Amazing Stories - "The Family Dog"

Original air date: 16th February 1987

Before I close the book on Family Dog, I'd like to take a look at the original Amazing Stories episode which kicked off the character's underwhelming career (albeit not with any astoundingly potent dynamic - it took several years for the spin-off series to come to fruition, after all).

Amazing Stories was an anthology series that was created by the 1980s' favourite hotshot director, Steven Spielberg, and ran on NBC for two seasons between 1985 and 1987.  The title of the series was lifted from that of a long-running science fiction magazine - although, as Family Dog's inclusion might indicate, the emphasis wasn't merely on science fiction stories but also on the wacky, unsettling and at times just plain odd.  NBC had enough confidence in the clout of the Spielberg brand name to commit to two years' worth of episodes from the go, only for the series to be completely trounced in the ratings war by CBS's Murder, She Wrote.  These days, Amazing Stories isn't terribly well-remembered - heck, the CBS Twilight Zone revival from around the same time (itself bolstered into being by the public's immense appetite for Spielbergian fantasies, at least on the big screen) left more of an imprint on popular culture (people still seem pretty traumatised by that "A Little Peace and Quiet" episode).  One of the more curious entries in the series' largely unnoticed run was a foray into a fully animated story, then a rarity on prime time television, which arrived a month and a half ahead of the Simpson family's debut as a supporting skit on The Tracey Ullman Show and also dealt with life in a dysfunctional suburban household.  The episode featured the up-and-coming talents of Brad Bird (who wrote and directed) and Tim Burton (who contributed character designs) and was apparently well-received enough that CBS later decided to use it as the basis for its own spin-off series, albeit a few years down the line, once The Simpsons had proven that there was a viable market for such things.  I suspect that, back in February 1987, getting something like this from a series aimed at adult audiences would have seemed extremely fresh, offbeat and daring, and in some respects "The Family Dog" may have even whetted the public's appetite for the prime time animated adventures of The Simpsons, although it has to be said that the Amazing Stories episode does look decidedly thin and shop-worn when compared to Groening's creations.  Bird had no involvement with the CBS spin-off, reportedly believing that "The Family Dog" had already reached the peak of its potential as a one-off installment, and it's not hard to see where he was coming from, even without taking the outcome into consideration.  "The Family Dog" may be superior in just about every regard to anything its ill-fated spin-off had to offer, but it's still a rather uneven piece of television that doesn't stack up against the best of Bird's work.

Unlike the spin-off series, which followed a one story per episode format and was consequently encumbered with having to pad out ten incredibly thin premises to a full twenty-one minutes each, "The Family Dog" adopts a multi-narrative approach, in being broken up into three self-contained stories told in succession.  Truthfully, this doesn't work out massively better than the spin-off's approach, the problem being that only the third story manages to be especially fun or compelling.  The first story, which is essentially designed to introduce each member of the Binford family and their unique hand in making life troublesome for the dog, is a slog to sit through, and feels more like a prolonged introduction to the third story than anything else, with the second "story" (if you can call it that) acting as a kind of intermission between the two.  Upon reaching the third story, which centres around the dog's efforts to protect the house from a pair of serial burglars, the episode finally kicks into gear and becomes extremely enjoyable.  You get the impression that this was the story that Bird was really interested in telling all along, but he couldn't figure out how to extend it to the necessary running time.  Thanks to the strength of the animation, which is head and shoulders above that of the spin-off series, the story has a solid visual wit and a likeable, Chuck Jones-esque expressiveness and energy throughout.  It's in this third story that the episode also goes absolutely nuts, straying from the realism of the earlier segments and simply trying to milk as much madcap lunacy as possible from the increasingly unlikely scenario.  As I say, it makes the entire affair seem incredibly uneven, though it does ensure something of interest in the latter stages.

Despite its altogether tediousness, the opening segment did, apparently, play as a standalone short attached to the US theatrical release of the Spielberg-produced animated film The Land Before Time (1988), which had undergone some serious editing and was in danger of running a little too short at 69 minutes.  Given that Bird had no intention of using the characters again beyond this one-off installment, it's surprising that he considered it necessary to give each of the Binfords such a drawn-out introduction (particularly as all of them are fashioned upon easily-recognisable archetypes), but I guess that he wanted to include a glimpse into the dog's everyday life by having him interact with the family in a more down-to-earth context before progressing toward the cartoonier hi-jinks.  We start out by watching Billy, who's bitter that Bev has roped him into vacuuming the house on a Saturday, harass the unfortunate dog by chasing him with the hoover.  The dog's no idiot, however, and knows that he'll be safe from Billy's hyperactive malice if he takes refuge next to Skip, who's watching a sports game with a neighbour, and who he knows Billy would never dare to antagonise.  What the dog doesn't count on is being beaten to a pulp with a rolled-up newspaper because Skip needs to cover for his own methane emissions.  He retreats to the kitchen and tries to scrounge a meal from Bev, but has to work to get her attention and when he finally does she rewards him with an angry outburst about her own unfulfilled dreams.  Noteworthy is that while Bev was voiced by Molly Cheek in the spin-off series, here she's voiced by Annie Potts (Bo Peep from the Toy Story films) and comes across as a spunkier though altogether more outwardly bitter character, in contrast to the perpetual weariness of Cheek's Bev.  The undeniable vigor of Potts' performance aside, there is something a tad unsettling about seeing the dog on the receiving end of such a melodramatic outburst.  Whereas Bev, in the spin-off series, was probably the least awful of the four Binfords toward the dog (she was only really actively callous toward him on one occasion, in "Enemy Dog"), here she uses the dog primarily as a punching bag for venting her frustrations with her stupid and shiftless family, and the results aren't very enjoyable.

Grudgingly, Bev opens up a can of dog food and proceeds its contents into his bowl, leading into a nifty visual gag in which we see the joy in the dog's expression slowly evaporating when he realises that he's in for a pretty uninspiring dinner from an inferior brand.  Suddenly, the dog loses his appetite and attempts to slink away, but Bev, who isn't prepared to let him off the hook after the trouble he just put her through, drags him back by the collar and forces him to eat.  Given the sheer tyranny exhibited by Bev toward the dog, I find I have limited sympathy for her when the dog subsequently staggers away and vomits up the gruesome offerings into her slipper.  The dog then runs into Buffy, the toddler of the household, who's intent on treating him like a doll and dressing him up in baby clothing.  As much as I loathe Buffy with a fiery hot vengeance in the spin-off series, here I actually find her to be a notch more tolerable, chiefly because her animation is so much more fluid and expressive, adding a vaguely demented vibe to her character that makes her central shtick seem a little less flat.  The dog eventually gets fed up and growls at Buffy, causing her to go running off in a screaming tantrum, just as Bev puts her feet into her slippers and discovers the dog's little present from earlier.  Realising that all hell is about to break loose, the dog attempts to escape out the front door, but finds himself ignored as the four Binfords bicker among themselves as to who is to blame for their pet's behaviour.  Eventually, the dog's panic gives way to boredom, and he marches over coolly, cocks his leg and passes water all over the living room rug, prompting Skip to toss him out of the house.  The segment fades out with the dog sitting in the front yard with a self-satisfied smile, relieved to have escaped the nightmares within (and to have relieved himself as a bonus).

The second segment takes the form of a super-8 movie of the family's last Xmas, which the Binfords are currently watching and providing a running commentary on.  Perhaps if you have kids of your own you'll find it all hilariously authentic, as Buffy repeatedly points out herself in the movie and then annoys her parents with repeated requests for a soda, but other than offering up a neat visual change of pace I personally find this segment to be entirely pointless.  There are some mildly amusing running gags involving Skip struggling to feign enthusiasm over being gifted with endless neck-ties and Billy terrorising the dog with increasingly nasty-looking playthings, and then at the end the dog exacts a vengeance (of sorts) by devouring the family's Xmas ham, but otherwise precious little happens.  Fortunately, this segment is also the shortest of the three, so we're able to move on fairly swiftly to the "guard dog" portion of the episode, which is where the fun really begins.

This segment opens with a somewhat weird moment where Buffy is describing a scene from a movie she saw in which a wolf devours a rabbit - unlike a lot of Buffy's dialogue, which come across as strained attempts to emulate the kind of things a toddler might say, this bit has a spontaneity that genuinely does feel like it might have been improvised.  It's then revealed that Skip, Billy and Buffy are seated at the dinner table and, just as Billy starts hurling childish insults at Buffy for spilling milk all over his lap, Bev walks in with a dodgy-looking pile of orange mush.  In the spin-off series, there was a rather tiresome running gag involving Bev's efforts to serve up wholesome, healthy meals, to the chagrin of her takeout-loving family.  Here, we see the origins of that gag, only the nature of the joke is somewhat different - in the Amazing Stories episode, it isn't health food that Bev grosses out her family with so much as weird and experimental recipes from housekeeping magazines, in this case tater puffs combined with cheese whip, which feels a little less cliche.  The way it plays out here is a heck of a lot funnier too.  Skip, Billy and Buffy manage to sneakily clear their plates by passing the contents down to the dog, who readily devours the lot, while Bev samples the recipe in the kitchen and decides that, actually, she'd sooner tip the whole revolting mess down the sink.  Skip suggests that the family go out for dessert and a movie, leaving the bloated dog alone to watch the house.  Unfortunately, on this particular night two burglars happen to waltz in and make off with the family's coach and coffee maker, while the dog is too overstuffed with Bev's potato-cheese whip concoction to even lift himself off the ground.

Naturally, when the family returns, Skip's none too happy that the dog has failed at his single duty and warns him that it had better not happen again.  Nine days later, when the family goes out for another evening at the movies, the dog is once again left alone and with a renewed determination to keep the house safe.  In an absolutely brilliant sequence which piles on the menace perfectly, we see the camera rotate continuously around the darkened household, the clock ticking away ominously, as the dog's vigilance slowly gives way to weariness.  At the rattling of the door handle, he suddenly springs back to life and lunges at the opening door in a raging burst of fury - nevertheless, we suspect that things won't work out too well for the dog and, sure enough, the intruders promptly sidestep him and proceed to lock him out of the house.  Once again, the Binfords come home to find their home stripped of its possessions and, once again, Skip isn't very happy with the dog.

It's at this point that the story crosses over into decidedly more warped territory, as Skip escorts the dog to Gerta Lestrange's Attack Dog School for assistance in becoming a savage, burglar-eating monster.  It's also here that Burton's hand in the design process becomes particularly evident, with the school in question looking like something straight out of Beetlejuice.  Skip appears to have second thoughts about the wisdom of hanging out in such a place, but Gerta promises that she can turn any dog into a "quivering, snarling, white hot ball of canine terror" and gives him a demonstration by having Angel, a neurotic-looking toy poodle, tear a huge chunk from her unfortunate assistant.  The dog is left in the care of Gerta and, two weeks later, Skip returns to find him in a state of energetic delirium which instantly switches over into all-out savagery at the click of a finger.  The entire Gerta sequence is far stranger, darker and more inventive than the spin-off series ever dared to get, and all the better for it.

That night, the family goes out and yet again the burglars, who by now have blatantly singled out the Binfords as easy targets, return for another merry evening of looting.  As soon as they pry open the door, however, they're greeted by the savage, raging monster on the other side and beat a speedy retreat.  Only once they've reached the apparent safety of their own house does the shorter of the two burglars become aware that the dog has accompanied them by latching onto his arm and is now refusing to let go.

Oh yes, and sharp-eyed viewers may have noticed that the license plate on the burglars' vehicle reads A113.  If you're an animation enthusiast, then odds are that you're already familiar with this particular in-joke, of which Bird has long been a key proponent.  But did you know that this is where the in-joke in question all began?  That's right, every time you see the gag featured in a Pixar film or an episode of The Simpsons, know that Family Dog has the unique distinction of being the very first animated project to utilise it.  Not bad for a property of otherwise very little consequence.

(If you're not familiar with the gag and are still scratching your head as to what A113 even signifies, it refers to a classroom at the California Institute of the Arts, where many prominent figures in the modern animation industry trained as students.  Bird likes to include it as an Easter egg in all of his films, and many other alumni have followed suit.)

As the Binfords fret about their missing dog, we see the burglar comically try to go about his life as normal, despite the handicap of having an angry and persistent terrier lodged into his arm.  Things take an unexpected turn when a police officer shows up at the door, having tracked the burglars down, and the dog, apparently conditioned to treat any shadowy figure lurking outside whatever property he's currently in as an intruder to be vanquished, abruptly switches his allegiances and savages the cop.  The burglars subdue the chewed-up police officer and, grateful to the dog for his assistance, decide to take him in and deploy his fearsome savagery in conducting further crime sprees.  It's here that the episode slips over from being slightly freaky into balls to the wall insanity, via a montage in which the dog is seen doing everything from holding up banks to depriving a petrified old lady in an alley way of her purse.  It's all extremely bonkers, but there's something distinctly disarming about it too.

As the criminal trio gains notoriety and is dubbed by the local press as the "Dog Gang", the burglars grow frustrated with their canine cohort hogging all the limelight, to the extent that one of them is emboldened enough to start antagonising the dog by threatening to replace him with a cat.  It's an incredibly dumb move, coming from someone who should be all-too familiar by now with what a vicious, nasty temper the little snapper has, and all the more idiotic for being carried out while the gang are cruising the streets in their getaway vehicle.  Predictably, the dog decides that he's not so keen on these two after all and launches into attack mode, causing them to crash into a police car and be promptly arrested.  The dog is then hailed as a hero for helping to bring the two criminals to justice and is returned to the Binfords.  It all wraps up just a little too glibly and abruptly, although in a manner that seems entirely befitting to the increasing lunacy of this narrative thread.  And as little as I cared for Bev's behaviour toward the dog in the opening segment, there is actually a bit of pay-off here, as suddenly she's all over the dog and feeding him a lavish steak dinner (this is the only sense in which the individual stories make any kind of direct nod to one another).  The episode concludes with Skip getting accidentally locked outside of the house while the rest of the Binford clan retires upstairs to bed and trying to sneak in through the back door, only for the dog's anti-intruder training to kick in yet again and...yeah, I'm sure you can write this one yourself.

Although "The Family Dog" does pick up considerably in its third act, its appeal is fairly limited and efforts to rework the scenario into a Simpsons-style sitcom were definitely misguided.  The script doesn't have the heart, sharpness or observational wit of The Simpsons and where it does excel, with madcap cartoon antics in the tradition of Chuck Jones, it feels like it would be better-suited to a six-minute short than to a full-length TV episode.  Not to mention that the Binfords are an inherently unpleasant bunch and there are only so many times that you can really tolerate seeing them bicker among themselves and treat their pet like refuse.  May that tombstone in the Springfield Pet Cemetery forever stand as a testament to the fact that some things aren't meant to be.

With that, I'm done with Family Dog for the foreseeable future.  Perhaps I'll find a reason to bring it up again at some point or another (should anything ever come to light about those three "lost" episodes, for instance), but after eight months of carefully studying the series and of trawling through the Binfords' antics, I definitely feel as if I've earned a nice long break from it for now.  This does prompt the question as to what obscure or long-forgotten cartoon series I'll be covering next - Fish Police is a definite possibility (made all the more attractive for the fact that it's a considerably shorter series than Family Dog), although rest assured that I'd have to be very, very bored to even consider giving Capitol Critters another run.  It's not quite as obscure or long-forgotten, but I did indicate back in November that I was planning an in-depth look at Al Jean and Mike Reiss's The Critic at some point in 2017.  Coming up next, however, will be coverage of a long-standing animated curiosity of mine, one with even weaker fortunes than Family Dog (ie: it never made it past the pilot stage), and which I'd previously hinted I would happily review should I ever come across it.  Check back to see what February has to offer.

VHS Verve: Alvin & The Chipmunks - Theodore's Life as a Dog

"Simon and Theodore convince Alvin that he's caused Theodore to turn into a dog!"

I probably should take a look at "Theodore's Life as a Dog", the third and final episode on The Chipmunks "Cookie Chomper" VHS release, if for no other reason then in the interests of completism, although there's not nearly half as much that I can say about this one.  As I noted in my coverage of the title episode, this episode frankly feels a bit out of place on this release, showing up after two very earnest and ambitious "issue" episodes and offering purely farcical hijinks (nothing wrong with that in itself, of course, but there's a definite tonal dissonance).  I presume that the idea was to enable the VHS release to go out with something silly and lighthearted, just to reassure kids that life isn't all serious - the irony being that, of the three, this is the only episode to end on note that feels genuinely sour.  For all the hardship their plots entailed, "Cookie Chomper" and "The Wall" were both able to wrap up with messages that felt thoughtful, sincere and optimistic.  This episode revolves around Simon and Theodore playing a prank on Alvin in order to punish him for being a dick, only to become even bigger dicks in the process and with no real consequences for them.  The writing for the episode is actually very good, and I did find myself chuckling at quite a few points throughout, but in story terms this one leaves me feeling a bit off-colour.  There's a vindictive vibe here which at times skirts dangerously close to Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends levels of meanness.  Let's check it out.

The episode opens with the Sevilles watching a werewolf movie on TV.  The exchange we overhear between two characters in this flick is absolutely golden, so allow me to transcribe for you it in full:

Professor: It seems too fantastic to believe - your boyfriend, Reginald, a werewolf?

Woman: (Distraught) During a full moon, my boyfriend turns into a horrible, starving, deranged wolf and...devours people!

Professor: Are you still seeing him?

Theodore then attempts to sneak away and into the kitchen, but Dave spots him and reminds him that he made a promise not to snack in between meals.  He heads into the kitchen anyway and Simon suggests that the family's new box of cookies doesn't have long to live, but Dave isn't worried as he's made a point of positioning the cookies on a high shelf where Theodore will struggle to reach them.  Unfortunately, this just encourages dangerous and stupid behaviour from Theodore, who's stacked a bunch of boxes onto a stool and is at serious risk of breaking his neck, when Alvin comes in and offers to help by guiding Theodore on where to reach.  "What are brothers for?" he asks, innocently.  Theodore is relieved because he thinks he's in good hands with Alvin and that he won't report him to Dave, only to discover that Alvin has tricked him into picking up and consuming a dog biscuit.  (Side-note: "Theodore's Life as a Dog" first aired on 7th January 1989, and predates "Cookie Chomper", the episode where the Sevilles acquire their pet dog, Lilly, so I'm a bit unclear on why they'd have a box of dog biscuits stocked in their larder in the first place, but whatever).  Theodore isn't exactly an innocent here, since he's deliberately disobeying Dave's orders on no snacking between meals, but Alvin certainly exploited his brother's trust in a decidedly mean and unpleasant way, so he has our sympathies for now.  Theodore complains to Simon about Alvin's behaviour and finds that he, too, is fed up with Alvin's pranks.  Noting that there's a full moon tomorrow and that Dave will be at work all day, Simon concocts a fiendish revenge plot that Theodore is only too happy to go along with.

The following morning, Alvin is feeling particularly cocky because Dave's not around and, even though he's been left with a huge list of chores to get done throughout the day, he's confident that he can con his two stupid brothers into doing them for him.  He then notices that Theodore is down on all fours and slavering all over the breakfast table.  Simon convinces Alvin that, since he made him eat a dog biscuit just before a full moon, he's inflicted a terrible curse on Theodore which is gradually transforming him into a weredog.  Actually, given that Theodore technically isn't human in the first place, I'm not sure if the term "weredog" is totally apt, but what would be the appropriate equivalent for an anthropomorphic chipmunk transforming into a non-anthropomorphic dog?  Alvin is a tad freaked out, but still too much of a selfish little prick to care, until Simon points out that he might have a personal stake in this:

Simon: I don't envy you, Alvin.

Alvin: Me?  But it's Theodore who's cursed, not me!

Simon: Yeah, well, you're the one who'll have to explain this to Dave.  And when I tell him what's in store for poor Theodore...

Simon proposes to go away and do research into Theodore's condition, while Alvin gets saddled with the "cursed" Theodore all day.  We then get our musical number, "Life of a Dog", as Theodore trails Alvin around while his doing his chores and creates a nuisance with his canine-esque behaviour.  Actually, it's interesting just how committed Theodore is to the prank, to the extent that he's willing to utterly slaughter his dignity in public.  There's a scene where they're in a supermarket and Theodore is leaping up onto the trolley and continuing to slaver over everything, and to the crowd of understandably anxious onlookers it must look like Theodore is behaving like a total lunatic.  Theodore also terrorises a mailman, attempts to piss against a lamppost and picks a fight with a Shih Tzu belonging to a girl named Mary who Alvin has a crush on.  By the end of the day, Alvin has reached the end of his figurative tether, only for Simon to drop yet another bombshell - he's done some reading and discovered that, if the curse is not removed by midnight, Theodore's transformation into a dog will be complete and irreversible.  The good news is that he's also read up on a means by which the curse can be lifted, although it involves Alvin, being the one who inadvertently facilitated the curse, dressing up as a dog and performing an ancient ritual.

That night, Alvin dons a makeshift dog costume, which basically consists of putting socks over his hands and ears and strapping on a red nose, and Simon has him go out into the yard and recite an incantation which will supposedly restore Theodore to normal if said for one minute after midnight.  Now, I noted earlier that Theodore was initially the sympathetic party in this whole affair, but there comes a point with these kinds of pranks where one seriously risks crossing a line if they allow things to drag on for too long.  Simon and Theodore definitely cross that line when they lure a neighbour's dog out of its garden, so as to convince Alvin that his incantation has failed and that Theodore's transformation is complete, causing the dog in question to be let loose onto the streets and impounded.  Although Alvin does sneak into the pound and release the dog, we never find out if it was reunited with its rightful owner, and that certainly bothers me.  There's also the fact that they have their brother, who is, after all, only a child, endanger himself by wandering the streets after midnight in pursuit of this dog.  Alvin, who's still wearing his makeshift dog costume, ends up being impounded himself, but since he can talk, he's able to convince the dog warden to grant him one phone call.

Alvin is picked up by Dave, and nervously tries to explain to him what's become of Theodore, only for Theodore himself to pop up out of the backseat of the car with Simon, suddenly right as rain.  The penny finally drops for Alvin, who now has a murderous glint his eye.   I do kind of have to love Dave's reaction to the whole thing, being one of such total and utter confusion that he's not even willing to delve into what actually happened, although if anyone deserves to have the shit lectured out them right now for their ugly behaviour, it's Simon and Theodore.  As Dave drives them all home, Simon ridicules Alvin for being so dumb as to believe that Theodore had ever turned into a dog, only to notice that Theodore is now sleeping on the backseat and exhibiting the grunting and twitching mannerisms of a dog.  Guess he's now so accustomed to pretending that this behaviour has become ingrained.  Dun dun dun.

The VHS closes off with an appearance from our friend the DiC "Kid In Bed" logo, albeit a version that incorporates the series' closing theme and avoids that naughty-sounding word being spoken out loud.  It's still the most hideous thing on the tape, regardless.

VHS Verve: Alvin & The Chipmunks - The Wall

"Whilst on tour, The Chipmunks heroically try to save a little girl's brother who is stuck on the "other side" of a prominent wall."

Following on from that episode about pet bereavement, we get yet another Chipmunk adventure which goes directly for the viewer's heartstrings and, against every cynical bone in your body and the niggling feeling that, as a grown adult, you really should be above this kind of nonsense, will absolutely succeed in tearing you apart.  The prominent wall mentioned in the VHS synopsis is very obviously the Berlin Wall, although it's never explicitly referred to as such in the episode itself.  "The Wall" first aired on 17th December 1988, and has the Chipmunks traveling to West Berlin to play at a benefit concert in support of world peace; instead, they become involved in the plight of a family who have been physically separated by the wall, only to be captured by the East Berlin authorities, who intend to use them to make a political point of their own.

"The Wall" is one of those specimens of children's entertainment that seems almost a little too bizarre to be true, at least from the synopsis.  Try bringing it up in adult conversation some time -  "Hey, do you remember that episode of Alvin & The Chipmunks where they bring down the Berlin Wall by playing a rock concert beside it?"- and see how much snickering you provoke.  Certainly, there's no denying that the way the thing plays out is cheesy as sin, and yet when I recently popped in the VHS to watch the episode for the purposes of this review, once they'd got around to singing that infernal "Let The Wall Come Down" song I was wiping tears from my eyes.  I simply couldn't help myself.

If the entire notion of the Chipmunks bringing down the Berlin Wall with a concert sounds a tad out there, then keep in mind that rock music has been fondly credited with, if not actually demolishing the wall, then playing a special role in feeding the revolutionary spirit of the East Berliners in its final years.  When David Bowie took his Glass Spider tour to West Berlin on 6th June 1987 as part of the three-day Concert for Berlin, a show held in front of the Reichstag and within the vicinity of the wall, thousands of East Berliners had gathered close to the border to listen in.  "We send our best wishes to all our friends who are on the other side of the wall", said Bowie in German, before launching into "Heroes", a song written while Bowie had been living in West Berlin about two lovers caught up in the divide.  It was a powerful moment which many see as a defining point in characterising the changing tides and increasing anti-wall sentiment - the German Foreign Office responded to Bowie's death on 10th January 2016 with a beautiful tweet thanking him for his role in helping to bring down the wall.  On the third night of the Concert For Berlin, while Genesis were performing on stage, police finally decided to launch a violent crackdown upon the East German gatherers, but the seeds of subversion were by then firmly planted and couldn't be shaken any time soon.  On 19th July 1988, things got particularly heated when Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band played a concert at the Weissensee district in East Berlin to a crowd of some 300,000 East Germans.  The Springsteen concert had been given the go-ahead by the East German authorities and its youth wing, Free German Youth (FGY), in the hopes of appeasing the growing revolutionary tension and improving their standing with the young generation - to Springsteen's horror, they stealthily attempted to label the show as a "Concert for Nicaragua" -  but if anything, it merely whetted that generation's rebellious appetite and yearning for change.  Not wishing to be prodded along by the Communist Regime's efforts to exploit him for their ends, Springsteen addressed his audience, in German, with the stirring message that, "I'm not here for or against any government. I've come to play rock 'n' roll for you in the hope that one day all the barriers will be torn down," before playing Bob Dylan's "Chimes of Freedom."  In fact, it seems a safe bet that the Chipmunks' own visit to East Berlin was conceived as a direct nod to Springsteen's, seeing as how The Boss himself gets multiple shout-outs therein.

So yes, with "The Wall" the Chipmunks were essentially adding their own helium-filled voices to the anti-wall fervor that prominent members of the rock community had been helping to vocalise.  Certainly, the show's producers appear to have recognised the power of music in providing catharsis and expression to such feelings and wished to pay tribute to that, in addition to delivering an anti-wall statement of their own.

The episode opens with Dave announcing to the Chipmunks that they've been invited to play at the annual "Wall of Iron" rock concert.  Alvin is mostly excited at the thought of getting to play alongside so many big names in the music business ("We'll boogie with The Boss, moonwalk with Michael!"), but Dave reminds him that the concert is a serious event held in support of world peace.  We cut to the Chipmunks arriving at West Berlin by plane, as Dave points out the wall and gives them a lowdown on its origins: "The wall was built after a war that divided the country in two.  Once a year this side of the wall has a concert for their friends and family living on the other side, where many freedoms we take for granted are denied."  He tells them that even rock and roll is against the law there, which shocks Alvin.  He questions who would want to live there and is reminded by Simon that the East Berliners don't exactly have a choice.

As Dave helps with the concert preparations, the Chipmunks do some sightseeing around the wall and encounter a girl named Caterina, who's waiting beside the wall to receive a message from her brother, Erik, who lives on the other side.  Caterina explains that Erik got separated from the rest of the family when they defected across the border and was left stranded.  Now, he and Caterina communicate on a daily basis by kicking a football over the wall and attaching pictures and written messages to it.  She receives one such message from Erik, which reads: "I'm okay.  Can you play Boss records tonight?  Miss you, love Erik."  Simon asks Caterina to clarify Erik's Springsteen request, and Caterina explains that Erik is an avid lover of rock music and draws strength from knowing that his family are enjoying his favourite records in his stead.  Caterina has prepared some pictures of her family to send back to Erik, but these consist entirely of  crude stick figure drawings.  "I know it's not very good", she says, mournfully, "but I don't have a camera."  "Well, we do," says Simon.  Huh, I don't know about you, but it sounded to me like Caterina was fishing for reassurance there, and I always thought the chipmunks were kind of dicks for not offering her any.  Anyway, before we know it a whole bunch of snapshots featuring Caterina and the Chipmunks have materialised - all three Chipmunks can be seen in them all, leaving me a bit unclear as to who actually took the pictures.  At this point, Caterina twigs who they are and tells them that Erik is a really big fan of theirs.  She gets them to autograph the football and then kicks it back across the wall to Erik.  Seeing that Caterina is still sad, Alvin vows to bring Erik across safely to the other side, although his brothers suspect that he may already be promising more than he can deliver - for one thing, they don't even know what Erik looks like.  Caterina says that she has a picture of him, although by picture she of course means one of her crude stick figure drawings.  Even Alvin's confidence takes a slight dip at this point.

Alvin's grand plan consists of marching across to East Berlin and demanding that they allow Erik to move freely into West Berlin, believing that his celebrity will give them all the clout that they need.  Getting past the West Berlin border guard proves no problem, as he's too wrapped up in listening to his walkman, but the East Berlin guards are far more attentive.  "Defectors?" one asks.  "We never get anyone defecting to our side."  Alvin explains who they are, only to find themselves seized by the border guards, who declare that the Chipmunks are exactly what they need.  Dave witnesses this and rushes across to the Chipmunks' aid, but is denied entry.  Instead, he valiantly attempts to climb over the wall, but is thwarted by a football which has been kicked over by Erik, carrying another message for Caterina.  Erik has seen the Chipmunks being carried away by the East Berlin authorities and intends to escape across the wall with them during the concert tonight.  Meanwhile, the Chipmunks find themselves confined to a derelict hotel room, with the authorities declaring that they intend to take them to the "rock pile" that evening.  Those authorities appear to be surprisingly slack on security, however, for Erik is able to worm his way into the hotel without incident by disguising himself as a bellhop.  Theodore immediately recognises Erik - apparently Caterina's crude stick figure drawing was more than enough for him to go off - who leads them in a good old-fashioned escape bid by knotting several bed sheets together.

Erik and the Chipmunks slip cautiously through the streets of East Berlin, which are surprisingly deserted - the only other figures seen out and about at all are a couple of authorities, who are discussing what good fortune it is that they were able to get the Chipmunks and how they intend to make an example of them.  Erik gets the Chipmunks to a friend of his, who is a tailor.  He helps to disguise the Chipmunks by decking them out in baggy clothing, and asks them to return the favour by taking a gift to his granddaughter, who lives on the other side of the wall.  In spite of their ingenious disguises, the Chipmunks (and Erik) are recaptured almost immediately upon taking to the streets.  Meanwhile, the Wall of Iron concert is underway and Dave and Caterina are waiting for their respective family members to make it across the wall.  Caterina fears that they will not make it, but Dave seems extraordinarily calm given the circumstances, attributing his confidence to the fact that, "Alvin hasn't missed a spotlight yet."

Back in East Berlin, the apprehensive Chipmunks are being marched toward the "Rock Pile", with the authorities eagerly declaring that they will show their people how they really feel about rock and roll.  "Give him the axe!", orders one, pointing to Alvin.  "No, not the axe!" Alvin screams, trembling at the thought of being hacked to death.  To his surprise, he finds himself being handed a guitar.  Theodore, meanwhile, is given drumsticks and Simon a keyboard.  As it turns out, the East Berlin authorities are as fed up as everyone else with the situation and want to make a statement about rock music and how they don't think that it should be against the law.  Oh, okay, although they might have picked a term for their venue slightly less open to misinterpretation than the "Rock Pile".

With the Wall of Iron concert drawing to a close and still not a peep heard from the Chipmunks, Dave declares that he's going to take another stab at getting his boys back himself, when all of a sudden they hear the sounds of melancholic rock music being played from the other side of the wall.  It's here that we get that "Let The Wall Come Down" song I referenced earlier.  "Heroes" it ain't, but you'd be shocked at just how deeply moving this sequence is nonetheless, with crowds from both sides of the wall gathering in mutual awe at what's taking place.

The lyrics:

"Far from the battlefield, far from war,
We've got to look for an open door,
All of us working, all of us searching for peace,
We dream of a time when we all are one,
Clinging to hope under Earth's bright sun,
So let's get together, things will be better if we try,
Hear our cry!

Some day the pain of war will be healed,
Some day when we can speak what we feel,
Let the wall come down,
Tumble to the ground,
And love will live in peace all around.

So let's raises our voice so they all can hear,
Over the wall they will raise a cheer,
All of us clinging, all of us singing the cry,
We will try!

Some day the pain of war will be healed,
Some day when we can speak what we feel,
Let the wall come down,
Tumble to the ground,
And love will live in peace all around."

The vibrations from the Chipmunks' performance are so powerful, in fact, that cracks begin to appear in the wall - or perhaps this is simply the manifestation of the will of the people, as their yearning to be free and united swells up to the point that the barriers are completely overwhelmed.  As the wall finally crumbles to the ground, we see various characters racing across the shattered barrier and embracing - Erik and Caterina, the tailor and his granddaughter - with Dave making it across just as the Chipmunks finish up their song.  The Sevilles are in the midst of a triumphant embrace when all of sudden the picture begins to waver, we hear ominous chiming music, and - GAAAAH, we find ourselves back aboard the plane, with Alvin, Simon and Theodore snuggled up against their airline pillows, and Alvin continuing to mutter the lyrics to "Let The Wall Come Down" in his half-sleep state.  That's right, the entire thing was nothing more than an airline food-fueled fantasy taking place inside Alvin's head.  Naturally - you didn't really think they would have the Chipmunks do something as ridiculous as bring the Berlin Wall down with a rock concert, did you?  (With that in mind, I suppose we can disregard whatever minor logical nitpicks I raised with this episode.  If it's all a dream, then I guess there's no obligation for it to make airtight sense, magic camera and all.)

At this stage, you might be forgiven for thinking that the episode has gone and played the most irritating cop-out card of all-time, but it actually does have a very powerful piece of symbolism up its sleeve.  Looking out as their plane touches down at West Berlin and seeing the wall still standing, Alvin reflects, wistfully, that "It was only a dream...but it doesn't have to be."  The episode's final image shows Erik and Caterina embracing beside the fallen wall; its closing mood poignant, but also hopeful.

How prophetic Alvin turned out to be.  On 9th November 1989, less than a year after "The Wall" had first aired, the barriers really did come down - although the physical demolition of the wall did not begin until 1990 and the reunification of Germany was not formalised until later on that year, on that historic day in 1989 the East German government announced that its people would be allowed entry into the West and crowds of jubilant East Berliners headed across to celebrate with their neighbours on the other side.  There were, of course, a variety of complex factors leading up to the fall of the Berlin Wall, so in the end it's probably a bit romantic to suggest that it basically came down to Bowie, Springsteen et al galvanising the East Germans by playing a few songs to them - nevertheless, they had a powerful hand in vocalising their hopes and frustrations, speaking not only to those directly affected by the division but also enabling listeners from all over the globe to feel united in their mutual passion for the music, and that barriers could be positively swept over through such a simple human connection.  How lovely that Alvin & The Chipmunks wanted to be a part of that, and to impart that message to an entire generation of children.  Its approach to the subject is naturally pretty simplistic and hackneyed, and yet I cannot overestimate just how choked up I get when the Chipmunks perform their song, and during the episode's closing moments.  They put together quite the little stonker here.

Finally, a small side-note from my personal recollection.  When I caught a re-run of this episode on Children's BBC in the mid-90s, I could swear that they actually cut out Alvin's final line and faded things out with him muttering the lyrics to "Let The Wall Come Down" in his sleep.  Naturally, that ending doesn't have quite the same impact - without Alvin illuminating the symbolism of his dream and transforming it into a message of hope, it becomes little more than the standard "it was all a dream" cop-out.  Maybe the cut was implemented upon the grounds that the Berlin Wall by then already come down and Alvin's closing message might have seemed redundant, but I would find such reasoning to be spurious.  Berlin Wall or no Berlin Wall, Alvin's statement is still stirring on such a universal level, a reminder of the barriers we've erected and overcome throughout human history and that hope and perseverance are some of the most powerful qualities we have as human beings, and to be cherished.  Because god knows what kinds of barriers, literal and figurative, we're going to have to overcome in the future.

VHS Verve: Alvin & The Chipmunks - Cookie Chomper

"The Chipmunks learn about the loss of a loved one and find a compassionate way to make amends."

(No, Mark's not me.  This was a second-hand purchase.)

If you wondered what (if anything) would be replacing "Farthing Wood Deaths Revisited" as my long-running retrospective on the cartoon carnage that left me with psychological skid marks as a nipper, then this is probably the closest that you're going to get for now.  I had given thought to doing a similar retrospective on a different series, but immediately ran into a brick wall in that I couldn't think of another cartoon, at least from my own childhood,that killed off its characters with such merciless frequency.  The Animals of Farthing Wood was truly one of a kind in that regard.  I got to thinking that perhaps I might have more luck if I didn't limit myself to just one series, and then recalled how fascinated I've always been with children's media that deals very explicitly with the subject of death.  I don't mean in the Farthing Wood sense, mind, where characters die left, right and centre but it's treated as a simple fact of life that nobody has the time nor energy to dwell on beyond a basic, "oh, well, that was undesirable."  I'm thinking more about cartoons which are blatantly looking to teach their young audience a lesson about the nature of loss and bereavement.  A lot of people have this assumption that death in children's entertainment is a taboo, at least in the traditional Saturday morning kids' cartoon (I'm told that those technically don't exist any more, but I'm not sure what the modern terminology would be), where people still raise eyebrows if characters so much as utter the words "kill" or "die".  Traditionally, kids' cartoons are supposed to be mindless, frenetic junk designed to fill in a few gaps in between ads for fast food and sugary cereal - the notion that they'd even consider tackling something as weighty as death and the grieving process seems entirely incongruous.  And yet, the issue of loss is one which most children are going to have to deal with at some point in their lifetime, be it for a pet, friend or family member, and I have to admire the audacious few which are willing to set aside an episode in order to help their young audience understand what they're going through and to see that hope, acceptance and renewal can eventually come out of grief.

We'll start by focusing on the "death episode" which affected me the most deeply in my own childhood - namely, the Alvin & The Chipmunks episode "Cookie Chomper".  It's handy, because I've also been meaning to start a new series centering on some of the VHS tapes from my personal collection, and this means I get to kill two birds with one stone.  "Cookie Chomper" shows up on a UK VHS release from Castle Vision in 1990.  There have been a few Alvin & The Chipmunks incarnations over time, so I do want to make it clear that I am, of course, referring to the animated series which began in 1983, ran until 1990 and moved through quite a few production companies before finally ending up with our good friends at DiC Entertainment.  This VHS contains three episodes of said series - in addition to "Cookie Chomper", we also get "The Wall" and "Theodore's Life as a Dog".  "The Wall" is another slightly curious one since it involves the Chipmunks traveling to the Berlin Wall and literally bringing it down with an impromptu rock concert, but we'll get to that in due course.  "Theodore's Life as a Dog" is curious only in the sense that it's a silly, slice-of-life episode paired up with two extremely weighty ones.  I guess they felt the need to round off on something a bit frivolous in order to lighten the overall load.

"Cookie Chomper" first aired in the US on 23rd September 1989.  In this episode, Alvin, Simon and Theodore find a stray kitten and decide to take him in but, sensing that their manager/adopted father Dave Seville might not approve, try to keep him a secret, which is easier said than done with Dave having a cat allergy.  Wacky hi-jinks ensue.  Eventually, Dave learns about the cat, whom the boys have dubbed Cookie Chomper III, and allows them to keep him, despite the adverse effect the tiny creature is having on his nostrils.  More wacky hi-jinks ensue.  Then one night Cookie Chomper III gets out of the house and goes for a wander, only to be struck down and killed by a car (off-screen) in the early hours of the morning.  If you watched the episode without knowing that was coming, you might feel like you've been hit by something too.

Apparently this episode was inspired by the true-life experiences of Ross Bagdasarian Jr and Janice Karman (owners of the Chipmunks' production company, Bagdasarian Productions) whose dog Tiger Lilly was killed in a similar manner to Cookie Chomper III and receives a dedication at the start of the 1987 feature film The Chipmunk Adventure.  Clearly, they were left with a deep sensitivity to how difficult an experience it can be to lose a beloved pet, and were motivated to create an episode which might help children in a similar situation.  Personally, I think they succeeded very well - as much as this episode shocked and upset me when I first saw it as a kid, I later found myself referring back to it when my pet rabbit died and was able to draw strength from its messages.  The episode handles the subject of pet loss in a very sensitive and non-condescending way, and by golly will you shed a few tears in the process over the fate of the chipmunks' own cherished friend.

The "Cookie Chomper" VHS release contains no opening trailers, but the Castle Vision logo is as delectably nightmarish as you would hope for a video distribution company from this era:

The episode opens with the three chipmunk brothers home alone in their living room.  I doubt that I need to specify who each of the chipmunks are individually, but if you came to this episode blind then you'd very quickly pick up that Alvin is the reckless rebel, Simon the precocious intellectual and Theodore the emotionally sensitive softie of the group.  Theodore is distressed because Alvin is pounding the snot out of his favourite stuffed dinosaur, Muffin, which Alvin has re-imagined as "Terrible Tex", a professional wrestler with "poisonous eyes and retractable brain cells."  Meanwhile, Simon grumbles about having to contemplate the fact that he's related to the two of them.  Dave then rings from the Chipmunks' mixing studio and announces that he's going to have work overtime and won't be home until late, so he puts Simon in charge of the household.  Simon specifies his role as being a "surrogate parent" or "substitute authority figure" and that night, as he tries to get everyone to bed, Alvin proceeds to pester him by asking if there are such things as ghosts with suction cups on their eyes and toes which can jump out and bite them in the dark.  The very image is enough to have Theodore quaking in his sheets, but Simon reassures him that he's made a point of ensuring that all doors and windows are secured and that nothing can get in.  The chipmunks hear a strange wailing noise, however, and quickly establish that something very sinister is making its way up the stairs.  The three of them huddle together in fear, as Alvin points out that, as the surrogate parent, it's Simon's duty to head the response.

Reluctantly, Simon leads them outside into the corridor, where they spot an unidentified lump in pillow case crawling across the floor in their direction.  Alvin and Simon immediately dart back inside the bedroom and secure the door, but Theodore, who isn't fast enough, is left to his fate.  "Don't kill me" he begs the phantom pillow case, "I'm just a kid."  Fortunately for him, the intruder turns out to be nothing more than a harmless stray kitten, which he immediately takes a shine to.  Inside the bedroom, Alvin and Simon realise that Theodore didn't make it and wonder if the monster ate him, but soon cotton onto the truth.  Simon realises that, contrary to his earlier reassurances, he did leave a window open, which is how the cat likely gained entry.  I'm left thinking that, actually, Simon made a pretty shoddy surrogate parent.  Not only did he overlook that open window, but he left his brother shut outside and at the mercy of a potential aggressor.  Anyhow, Theodore has his heart set upon keeping the kitten, but Simon points out that Dave will likely not approve, so the brothers resolve to keep their new friend a secret.  Naturally, Alvin can't afford to appear too sentimental, so he slips in some scatological remark about cute little kittens leaving cute little surprises all over rugs and how he doesn't plan on being the one to clean them up.  Just then, Dave arrives back home, so the chipmunks jump back in bed and Theodore tries to conceal the kitten under the covers.  Dave comes in to check on them, and Theodore frankly does a rather terrible job of not acting in any way suspicious, but I guess that Dave's too tired to pick up on this.  He does start sneezing as he exits the room, but puts this down to hay fever season starting earlier each year.

The following morning, Simon catches Alvin "cleaning" the dishes by having the kitten lick them and and has him do them again, highlighting the vile implications of having to eat off plates laced with kitten saliva.  The chipmunks then start clashing over what they're going to name their new pet.  Mirroring the dinosaur debate from earlier, Theodore favours something cute-sounding derived from a sugary snack (Cookie), while Alvin wants something to make the cat sound vicious and fearsome (Chomper).  In the end, Simon works out a compromise by proposing that the cat's name be Cookie Chomper and then adds his own touch by sticking "III" on the end.  I know that the idea is for all three of them to have a hand in naming the cat, and naturally Simon would be the one to throw in an element of sophistication, but what makes Cookie Chomper the third in a line, specifically?  Is there a joke in there I'm not getting?  Dave walks in, still sneezing, and gets suspicious when he notices that Theodore appears to be concealing something up his sleeve, only the chipmunks are able to convince him that they're simply practicing the new Jane Fonda work-out routine.  Very 1980s, eh?

That evening, Dave has a date lined up with a woman named Roxanne, and the chipmunks are happy about this, as it means they'll get the house to themselves and can play freely with Cookie Chomper.  Unfortunately, Dave announces that he doesn't feel up to eating at a restaurant due to his allergies playing up, so he's decided to have the date at the house and implores the chipmunks to be on their best behaviour.  Obviously, it's not going to work out.  Cookie Chomper sneaks downstairs during the dinner and quickly has all three chipmunks ducking and diving under the table in an effort to grab him.  At this point, the cat's pretty much out of the bag (literally and figuratively) as far as Dave's concerned, but Roxanne, happily, turns out to be a big cat person and Cookie Chomper proves a hit with her.  Dave is apparently so relieved that he ends up giving Cookie Chomper his blessing, allergy or no allergy.

As Cookie Chomper settles into the Seville household (and Alvin has to grapple with the task of cleaning out the cat's litter box), Simon becomes convinced that Dave's allergies are psychosomatic and attempts to reprogram them by presenting him with flashcards of a cat and a dog and mixing up their corresponding words so that Dave subconsciously accepts Cookie Chomper as a dog.  Well, it does the trick, because Dave stops sneezing over Cookie Chomper and happily embraces the cat.  I'll warn you here that, if either yourself your children should require a happy ending, then this is definitely the point to switch off your VHS machine or fast forward to the next episode.  Maybe you'd be better off with that one about the Berlin Wall.

Simon, who doesn't approve of Cookie Chomper continuing to sleep in Theodore's bed, has prepared a special nest for the kitten in the chipmunks' bedroom, and Theodore gives Cookie Chomper his teddy so that he'll have something to snuggle up to in the night if he gets scared.  Alvin, who's still intent on the cat growing up to be a fearsome monster, confiscates the teddy while his brothers are sleeping and places it on the bedroom window sill.  Unfortunately, the chipmunks have once again overlooked the importance of ensuring that all windows are fastened before they sleep, and Cookie Chomper crawls up onto the window during the night to chase a fly and promptly topples out.  Ostensibly, this all looks perfectly cute and harmless, only the music suddenly swells up dramatically at this point, giving us fair warning that whatever comes of Cookie's little escapade won't be anything good.

The following morning, a stranger shows up at the Seville's door, bearing Cookie Chomper's collar and terrible news.  "I tried to stop my car in time," he tells Dave, "but the kitten was in the street."  Given that the collar is all he returns, I do have wonder what became of Cookie Chomper's bodily remains - surely he wasn't just left in the gutter to decompose?  Dave worries about how he'll break the news to the boys, only to turn around and find them standing right behind him.  As I've indicated, this represents rather an abrupt change of pace for the episode, and it may be a bit much for some viewers to handle, but it's very effective in underscoring just how shocking and unexpected some such losses can be, along with the sheer bluntness of the emotional impact that loss entails.

The remainder of the episode is structured around the five stages of grief, and we rejoin the chipmunks to find them all at different stages of the grieving process.  Theodore, who still goes out into the street and calls for Cookie in the hopes that this has all just been a case of mistaken identity, is in Denial.  Alvin, who throws out all of the family's houseplants on the realisation that they too will die on him one day, is in Anger.  Simon, who no longer has any interest in doing the things he would have positively leapt at in happier days, is in Depression.  Dave attempts to console each of them, but ultimately has to allow them time to work through their respective feelings.  All three chipmunks move into the Searching/Bargaining stage together when they begin to discuss the circumstances leading up to Cookie Chomper's death and what they could have done to have prevented it.  Each chipmunk believes that he is intrinsically to blame - Theodore neglected to close the window through which Cookie Chomper escaped, Simon regrets not letting Cookie Chomper sleep where he was most contented in Theodore's bed, while Alvin, for once not bothering to conceal his his emotions, feels that Cookie Chomper only went to the window in the first place because he put the teddy there (I can only assume that the Bagdasarians went through a similar bit of soul-searching following the death of Tiger Lilly).  Dave overhears their conversation and assures them that sometimes these things happen and that none of them are truly to blame.  Finally, he helps them to move into the ultimate stage of the grieving process - Acceptance - by urging them to remember Cookie Chomper for the joy he brought them in the short time they had together.  It's here that we get a song, "Beautiful Memories", which plays over a montage of clips showing the Chipmunks interacting with Cookie Chomper.  It's not the most amazingly written song in the world, although I defy you not to start sobbing during this sequence all the same.  It closes with Dave hanging up Cookie Chomper's collar upon a plaque dedicated to his memory, a symbol of his enduring place within the family's lives.

In the final scene, we see Dave surprising the chipmunks by taking them to an animal shelter to adopt a new pet.  Theodore is reluctant at first, pointing out that no other pet could be the same as Cookie Chomper.  I appreciate that the episode addresses this point, with Dave agreeing and admitting that Cookie Chomper can never be replaced; obviously, life must go on and the chipmunks getting a new pet would be one such symbol of renewal, but I like that the episode doesn't shy away from the fact that it will not, in itself, prevent them from from missing Cookie Chomper.  Instead, Dave tells them that a new pet would be "just as special, in a different way."  The chipmunks find a Cavalier King Charles spaniel-type dog and decide to adopt her, and although Simon finds the notion a bit overwhelming at first, it isn't long before the playful pup has won him over with her feisty antics.  Although Alvin has a couple of characteristic recommendations for names, ("Buzzsaw", "Crusher") they end up naming the dog Lilly, in an obvious nod to the Bagdasarian's own aforementioned Tiger Lilly (thus, giving her a sort of immortality in cartoon form).  Unfortunately, as the family lead their new pet home, they shortly discover that, as a side-effect of Simon's earlier re-programming, Dave is now allergic to dogs.  Simon attempts to re-program Dave into having a hippopotamus allergy instead, only Dave isn't quite so willing to go along with it this time around.

We'll close with a final word of tribute to Cookie Chomper III, the cartoon cat from the Saturday morning kids' show about singing chipmunks who, just shy of three decades on, still has the power to make grown adults cry.  Thanks for all the heartbreak, Cookie - it proved very helpful down the road of life.

NEXT UP: The Wall

When The Wind Blows (1986)

As my blogging tendencies might indicate, I'm deeply affected by cartoon carnage of all shapes and sizes, but if you were to ask me which animated death stands out as being the singularly most traumatic of my own childhood, I would vote without hesitation for the titular character from the 1982 adaptation of Raymond Briggs' The Snowman.  Just so there's no misunderstanding here, I love The Snowman dearly and consider it to be one of the finest animated films ever made (it is certainly the finest seasonal animated film).  But as a small kid, I never got why adults were so keen on shoving this incredibly distressing story down our throats at every opportunity.  The Snowman was everywhere when I was a kid - books, toys, jigsaw puzzles, the works (this actually hasn't changed much, only these days he's typically accompanied by that odious coattail-rider The Snowdog).  Not only was it a fixture of seasonal viewing, they frequently rolled it out for us to watch at school at absolutely any time of year.  I sat and watched in silence, but I was extremely grateful to the one child who commented, with vague undertones of protest, that it was "a sad story".  No fooling.  The Snowman broke my heart as a four year old (what it left intact of my childhood innocence was subsequently finished off when we rented the VHS of Benji The Hunted) and it still breaks my heart today as a full-grown adult.  I fervently maintain that it's the saddest ending of all-time, way sadder than E.T. the Extra Terrestrial or whatever topped the most recent poll of tearjerker moments.

Of course, as I got older I also gained a greater appreciation for the aesthetic and atmospheric merits of the film, which are beyond wonderful.  But what really helped to take the sting off that ending, for a while, was that enchantingly bizarre live-action opening in which David Bowie walks in and introduces the film as something that happened to him as a child - really now, if we were supposed to conclude that the young child in the story grew up to be DAVID BOWIE, then suddenly the ending doesn't seem quite so glum after all.  That Bowie was possibly just supposed be in character, as the young protagonist's grown-up counterpart, didn't occur to me until years later, when some spoilsport pointed out that the present he receives from Father Christmas bears a name tag reading "James" - actually, I think I'd always willfully overlooked that detail because it didn't exactly mesh with my fantasies (regardless, which of those two interpretations would you rather have as the official one?).  Nevertheless, I've always held the Bowie opening close very to my heart, and I'll never forget how fuming I was when I tuned in one year, in the early 00s, and discovered that they'd replaced it with one featuring Briggs' version of Father Christmas (with no disrespect to Mel Smith, who always did a charming job voicing him), which rubbed further salt into my wounds by very explicitly calling the boy "James".  I recently tuned in again for the 2016 broadcast and was delighted to see that the Bowie opening had returned, but...um, yeah, obviously that came with its own very heavy dash of poignancy this time around.  Actually, it's safe to say that the 2016 broadcast of The Snowman left me even more weepy-eyed than usual.

We'll talk more about The Snowman, the profound effect it had on my life and my petty resentment toward The Snowdog at a later date.  I bring it up now because it never ceases to surprise me how many people, when discussing Jimmy T. Murakami's other adaptation of a classic Raymond Briggs tearjerker (also with Bowie's fingers somewhere in the pie), will utter something along the lines of, "Hard to believe that something as harrowing as this came from the very same mind as The Snowman".  Actually, I don't find it hard to believe at all; not when I look back and recall how many buckets of tears I've shed over that damned Snowman film.  Raymond Briggs absolutely loved to tear at his readers' heartstrings - it's something he did pretty consistently throughout his career.  When The Wind Blows may well be the darkest, most terror-inducing entry in his canon, but it's by no means an anomaly on the grimness front (see also - The Man, Ethel & Ernest, the screenplay for Ivor The Invisible).  Father Christmas and its sequel, Father Christmas Goes On Holiday, are actually quite unusual among Briggs' output for containing no real horror or heartbreak of any variety.

First published in 1982, When The Wind Blows tells the tragic story of Jim and Hilda, an elderly English couple who survive a nuclear attack by constructing a lean-to shelter in their living room, only to find themselves helpless and left to fend for their ill-equipped selves when faced with the prospect of long-term survival in a devastated Sussex.  One of the book's stranger attributes is that it is, technically, a sequel to a book published two years prior, titled Gentleman Jim, although thematically there's not much to link the two, other than Jim's pitiful ignorance on surviving in a world that's quite a bit harsher than he anticipates.  With not so much a hint of impending nuclear annihilation in the air, Gentleman Jim sees Jim ditching his dead-end job as a public convenience janitor in favour of pursuing his boyhood dreams of being a highwayman.  It never skirts anywhere close to When The Wind Blows' levels of bleakness, but it still doesn't end terribly well for Jim, with his painfully naive, if well-intentioned antics ultimately landing him behind bars.  No reference is made to any of this in When The Wind Blows, leaving me a bit unclear as to whether the two stories are actually supposed to take place within the same timeline or if Briggs was merely recycling the characters in a brand new context.  Now out of jail and retired, Jim spends most of his days at the public library, keeping up to speed on the deteriorating international situation with the Soviet Union.  Hilda, meanwhile, refuses to immerse herself in her husband's growing fear of nuclear warfare, preferring to carry on as normal under the assumption that it will all blow over (and besides, nothing can get too out of control as long as she's able to keep the home in order).  Their son, Ron, whom we never actually meet first-hand, is resistant to Jim's instructions that he likewise prepare for nuclear attack, insisting that if the bomb does fall then there could be no hope of survival either way (note: anyone who's read Ethel & Ernest will twig that Jim and Hilda were clearly modeled on Briggs' own parents, with Ron being a stand-in for Briggs himself - he went to art college and was corrupted by some "blessed beatniks", according to Hilda).

Broadly, When The Wind Blows was Briggs' searing critique of government-issued civil defence materials on nuclear warfare, notably the infamous Protect and Survive pamphlet published in 1980, with Jim's blatantly misplaced trust in the directions therein (and in authorities in general) providing much of the story's pathos.  The title of the book is lifted directly from the traditional lullaby "Rock-a-bye Baby" (its references to the breaking bough here signifying the fragility of life and civilisation in the face of nuclear attack), but it also echoes the warning found in Protect and Survive that "radioactive dust, falling where the wind blows it, will bring the most widespread dangers of all."  What makes Protect and Survive such a chilling read, thirty-seven years on, are its distressingly unconvincing attempts to graft a sense of order and control onto a backdrop of sheer apocalyptic chaos; the notion that you could survive by hiding under a heap of doors and bin-bags and cleaning your plates in a box of sand when the wind was blowing deadly poison in all directions.  Occasionally, there's a slight slip-up which betrays just how dire such a predicament would truly be; notably, the warning that the sick and injured within your party should not expect to receive medical treatment for quite some time, and the subtle hint that if you live in a caravan, then you're basically screwed - contact your local authority for advice because we're pretty much clueless on this one.  Jim does his best to follow the government instructions to the letter, although he struggles to understand the reasoning behind a large chunk of them and is frequently bewildered by the strange and sometimes contradictory advice.  Whenever the situation becomes too dislocating for them, Jim and Hilda remedy their confusion by falling back on their nostalgia for the wartime spirit and optimism of their youth - a recurring source of both humour and horror throughout the story is the manner in which their memories of growing up during World War II have coloured their perception of the present conflict and how they anticipate things will play out (Briggs is keen to highlight the perils of such nostalgia, along with the irony that, once upon a time, Britain regarded Stalin as one of the good guys).  Despite Jim's steadfast confidence in The Powers That Be endeavouring to keep the general populace informed and united in the event of emergency, and providing assistance and leadership in the aftermath of attack, it's painfully obvious that once the bomb goes down it'll be every man and woman for themselves.  And a stiff upper lip is a very poor defence when there's fall-out in the air.

Murakami's film, which debuted in 1986, is enormously faithful to Briggs' book - not only is the original plot recreated in painstaking detail, but the screenplay (written by Briggs himself) replicates much of the book's dialogue word-for-word.  Jim and Hilda are voiced by John Mills and Peggy Ashcroft, respectively, and each is imbued with all the right levels of naivety, vulnerability and charm (Robert Houston, meanwhile, provides the voice of the radio announcer).  Where Marukami's film differs from the book is in expanding upon the level of visual narration, adding in a handful of non-dialogue sequences which create an additional fantasy life for Jim and Hilda while also revealing more of the local devastation in the aftermath of attack.  Whereas the book remained very tightly focused upon Jim and Hilda's perspective, the film intermittently pans away to show the rows of smoking rubble and charred sheep carcasses just a stone's throw from their doorstep.  In the book, the nuclear blast is represented, hauntingly, by a double page of stark whiteness with pink around the edges, with the images of Jim and Hilda huddled inside their lean-to shelter gradually regaining visibility over the following two pages.  The film, by contrast, contains an entire sequence showing the surrounding environs completely unraveling in what looks like an unnaturally strong wind.  Another particularly striking aspect of the original book is its use of colour throughout, the warm reds and greens of earlier pages being replaced by colder, grimier colours once the bomb has been dropped, and the pale, washed-out sickliness of the final pages mirroring the couple's slow deterioration and eventual death from radiation poisoning. This isn't strictly replicated in the film, where the post-blast world is instead characterised by a dark, persistent smogginess.  It also creates its own unique visual identity by combining traditional animation with three dimensional props and backgrounds, giving the picture a curiously quaint aesthetic; the kitchen-sink banality of Jim and Hilda's life at once beguiling but also eerie, as we anticipate its inevitable and irrevocable destruction.  The film's soundtrack, which includes a title track by David Bowie and a score by Roger Waters, likewise adds immeasurably to the mood and character of the overall piece, the opening Bowie contribution being a stirring torrent of loss, desperation and dread, and the Waters score evoking a harrowing sense of a wide-eyed innocence giving out its last dying flickers amid the turmoil.

This inkling of a waning hopefulness and purity is given greater emphasis in Murakami's film, with the film-exclusive fantasy sequences providing a gentle, mournful representation of Jim and Hilda's inner hopes and dreams, as well as glimpses into their bygone years as a younger, more carefree couple.  Featured in these sequences is a recurring image of Hilda blowing down upon a dandelion and causing the seeds to scatter - naturally, there are ominous echoes here of the nuclear blast and its dispersing radiation all around, but it also shows a more wistful, childlike side to the fussy and pedantic Hilda, as she immerses herself in an escapist fantasy characterised by imagery evocative of illustrations from fairy tale storybooks.  There are occasional disturbances within these fantasies - for example, a group of angelic children surrounding a stain glass lamb which is subsequently shown roasted and carved up on a dinner table (tying in with the images of dead, scorched sheep we later see in the fields surrounding Jim and Hilda's house), but overall there's a genuine sense of visual beauty and emotional transcendence to these interludes which provides a welcome catharsis to the starkness of the surrounding picture.  Much like Jim and Hilda, the viewer is submerged in so much pain and desolation throughout that they'll too find themselves gasping for the occasional fresh breath of oxygen.

The film retains the book's notoriously bleak conclusion, as Jim and Hilda, now covered in bruises and severely emaciated, finally resign themselves to fate by slipping into their paper bags (a measure which even Jim had previously been inclined to dismiss as a joke) and staggering back into the lean-to shelter to wait for death.  Neither character seems willing to admit to the other that all hope is lost, with Jim still reassuring Hilda that The Powers That Be will know what to do when they find them, but there is a definite air of retreat and resignation to this final move, not least with Hilda ensuring that the box containing the couples' medical cards and birth certificates is safe and to hand.  At the very end, Jim and Hilda consider praying, in what seems like a curious cry of desperation from two characters who have not, up until now, indicated that they have any kind of religious leanings.  The book and film both close with Jim attempting to recite the Lord's Prayer, but even then, Briggs insists upon one final disturbance, with Jim, in his confused and weakened state, mixing in lines from "The Charge of the Light Brigade" and Hilda feebly begging him to stop.  The film takes this anguish up a whole extra level by throwing in a chilling visual metaphor, in which the camera slowly pans away from a light being cast against the lean-to shelter and sees it disappear into a live-action shot of clouds sweeping across a darkened sky.  Some might find this final imagery comforting, an indication that Jim and Hilda have been freed of their decaying bodies and carried up to Heaven, but to my mind the film offers no such reassurance - the fading Jim and Hilda are merely lost amid a merciless and chaotic wind that continues to blow death and destruction wherever it goes, the rays of sunlight which overwhelm the screen in the closing moments being eerily reminiscent of the same overpowering brightness that accompanied the blast.

When The Wind Blows undoubtedly earns its place as one of the all-time heart-breakers in the history of animation, almost on a par to the ending of The Snowman, in fact.  But then as we discussed, cheerfulness was never exactly Briggs' thing.

Finally, When The Wind Blows contains one of my all-time favourite end-credits stingers - as the last of the credits roll, we catch the eerie sounds of "MAD" being tapped out repeatedly in Morse code.  This stands for Mutual Assured Destruction, the principles of which Jim had previously attempted to explain to Hilda whilst killing time inside the shelter.  Here, it seems like yet another cry of desperation in the darkness; a third lost soul trying frantically to establish if there's anybody left alive out there to hear them.  And, of course, lamenting the overwhelming insanity of it all.

We'll close this review by taking it back to where it began (more or less), with David Bowie, on the first anniversary of his passing.  This dark and scary world is an infinitely brighter place for having had you, Starman.

The Reality Clock (2011)

The Reality Clock is an animated short by US film-maker Amanda Tasse, depicting the struggles of an elderly watchmaker (voice of J Louis Reid) to maintain a grip on his sense of space, time and personal identity during the onset of early stage Dementia.  While undertaking the Reality Comprehension Clock Test, an assessment in which patients are tasked with replicating a drawing of a clock face from memory, he misplaces his favourite pocket watch - an ostensibly trivial occurrence which causes him to become cast adrift in a crisis of temporal and spatial confusion.  In the midst of this, he is forced to grapple with his most pressing fear - namely, that the person he once was is slipping between his fingers and that the person he is now becoming is effectively a stranger to him.

Shot in stereoscopic 3D, The Reality Clock uses a hybrid of stop-motion animation, time-lapse photography and live action to create an affecting portrait of deterioration, both mental and physical, which poses the question as to what, if anything, remains of the being when so much of what once defined them in mind and body has been stripped and eroded by time.  This deterioration is shown from the perspective of the subject, and the film sets out to immerse the viewer in their peeling internal world.  The result makes for challenging but also tremendously powerful viewing.

As a watchmaker, the protagonist has a particularly pronounced relationship with time, and the separation from his pocket watch comes as a double-edged blow.  To him, the watch signifies everything that makes reality fixed and comprehensible - it embodies certainty and linearity, while its circular shape serves as an illustration of everything being connected in an unending cycle.  To have "lost the hours", as the protagonist puts it, is to have been severed from this comprehension, and the flurry of time-lapse photography depicting the day/night cycle and changing seasons in a distorted and fragmented succession reflects his tortured attempts relocate where he stands in this unraveling reality.  Even more cripplingly, a broken relationship with time marks a further detachment from his former self.  Time, his former ally, has tricked and betrayed him by facilitating his decline, signified by a sequence in which the watch is seen to be buried in the grasses of a metaphorical garden, and he now finds himself abandoned and forced to continue his way alone.

Overwhelmingly, the film captures the protagonist's sense of disconnect, not so much from time itself, but from who he is in relation to the passage of time.  At the heart of the short is the tension between the man he recalls he used to be and the man who now remains, whom the protagonist regards with an equal sense of suspicion and disconnect.  This is reflected, hauntingly, in the contrasting selection of medium used to represent the man at different stages of his life.  Initially, the stop-motion animation gives off an endearingly hand-crafted charm, but it becomes more troubling as we delve deeper into the film and see the confrontation play out between these discordant figures.  The younger man who haunts the protagonist's visions is a human being of flesh and blood (Marco Tazioli), while the man in the present is a puppet, indicative of his fears that he is less "real", a husk of his former self and, most frighteningly of all, no longer the driving force behind his own actions.  The protagonist finds himself stranded in a no man's land between two states of being - his former self little more than a spectral memory which gazes back at him with horror and despair, and he feels only loss and uncertainty when contemplating the man he is becoming.  It is in this state of estrangement from everything that he feels has defined him that he ultimately attains clarity, realising that as long as his life continues to endure, then he still has some firm footing on which to stand and locate himself as a person.  At the end of the film the man is reunited with his watch, although it is through his interactions with another circular object that has featured prominently throughout, a gramophone record, that he is finally able to reaffirm his sense of self.  We see him wind the gramophone in the manner of his younger counterpart, thus restarting the cycle and restoring his confidence that he remains connected to the ongoing circles and processes of life.

Tasse, who drew inspiration for The Reality Clock from her own interactions with dementia patients while volunteering at a hospice and from witnessing her father's decline from ill-health, has indicated that the purpose of the film is to give weight to the emotional potency lurking beneath the pains and challenges of deterioration - in the words of Student Academy Awards, "to value all stages of the human experience on a very basic level."  It is a deeply harrowing film, but ultimately rewarding in the poetic beauty it finds in the protagonist's endurance and his willingness to live and survive in the present moment, even when staring into inevitable decline.

Availability: You can watch the short on Vimeo.  Unfortunately, the privacy settings prevent me from embedding the video here.

Official website: http://therealityclock.com/