorough recontextualisation through the input of our antagonist couple, who comment on the action from their own lustreless confines. The bespectacled husband (also unnamed) is the only one who speaks, while the wife (she's Deirdre) stands expressionless in the backdrop. In their pre-Maxwell days, the protagonist couple were apparently just like them ("our sort of people"). The tale of how they changed their coffee and in the process ceased to be the kind of neighbours the antagonist couple could jibe with is revealed to us as though the husband were divulging some form of community-rocking scandal, with the final assurance that, "We try to avoid them nowadays".

Already there is an atmospheric unease, generated by the rapid intercutting of the motion and blaring party music characterising the coffee-induced euphoria next door and the silent inertia conveying the coldly puritanical flavour of the antagonist couple's lifestyle. It will likely not escape us that the protagonist couple are always seen surrounded by greenery, embracing the open world, while the antagonist couple never venture from their living room, making them prisoners of their own close-mindedness. But it also rests on a tension between what plays like a feverishly heightened fantasy and a cartoonishly tedious reality. Neither side feels particularly real. For all of their vapidity, the scenes with the protagonist couple have a surreal, dream-like quality, suggesting an exaggerated proposal for how a consumer product could transform your life, and with the framing commentary from the antagonist couple implying a self-awareness on the ad's part of its own falseness. The antagonists' world has, on the one hand, a stronger grounding in reality, with its lack of music and frenetic energy, but that's negated by the humorously caricatured nature of their conservatism. Although the two worlds appear to be at total odds, they represent the perfect balancing act - the make-believe paradise of the protagonist couple is both a knowing joke and a sympathetic refuge from the overbearing austerity next door. The antagonists' angle might give us an outlet for sneering at the more banal advertising conventions in which the protagonists are revel, but they themselves are ultimately too grotesque to elicit much affinity.

Which takes us to our infamous ending. A third-person voice-over imparts the slogan, "The full of beans coffee for full beans people", suggesting that this is the fundamental distinction being drawn between the two sides. Some people are "full of beans", possessing all of the enthusiasm for life that Maxwell House typifies, and those who aren't a part of that privileged group will simply not comprehend. The closing twist, however, implies that it is a potential that just about anybody can unlock. The antagonist husband acknowledges his wife for the first time: "We don't like change, do we, Deirdre?" Deirdre has spent the entire ad in silence, which ostensibly signals accordance with her husband's sneery sentiments. In the final seconds, she maintains her silence, but gets in the last word regardless. Her face alters dramatically as she holds up a jar of the forbidden product and demonstrates where her own allegiances really lie. She is willing to embrace the Maxwell House revolution, if literally behind her husband's back, and change is coming, whether he's ready for it or not. While her husband embodies the smug front of people set in her ways, Deirdre expresses the latent potential yearning to break free.

As a twist, it seems cute and logical, but the execution is disproportionately disturbing. Deirdre doesn't merely hold up the jar of freeze-dried beans with an air of surreptitious triumph. Her face contorts horrifically, in a manner that is presumably intended to indicate an intense and uninhibited elation bursting belatedly to the surface. In practice, she looks like she's possessed, a testament to the insidious power of the Maxwell House brand and its ability to warp everything it touches beyond recognition. It was an expression that sent shivers down the spines of innumerable young viewers, its horrors amplified by its insistence on lingering for good measure as a torturously drawn out freeze frame. I swear that the folks responsible for cutting together advertising blocks knew exactly what they were doing and had a penchant for inserting it right at the end so that the cursed image would be prolonged even further. It seemed to persist for an eternity regardless, a perfect vision of unfiltered monstrosity forever etched onto my brain, ready to strike whenever I was feeling in any way vulnerable. I don't think the closing sense of dread was entirely accidental either. The way Deirdre holds up the jar at the end, it frankly looks as though she could use it to bonk her oblivious husband on the head. Maxwell House takes the form of a deadly invading presence, already much closer than the husband assumes, being right behind him and inside his seeming place of safety. The barriers have been eradicated and we're left with an uncanny intersection between the exaggerated caricatures of one world and the excessive animation of the other. A distressing transformation indeed. 

The original Deidre ad is the only one I remember seeing at the time, but there was indeed an entire series spun around the premise, in which the husband got to exercise his equal disdain for Noel Edmonds (who'd also infiltrated their house unbeknownst to him and was unambiguously looking to strike his head with the jar of Maxwell House) and for Penguins (the brand of chocolate-coated tea biscuit and not the bird, although odds are that he didn't care for them much either). I'm not 100% sure, but I could swear the actress who played Deirdre kept changing with new installment - a subtle commentary on the inevitably of change and the husband's ongoing obliviousness? And then there was at least one ad that swapped out the cast entirely, centring on a different set of couples divided by Maxwell House, and with a holiday-making theme. The protagonist couple were there identified as "Ron" and "Fran", with Deirdre having been supplanted by "Laura". The antagonist husband still went unnamed, but here had acquired a wetter sense of humor to go with his new rain-soaked environs. I'm not sure, but I think this might have been the only installment in which the husband actually cottoned on to his wife's being a closet Maxwell drinker. "This isn't our usual coffee, Laura? LAURA!!!" 

 

 

Two versions of the original ad existed, one 46 seconds in length, the other a shorter 30 second edit, which saved time by trimming down the sequences with the protagonist couple, incorporating only one iteration of the "full of beans" slogan and, most curiously, using alternate takes of the antagonist couple, in which their dialogue was more concise ("Could changing their coffee be responsible for this distressing transformation?" becomes "Could changing their coffee have changed them?", and "We try to avoid them nowadays," becomes a more definite "We avoid them nowadays"). The husband's closing expression also differs slightly between the versions, with him gazing more intently at the camera in the longer cut and in the shorter cut wearing more a look of self-satisfied complacency. No massive differences to report between Deirdre's final poses, but for what it's worth I'd rate her as being marginally more terrifying in the shorter edition.

There's No Disgrace Like Home (aka I Thought We Were Making Real Progress)

"There's No Disgrace Like Home" (7G04) is a Simpsons episode of multiple paradoxes - not least, that it provides such an honest and illuminating glimpse into the central family's dynamics while presenting a version of the family that might have come from a parallel universe, in which a number of the key roles associated with each member have been rearranged. Writer Mike Reiss sums it up neatly on the DVD commentary: "Virtually everything in this episode is wrong in the perspective of the show as it became. Lisa's a brat and Marge is a drunk and Homer's the most concerned family member." Watching the episode, only the fourth in the series' gargantuan run, it is certainly evident how loosely defined most of the characters still were following on from their origins in a collection of skits from The Tracey Ullman Show. The Ullman shorts had overwhelmingly tended to favour Bart's brash young perspective, with Lisa seldom receiving much development beyond her status as a middle child for Bart to bounce off of, while Marge's name was never spoken. Homer's personality was a bit better formed, but he was, in the beginning, defined largely by how Bart saw him, which was as a buffoonish would-be authority figure who endeavored to maintain order within the family but rarely succeeded. Coming out of The Tracey Ullman Show, the premise of Homer being willing to part ways with the household television in order to fund a family therapy session with a dubious-looking shrink really wasn't all that strange, although that's immaterial to a chunk of the fanbase. Like all of Season 1, "There's No Disgrace Like Home" is undervalued by modern viewers, but it attracts a particular flak, from fans who regard its more rudimentary interpretation of the characters as insurmountable. Even those who appreciate that character development isn't always a smooth process tend to dismiss it as a weird and redundant relic of another era, a view that I personally consider short-sighted. Having laid out its peculiarities at the start of the commentary, Reiss closes by concording with co-writer Al Jean and series creator Matt Groening that the episode itself still holds up well, and I agree. Even if "Disgrace" doesn't nail down everything about the Simpsons as we'd come to know them, it's earned its flowers as one of those quintessential episodes that took massive leaps in solidifying the series' heart and soul.

The paradoxical nature of "Disgrace" is further exemplified through its particular significance to the series' UK broadcast history, it being the first episode to air on BBC One, on 23rd November 1996. This ended a six-year period in which The Simpsons had been retained as an exclusive perk for Sky subscribers, and for mainstream UK audiences would have been their first real opportunity to get acquainted with the likes of Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie. It's fair to say that the Beeb's ordering of the series was, to begin with, aggressively scattershot. The enlarged gap between the show's satellite and terrestrial premieres meant that there was already an extensive backlog to get through, and rather than adhere to the original US order, or any kind of logical order at all, they were quite happy to jump about between the early seasons - the next few episodes to air across the remainder of 1996 were "Bart The Daredevil" (Season 2), "The Call of The Simpsons" (Season 1), "Lisa's Substitute" (Season 2), "Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire" (Season 1) and "A Streetcar Named Marge" (Season 4). It isn't hard to comprehend why they'd wanted to defer the Christmas episode, which launched the show in the US, until later that December, but can we make sense of any of the other choices here? Were they just pulling episodes at random out of a hat, or was somebody making a conscious decision about which installments went out when? Looking at that line-up, I do wonder if there was perhaps a deliberate effort to get the series off to the strongest possible start by prioritising episodes that might be considered "fan favourites", hence the likes of "Bart The Daredevil" and "Lisa's Substitute" being bumped to the front of the queue. The former has that indelible ending sequence where Homer takes a tumble down a gorge, while the latter has a reputation as one of the show's most emotionally searing entries. "The Call of The Simpsons", meanwhile, sticks out as arguably the most purely farcical of the early episodes, while "A Streetcar Named Marge" boasted one of the series' biggest and most ambitious finales to date, in which the characters enact a musical rendition of A Streetcar Named Desire. It does feel like a carefully-curated portfolio of everything the show could do, ensuring that BBC viewers got a compact snapshot of how effectively it functioned as both an anarchic comedy and as a heart-rending drama. If true, then the implication would be that "Disgrace" was hand-picked as the ideal introduction to the series, the episode that best encapsulated who the Simpsons were and what their adventures had to offer - a bitterly ironic move, given how everyone who views this episode nowadays invariably complains about how unrepresentative it is of the characters we've since come to know and love? Or were the BBC in fact onto a good wicket?

The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that "There's No Disgrace Like Home" really was the perfect episode with which to kick-start the series. "Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire" did the job just fine, but an obvious limitation that episode had as an introduction is that it is predominantly a Bart and Homer show, with the Simpson women having to sit around the living room for the bulk of the duration. By contrast, the producers' original choice for the premiere, "Some Enchanted Evening", feels like it was consciously designed to be an ensemble episode, with every member of the family (Maggie included) getting to do something to further the narrative, but as a hypothetical pilot always had two key factors working against it. It gets a bit uncharacteristically dark and threatening in its second half, once Ms Botz enters the scene, and as for the first half, I'd question of the wisdom of launching the series with such a close and uncomfortable look at the problems underpinning Homer and Marge's union.  It was also fundamentally a tale of the family divided, with the kids being left to fend for themselves against a dangerous home invader while Homer and Marge are off resolving a conflict of a different nature - whereas "Disgrace" has the honor of being the first Simpsons episode interested foremost in exploring what makes the family work as a unit. That is its major strength, and why ultimately it doesn't matter if the family, as individuals, aren't entirely in line with their subsequent characterisations. "Disgrace" is more concerned with what makes them collectively the Simpsons, the unified front weathering the judgements of the external world and undercutting its various hypocrisies. It exemplifies the anarchic spirit that differentiated the show from its contemporaries, for what could be more subversive than a climax where the family are seen administering electric shocks to one another with wild abandon? But it's also a redemption narrative, ending on a note of genuine if wryly unconventional triumph, emphasising why this endlessly imperfect clan should speak so sincerely to our innermost psyches.

"Disgrace" also stands out as the installment most conspicuously informed by one of the original Tracey Ullman shorts, in that it is a loose sort of remake of the "Family Therapy" short where Homer tricks his family into attending a session with a psychologist named B.F. Sherwood, seeking to remedy the fact that they don't laugh any more. In both adventures, the solution to the family's problem is to come together against a common adversary, exposing the weaknesses of the hapless authority tasked with guiding them to a better standard of behaviour and confirming that, actually, the rest of the world is every bit as screwed up and chaotic as them. "Family Therapy" emphasised this point by making Sherwood yet another doppelganger of Homer's (being a slimmer, more successful Homer makes him the precursor to Herb Powell, who, as we've discussed, was the precursor to Frank Grimes, in a perfect chain of increasingly bitter self-loathing). Wearing a suit and tie and occupying his own office didn't preclude the fact that there was a raging simian in him looking for an outlet, and he was able to call Homer out so bluntly on his bullying of his children because deep down inside he was no better than him. "Disgrace" refines the premise in a way that makes the Simpsons themselves less antagonistic - other than being whacked by Bart with a de-foamed rod, Dr Marvin Monroe isn't placed so directly on the receiving end of their vindictive anguish. Rather than be provoked into behaving in the same unruly manner as his patients, he's exposed as a huckster peddling a facile vision of bliss, and the family one-up him by discovering that there is plenty of joy and unity to be had in embracing their imperfect selves.

Truth be told, I think a lot of the charges about the family being out of character in this episode are superficial at best. The only one that stands out as particularly egregious is the plot point of Homer wanting to sell the television set for therapy money, a development the story at least manages to justify thematically. But is there anything else in here worth getting overly hung up upon? Sure, we get two or three instances of Lisa bickering childishly with Bart, something that would all but die out as her personality matured and their sibling relationship mellowed, but she isn't completely unrecognisable either. "Disgrace" sees her taking distinct steps toward becoming her own character, touching briefly on her college ambitions and her melancholic realisation that the odds were always stacked against her ("There go my young girl dreams of Vassar"^[1]). As for Marge getting drunk, let's be fair - that much is explicitly framed as being an out of character occurrence within context. Marge states that she generally isn't much of a drinker, and judging by the outcome here it's not hard to see why. She really can't take her fruit punch (much like how she can't keep her gambling impulses in check once she's crossed that most treacherous of lines). But even then, it's not like she does anything especially untoward while intoxicated, just lead the other women in a sing-song and clap too enthusiastically during a round of applause. It isn't on a par with, say, Homer's drunken behaviour at the party in "The War of The Simpsons", which overshadowed the whole occasion and made it an uncomfortable experience for everybody present. Here, the other families look a little perturbed during Marge's protracted clapping, but I guarantee they immediately forgot about it.

Where you most feel the roughness of the show in "Disgrace" is less in the characterisation of the main family than in the wider world-building, which within the more limited scope of the Ullman shorts was even vaguer and more undefined. "Homer's Odyssey" before it had done much in establishing the kind of place that Springfield was as a community, giving us a glimpse into its pollutant-belching power plant, its incompetent police department and its neighbourhoods of unconcerned bystanders, but we still had a way to go in cementing who was who within the town. Mr Burns is present (albeit still more of a Ronald Reagan caricature than he would later become), as is Smithers, but Lenny, Carl and Charlie weren't introduced until much later in the season, so for now we have to make do with a bunch of random nobodies at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant's company family picnic. The Flanders likewise didn't exist at this point - viewers had previously met Ned and Todd in "Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire", but only because that episode was shown out of its intended order - necessitating the creation of a one-off "perfect" family who could put the Simpsons in the shade with their impeccable harmony (this family are never explicitly named, but according to the commentary they're the Gammills, after Reiss and Jean's friend Tom Gammill who later became a writer on the show). Even some of the familiar faces don't seem entirely on model, in particular Barney, who is here a surprisingly mean character (he's not usually one to look down his nose at Homer for his domestic failings, much less get physically violent with him). On the flip side, this episode marks the introduction of Lou and Eddie, Chief Wiggum's underlings, and while Lou is wrongly depicted as Caucasian, their personalities are nailed straight off the bat. Both are more preoccupied with downing beers than with their duties as police officers, and their German shepherd Bobo (who sadly didn't stick around) clearly has more brains than either of them.

From my perspective, the moment in "Disgrace" that aged the least elegantly would be our first ever reference to Mona Simpson, Homer's absent and (at the time) presumed deceased mother. Homer makes a comment that's meant to give us some insight into the kind of upbringing he had, and from the sounds of it, they were possibly envisioning her as more of a female Abe - apparently, she once told Homer that he was "a big disappointment". We don't know how old Reiss and Jean envisioned the disparaged young Homer as having been when they wrote that particular piece of dialogue, but "Mother Simpson" of Season 7 would later establish that Mona was out of Homer's life when he was still a small child, so...that's a harsh thing to have to contemplate retroactively. With hindsight, it would have been more in keeping with Abe's parenting approach for that assessment to have come from him, but it's also clear that Homer attaches a certain reverence to his mother's words that he wouldn't necessarily do with Abe.

Regardless of who planted the initial seed, Homer's deep-rooted feelings of inadequacy are the driving force behind the drama of "Disgrace", as they were in "Simpsons Roasting on an Open Fire" and "Homer's Odyssey". In those episodes, it was his failure to be a first-rate breadwinner for his family that fuelled his desperation, whereas in "Disgrace" it's the family themselves who've become the impediment, holding him back from achieving his full potential as a breadwinner and upstanding member of society. He feels the weight of that judgement at the company picnic, where Burns alternately chooses to fire or promote his employees based how good impression their children make (again, a preoccupation that seems out of sync with his later characterisation, in which he's completely detached from the lives of the common people, but it works within the context of this particular conflict). After an afternoon of chasing two over-stimulated kids around Burns' estate and trying to keep his intoxicated wife from attracting too much attention, Homer is struck by the respect and devotion paid to Mr Gammill by his ultra-polite son. As they head toward their cars, Homer confides in Mr Gammill what a relief it is to be leaving the picnic so that they can get back to being themselves, and is met with only contempt and confusion in return; Gammill is offended by the insinuation that his family's spotless behaviour was nothing more than a performance to get into Burns' good graces. We know that Homer wasn't being malicious in proposing as such, but was rather reaching out for the reassurance that he isn't doing things so spectacularly wrong and that all families, no matter how well-scrubbed on the surface, are cursed with the same challenges as his own. Gammill offers him no such solidarity, and instead seems to confirm his worst fears - that the kind of brood he's raising is a reflection of his own merits as a patriarch, and that if his family aren't up to snuff in the eyes of society, he'll be condemned along with them. This anxiety is sublimely illustrated in a fantasy sequence where the Simpsons are transformed into cackling demons, beckoning Homer into their Hell-bound vehicle on the insistence that he is assuredly one of them, while the Gammills, ever the precursors to the Flanders (and so unbearably wholesome that they sing "B-I-N-G-O" as they drive away, a stark contrast to the Simpsons' Freaks-inspired chanting), acquire angelic wings and halos and ascend into a heavenly light. Homer is inspired to try and teach his family better manners, but ironically causes them to degenerate further. His solution is to take them out spying on other families in the neighbourhood, hoping to give them a first-hand glimpse into the natural bliss most other households are able to attain within their natural habitats, prompting the community to raise alerts about a gaggle of peeping toms in the vicinity. Their ill-fated tour of the neighbourhood ends with an inevitable return to where they started - they approach their own house, where Homer gets to express further self-loathing by joking about having trampled the residing sucker's flower bed before realising where he is. The reality that all roads lead back to the disorder exemplified by the Simpsons is entirely inescapable. 

Because here's the thing. Homer was right about the Gammills. Their presentation as the happiest, most perfect of families is a facade. This is confirmed in a subtle but extremely telling visual gag, when we later see them in the waiting room of Monroe's clinic, all wearing distinctly sour expressions on their faces and all refusing to look one another in the eye. We can only speculate as to what's really going on behind closed doors with this clan (perhaps, much like the Lovejoys, the pressure of having to maintain their public facade is precisely what's causing them to crack). As it turns out, Homer has spent the narrative in pursuit of a mythical vision of the family that never existed, bearing out Lisa's assertion that "The sad truth is all families are like us." The final arrangement with the Gammills is not something the script explicitly highlights, leaving the viewer to take note and to draw their own conclusions, but it encapsulates the core message of "Disgrace", in having us contemplate why our sympathies should be so firmly with those ragtag Simpsons, and why it brings us such smug satisfaction to see the Gammills brought down to Earth. It is, naturally, so easy to see ourselves in the Simpsons' fallibility - the chant of "One of us! One of us!" that dominates Homer's hellacious fantasy is directed not just at Homer, but the audience as well, and by the end we can see that it's no bad thing. Monroe cannot fix the Simpsons, even after subjecting them to the most unorthodox, B. F. Skinner-inspired aversion therapy techniques designed to teach them gentler behaviour through operant conditioning ("I'll have plenty of time to explain while I warm up the electric generator"). Finding them uniformly prepared to shock one another without inhibition, and with no sign of slowing down, he's eventually forced to (literally) pull the plug and ask them to leave. Unbeknownst to Monroe, his efforts have failed not because the Simpsons are the worst of the worst and beyond all help, but because they never needed fixing the first place - even if this was something Homer jeopardised by depriving them of their beloved TV.

The moral of "Disgrace" is that the Simpsons were always basically fine. They might not be perfect, but as the the outcome at Monroe's clinic demonstrates, accepting imperfection is often a healthier and more fulfilling option than endeavoring to keep it buried. It's the family's ability to accommodate imperfection that makes them feel so real, and the episode's grasp on that fundamental point that causes it to hold up as such a quintessential Simpsons installment, with the quibbles about the family's individual characterisations all being small potatoes by comparison. The laws of nature say that we should expect families to have their share of messiness mixed in with the tireless devotion (just look at those bald eaglets the Simpsons watch on their television, who are entirely dependent on their mother regurgitating the food their father has worked so hard to bring to them) and, whatever their failings, there is an innate warmth and honesty in how the Simpsons are depicted. While they might not express it as performatively as the Gammills, there is also clearly a love and understanding where it most counts. They certainly come off better than the odious mother at the punch bowl who openly brags about how she plays her two children off one another for her affections: "I don't know who to love more - my son Joshua, who's captain of the football team, or my daughter Amber, who got the lead in the school play. Usually I'd use their grades as a tiebreaker, but they both got straight As this term, so what's a mother to do?" Well, for starters you're supposed to love your children equally and unconditionally, and that's something that Homer and Marge absolutely do (the subsequent running gag where Homer will intermittently fail to acknowledge Maggie's existence notwithstanding). We never meet Joshua or Amber, but you can tell that those poor kids are being set up for a wad of therapy as they enter adulthood. Even the Simpsons doppelgangers seen emerging from a session with Monroe, supposedly cured of their domestic strife, don't seem entirely genuine, talking in a way that seems more informed by Monroe's jargon than any actual connection with each other.

Running parallel to the episode's observations on the expectations and realities of family living is a witty critique of modern culture's dependence on and worship of the television. We see signs of this at the company picnic, when Marge is persuaded to leave Maggie in the designated nursery with the other babies, and with a screen playing episodes of The Happy Little Elves in lieu of human supervision. Later on, Homer finds himself competing with the television for command of his family, twice interrupting their viewing for his fruitless attempts at modifying their behaviour, and eventually resolving to pawn the television so that they can attend Monroe's therapy, much against their impassioned protests. On one level, this makes sense, for Homer recognises that the television has effectively supplanted him as the household patriarch. It maintains the equilibrium in a way that he couldn't hope to, and not only would his children sooner listen to it than to him, Marge even proposes that they pawn her engagement ring in its place, symbolically suggesting that the television takes precedent over their relationship. Furthermore, there's the implication that the television has gone so far as to assume the place in day to day life that might once traditionally have been occupied by a deity, with the ritual of sitting devotedly before the television with a dinner tray in hand having replaced the bygone practice of eating at the table after saying grace. The slight paradox in Homer's crusade is that he is shown to partake in this same idolatry, being as dependent upon the television's teachings as everybody else around him. In one scene, he implores the omnivorous man upstairs for an answer to his personal crisis and is met with only silence. He sees a promotion for Monroe's clinic on the television at Moe's bar and enthusiastically declares that the answers to life's problems are invariably to be found on TV. When presenting his family with his decided course of action, he claims to have researched the matter thoroughly, and that he has confidence in Monroe because of all the therapist commercials he's perused, his was the best. By sacrificing the television, Homer believes that he is reasserting control over his wayward family, but he's also throwing away a vital lifeline, a move bound to end in trouble. Marge accuses him of driving a stake through the hearts of those who love him, and during Monroe's session the rest of the family are unanimous in identifying Homer as the disturber of their previously-balanced peace.

Homer's paradoxical reverence and disregard for the television is compounded by the implication that the answers it's providing might not necessarily be the most trustworthy. We can tell that Monroe is not, in all odds, the solution to the family's problems, and not just because of the company he keeps (Lisa is mortified that Homer would put any stock in a therapist who advertises on pro-wrestling, prompting Homer to counter with the correction that he actually advertises on boxing, which is a more upmarket sport) but because of the glibness of what he's selling. In his ad, there is an unconvincing tonal dissonance between the grim and only partially exaggerated depiction of the struggles of a family where the father is visibly suffering from clinical depression and Monroe's upbeat promises of easy bliss and hugs. But even as Monroe expectedly transpires to have been full of hot air, the television itself does indeed provide. Homer is able to step up and become the dependable patriarch his family requires by holding Monroe accountable to his ad's guarantee of family bliss or double their money back, thus leaving the doctor hoisted by his own glibness. As they exit the clinic, the family are delighted that their supposed dysfunctionality, the sword that has up until now been wielded against them, has paid off so handsomely. As Lisa puts it, "It's not so much the money as the feeling we earned it". Marge suggests that they head straight to the pawn shop to retrieve their television, but Homer has an even better idea - they can use the money to upgrade to a bigger and better television, one with a 21-inch screen, realistic flesh tones (ha ha, I see what you did there) and a little cart so that they can wheel it in to the dining room on holidays. He has evidently abandoned his stance that the family's dining and television-watching should be kept separate, with the television now being extended a formal position at the table (if only on holidays). Marge, Bart, Lisa and Maggie are in total accord with the proposal. Homer has earned his family's respect, not by competing with the television, but by aligning with it, becoming the provider who improves his family's lived experiences by taking their TV-viewing to the next level. The final image of "Disgrace" shows the family walking off into the night in unison, their arms all stretched out around each other in a picture of perfect harmony. All it takes is a healthy consideration for every member's place within the household, the chattering cyclops included.

Finally, being such a germinal episode, from the point when The Simpsons was still transitioning from the original Ullman shorts and redefining itself as a stand-alone series, "There's No Disgrace Like Home" has ample of examples of those weird, wonderful and ever-rotating background pictures that used to adorn the walls of each interior shot. Until they settled on that rather nondescript boat painting you used to see so many oddities hanging over the Simpsons' couch. On this occasion it's a tropical island scene, similar to the one they later had up in "Moaning Lisa", although not exactly the same. These paintings are specifically singled out on the DVD commentary as one of those "tragic flaws" the producers were eager to be done with, but I personally like how much life and colour they lent the backgrounds in the early days. I miss the times when you could spot something as quirkily disconcerting as that painting in Monroe's waiting room of the lady sitting with the banjo and the cat, and it was all just part of the broader milieu.

[1] I've seen fans cite another later contradiction, in "The PTA Disbands" of Season 6, when Lisa had graduated to being a Vassar basher, but to that I say that she's allowed to change her mind.