Peugeot '95: The Drive of Your Life (aka Long And Hard Though It May Seem)

Let's go back to the Peugeot "Drive of Your Life" ad I brought up earlier this year when I looked at its shark-driven sequel. Here, we joined a businessman on his daily commute in a Peugeot 406, and were given a window into his stream of consciousness, as he envisioned various evocative images to the upbeat sounds of "Search For The Hero", a then-recent hit for M People. The centrepiece of the ad involved our protagonist saving a small girl in a striking red coat from being rubbed out by a tanker truck gone out of control (the fate of the truck's driver, however, was not confirmed).

At three minutes, "Drive of Your Life" is an unusually lengthy spot, so much so that when it made its television debut in February 1996, Peugeot bought out the entire News at Ten ad break so as to showcase it in its full glory. After that, the ad continued to make the rounds in significantly truncated versions, one a minute in length, the other forty seconds. In its complete form, the ad plays deceptively like a pop video; indeed, many of the images feel as though they would not have been at all out of place in the actual M People video. The grandeur and expenditure of the ad strove for an epic, cinematic quality, but not everyone was charmed by the ambition; the ad netted criticism from several commentators, who found the bombardment of feel-good imagery and vague pop psychology to be an exercise in superficiality, and largely incidental to the product in question. An anonymous commentator is quoted in this Campaign article as musing, "All cars in this market are essentially the same. Peugeot is trying to distinguish itself by making car drivers feel special. Make them think they're heroes rather than boring businessmen." Bingo. But then advertising generally aspires to make consumers feel special or empowered for purchasing entirely mundane products, so this is simply business as usual. Arminta Wallace of The Irish Times offers a more in-depth criticism, noting that the ad has curiously little to say about the car itself and branding the choice of musical accompaniment as "an inoffensive song by one of the most politically correct groups on the current rock scene". All in all, Wallace dismisses the ad as "just another humourless bit of machismo gone mad, a Nineties re visitation of the days when all you had to do to sell a car was drape a bikini clad supermodel over the body work."

The one aspect of the ad that strikes me as being at odds with Wallace's assessment is the recurring image of the girl in the red coat. As a symbol, she seems to be constantly threatening to tip the ad over into something altogether uncannier than the peppy imagery and upbeat backing anthem would imply. It's in the girl that we find the ad's narrative backbone, as confirmed by the shorter versions of the ad, which all retain this particular portion of the hero's fantasy (everything else is largely expendable) and end in the same way, with our hero being momentarily preoccupied by the image of the red-clad girl, even after he has finished his empowering commute. She provides an outlet for his machismo gone mad, certainly, but the ending posits her as an enigma, one that continues to linger after the idle fantasy has reached its natural end and our hero is obligated to return to the "real" world, signified by his nine to five job. She creates a disturbance in how fantasy and reality are distinguished in this ad, suggesting that the former has a life of its own.

The running theme of our hero being haunted by visions of an imperiled girl in a red coat strikes me as inherently unsettling because it brings to mind Nicolas Roeg's arthouse horror favourite Don't Look Now (1973). There, John Baxter (Donald Sutherland) spends the duration plagued by his guilt at being unable to save his daughter, who was wearing a distinctive red raincoat, from drowning. Later, while he and his wife Laura (Julie Christie) are staying in Venice on a business assignment, John becomes haunted by the image of a small figure in a red coat wandering the streets. Although he is initially dismissive of Laura's attempts to contact their daughter with the help of a couple of self-proclaimed psychics, eventually the lure of the red-coated figure becomes too strong and John is compelled to follow and confront it, believing that he can finally make peace with his demons. The figure turns around and is revealed to be - spoilers - not his daughter but a dwarf with a meat cleaver who proceeds to slash his throat (thus fulfilling the psychics' warning that he was in danger so long as he remained in Venice). On paper it all sounds tremendously silly, and in lesser hands it would have been easy for such a sequence to come off as camp or comically ludicrous, but Roeg approaches it masterfully, making it every bit as elegant, shocking and harrowing as it needs to be.

The image of the red-coated figure stands out so persuasively in Don't Look Now because there is so little red elsewhere in the film, meaning that the figure really does seem as strange and otherworldly to us as it does to John. A similar technique had also been applied more recently in Steven Spielberg's Schindler's List (1993), a black and white production featuring a fleeting but unforgettable intrusion of colour, in which a small Jewish girl is seen walking down the street in a red coat during the liquidation of the Krakow ghetto. No information is given on who this child is. In narrative terms, she is an extra, one of millions killed in the horrors of the Holocaust. But her distinctive red coat marks her out clearly as an individual. So much so that when, later in the film, we see the body of the girl, red coat and all, being hauled away on the back of the cart, we immediately make the connection and feel the shock of her demise. In both cases, the red coat is disturbing in its duality, signifying the vigorous innocence of the child, and their raw potential as a human being, and the unspeakable horrors gearing up to destroy them.

Film critic Peter Bradshaw identifies the red coat in Don't Look Now as signifying a "tonal ambiguity", an uncomfortable melting pot of emotions whose meaning only becomes clear at the end when John realises, too late, that he has been pursuing his own demise through the passages of Venice. Says Bradshaw, "The child has died, but the horror of the situation isn't that we are left grievingly alive but that we must join her, and sooner than we think." The image of the red coat represents the two-fold nature of loss, with the daughter representing the agony of grief and the dwarf the grotesque reminder of our own mortality.  Ostensibly, daughter and dwarf are polar opposites, yet their common garment establishes them as two sides of the same coin. (Incidentally, I disagree with Bradshaw about why the dwarf shakes her head, for to me it looks like this is in direct response to John's startled plea of "Wait...". The murderous dwarf is the monstrous embodiment of John's own mortality, and now that they have come face to face, there can be no bargaining or compromise. Sooner or later, we all meet our fate.)

Peugeot's ad is shot in predominantly muted colours, ensuring that the girl stands out as the commanding figure of the protagonist's fantasy. The colour red does feature elsewhere in the ad - it is seen in the Native American's war paint, and in the blood when the protagonist cuts himself while shaving - and while the red here is less conspicuous than it is with the girl's coat, it reinforces a running theme of the red representing self-expression, passion and risk. I think there is a duality to this red-coated figure too, albeit perhaps not as morbid as the one featured in Roeg's picture. On the surface, she is the perfect victim in need of rescue. When first we see her, in the full-length version, she is skipping along by the roadside, seemingly oblivious to the danger headed in her direction. We then cut to a shot of that gargantuan hulk of metal speeding along a dusty highway, and while there is nothing, at this point, to directly indicate that the truck and girl have anything to do with one another, the mere juxtaposition of puny human and giant machine is enough to establish the two as having a common date with destiny. The effect is ominous, and yet when they finally appear in the same frame, with the girl positioned directly in the path of the runaway tanker, she stands there strangely stoically, facing the oncoming calamity without flinching. She certainly doesn't look as though she's frozen in terror - to the contrary, a borderline knowing smile flashes across her face. Then, when our hero saves her, she has her arms already outstretched, as if she were waiting all along for him to come and bundle her up in his arms. She embraces the role of the ready-made cipher all-too readily, which makes sense given the idealised nature of the scenario.

The ending, however, suggests a very different dynamic. As the hero leaves his Peugeot 406, his attentions are suddenly caught by the girl - her bright red coat, coupled with the dolly shot closing in on her, indicate that this is another fantasy vision, yet his reaction is as if he is seeing her the real world. For a moment, we see him linger in his tracks, as if contemplating heading in another direction, but in the end gives in and goes where the suit and briefcase decree he must. The girl, see, is not the victim in this equation - rather, she is the danger. She is the personification of the raw, unmitigated adrenaline rush that propels our hero through the entirety of his fantasy and which, as he leaves his car and its associated fantasy life, continues to beckon him toward something more exhilarating. He does not answer the call - which, given John's fate when he went in search of his own red-coated fixation in Don't Look Now, is probably for the best. The girl represents the allure of the kind of untamed existence that we wish could be more than just a fantasy, but that few of us have the means or the willingness to actually pursue to the full. Our hero ultimately decides to stick to his prosaic existence, but the image of the girl gets to him, a tantalising reminder of his unfulfilled potential and of the undefined something more that lingers ever out there. He can gaze at it longingly, but that's as close as he's prepared to get. Despite the ad's closing assertion that "there is no such thing as an average person", the ultimate suggestion appears to be that most of us are quite resigned to being average, and that is the specter that haunts us each and every day.

Fluke (aka When Will I See You Again?)

So, did you hear the one about the man who was reincarnated as a dog and attempting to avenge his own murder?

As a premise, it's more common than you might think. At the very least, Carlo Carlei's 1995 film Fluke wasn't the first to use this set-up. In 1980 there was Oh! Heavenly Dog in which Benjean (yes, our dear friend Benjean) played the reincarnated Chevy Chase, who was brought back in the form of a dog so that he could have a crack at deciphering who ended his life as a human. The kicker being that that was actually a variation on a 1951 film, You Never Can Tell, in which the boot was on the other foot, and a dog was restored to life in human form in order to get even with the canine butcher who bumped him off in his previous life. In 1990, the world came dangerously close to getting a TV series called Poochinski, in which Peter Boyle played a Chicago police detective killed in the line of duty who comes back as a bulldog, intending to pick up right where he left off, except the networks thought better and it never got past the pilot stage. The "man comes back as dog and attempts to get to the bottom of the circumstances of his death" subgenre is such well-trodden territory, in fact, that I'd be curious to know if there are any variations on this theme with other animal species. Is nobody curious to see how the scenario would play out if the murder victim came back as a cat?

I have a lot of sympathy for Fluke, yet another deceptively simple 1990s family film that I feel never got its fair dues. But then this oddball little mongrel was frankly always destined to be a misfit. It's too strange, and too discordant a beast to hold much mass appeal. Despite its ostensibly goofy appearance, it's not a comedy and, a smart-mouthed mutt voiced by Samuel L. Jackson notwithstanding, has very little in the way of mirth. There are a few moments of authentic horror that bare their teeth every so often without ever quite going the full mile. And while there's no shortage of endearing imagery with cuddly puppies, particularly in the early stages, these are too anxiety-inducing to evoke much pleasure; what you mainly feel is the vulnerability of these little beings in a world that doesn't readily yield compassion to outsiders, even when they are as lovable as a newborn Lab. Above all, it's a very, very downbeat story, no matter how positive its parting message and how bright and uplifting its closing moments. The kids (and adults) who would most enjoy this movie would either have to be devoted dog lovers or have one heck of a strong masochistic bent. If you ride along with Fluke, then know that your emotions are going to be reduced to a spectacular smoking wreckage. Myself, I'm just the glutton for that level of punishment. On top of which, I have this thing for stories about reincarnation. For some reason, I just like them. Even Emile Ardolino's Electra complex-centred Chances Are (1989), which sets many other skins a-crawling.

The eponymous Fluke is a stray Labrador-mix (voice of Sam Gifaldi, and later Matthew Modine) who dreams of being a man. Or, more accurately, he's bothered by persistent nightmares of being human and eventually deduces that these are memories of a former life. For Fluke is indeed the reincarnated spirit of Thomas P. Johnson (also Modine), a young businessman who was killed in a car crash that Fluke's gut instincts tell him was no accident. As a puppy, he's impounded and earmarked for death, but pulls off a daring escape and is adopted by a bag lady named Bella (Collin Wilcox Paxton), who gives him his enigmatic moniker. Shortly afterwards, Bella dies (and is reincarnated as a firefly, recalling a poem by Rabindranath Tagore she cited earlier) and Fluke finds a new custodian in an adult dog named Rumbo (voice of Samuel L. Jackson), who belongs to a junkyard owner, Boss (Jon Polito), but regularly scrounges food from a vendor named Bert (Bill Cobbs). Fluke comes of age, and for a while lives quite happily as Rumbo's cohort. But those nightmarish visions of his previous existence as Thomas P. Johnson still persist, to the point where Fluke feels the urge to leave his new life behind and seek out his former wife Carol (Nancy Travis) and son Brian (Max Pomeranc), under the belief that they are threatened by the sinister male figure who regularly encroaches on his visions (Eric Stoltz), and whom Fluke suspects of being his killer.

Fluke was based on a novel by James Herbert, who is better known for writing one of literature's most infamous works of rat horror (we'll get to that, no doubt). It's not exactly a children's book, although it's probably fine for older children to read it. Compared to Herbert's original story, Carlei's film is a decidedly more sentimental creature, and a notch more family-friendly (Carlei's film gets pretty intense in places, but you could have made a darker picture still from Herbert's novel). The basic concept of a dog realising that he was a human in a past life and attempting to find his way back to his former family is recreated more-or-less faithfully, although the film does take several liberties with Herbert's story in order to fit it into a more conventional Hollywood mold. The most crucial difference is that Fluke's relationship with his family is much more of a focal point in the film than it was in the novel. Herbert's book was more focused on the journey itself, and the process by which Fluke comes to grips with the concept of being a man trapped in a dog's body; by the time Fluke actually reunites with his family, the story's nearly over. Herbert's book is also more episodic than Carlei's film; the second half consists primarily of assorted interludes that serve only to sidetrack Fluke from his main objective, many of them quite desultory in nature - eg: his time spent living with a sociopathic old lady whom he initially mistakes for kindly and harmless, and his short-lived partnership with a conniving vixen who exploits his trusting nature. The film cuts out all of these extraneous adventures and substitutes with expanded story material of its own. Not all of this new material works, but overall I think that Carlei's film does a good job of capturing the essence of Herbert's book, and its various meditations on life, death and the importance of accepting change and moving forward, while taming Herbert's rather flabbily-structured story into something altogether more focused and efficient. What the film inevitably sacrifices, to the narrative's detriment, is most of the detail concerning Fluke's somewhat split personality, and the tension between the dog and human portions of his mind - for example, Fluke frequently gets confused as to whether knowledge that comes to him naturally is via instinct or something he remembers from his past life as a man. The book is related (almost) entirely from Fluke's point of view, and while the film still incorporates his voice-over narration, it doesn't have the luxury of having quite the same direct line into Fluke's thought processes. In the film, we do have the problem that many of Fluke's attempts to reconnect with the human part of his psyche - such as when he operates a telephone or puts on one of Thomas's hats - look more like dumb pet tricks than a dog sincerely trying to be a man.

Fluke came out in the summer of 1995, a year which saw several landmark changes in terms of how computer generated imagery was altering the cinematic landscape, many of them occurring within the arena of family cinema. Casper was the first feature to incorporate a fully computer generated main character, Toy Story was the first all-CG animated feature, and Babe rewrote the rule book where talking animal pictures we concerned. Earlier talking animal features such as Homeward Bound and Look Who's Talking Now had largely depended on an approach in which the human voice-over was slapped atop the animal footage to give the impression that the animals were communicating with some kind of inner voice (although we can go back even further, to those Francis The Mule pictures, where the animal's mouth was manipulated using wires). Babe, though, made it standard practice to digitally manipulate the footage so as to look as though the animals' mouths were moving along with their dialogue. The results were so impressive that in the succeeding years, films with talking animals whose mouths moved became a popular novelty. (Unfortunately, I think that Hollywood took the wrong lesson from Babe - there, it worked a treat because the production never allowed the spectacle of the technology to run away with the picture, and managed to deftly incorporate it with the animals' natural movements and mannerisms. Compare it to Cats & Dogs from six years later, which attempted to combine real animals with a rubbery, Loony Tunes-esque energy, and the results looked eye-searingly ugly; Cats & Dogs was apparently conceived as an animated film, and would have done much better to have remained one.) Fluke, which uses the old-school Look Who's Talking technique, was released to theatres a couple of months ahead of Babe, and no doubt seemed immediately dated and lacklustre by comparison. The approach in Fluke does seem considerably less lively and immersive than that of Babe, although the idea that the animals communicate telepathically rather than orally is both addressed explicitly in the script and entirely faithful to Herbert's novel. As I mentioned in my coverage of Mouse Hunt from earlier this year, live action animal movies, talking or otherwise, seem to have largely fallen out of fashion in the current cinematic climate. Just this year, Dolittle and The Call of The Wild found little favour at the box office, and that was before the Coronavirus had really had the chance to mess things up. They were ubiquitous throughout my own childhood, however, and I'd certainly rate Fluke as one of the stronger examples. It's neither as disarming or as innovative as Babe, nor does it have the twisted personality of Mouse Hunt, but it's an unusual picture (despite the familiarity of its premise), one that tackles its morbid subject matter with an unassuming earnestness and conveys a few straightforward but effective meditations on bereavement, resilience and mortality. Like Herbert's original, it's a flawed work, but fascinating.

Fluke also fits in with another category of films that seemed to crop up a lot in the 1990s, in which a (normally) negligent father dies, is reborn in some awkward new form and gets a second chance to forge a meaningful relationship with the child for whom he (typically) never made time on his first go around. For other variations on this theme see And You Thought Your Parents Were Weird (1991) and Jack Frost (1998). The longer Fluke spends in the company of his family, the more of a picture we get of the kind of life he once led, and it becomes apparent that, as Thomas, he wasn't exactly the most conscientious husband or father, preferring to neglect Carol and Brian in favour of strengthening his business. So getting to be with them once again, even regulated to the role of family pet, presents a tremendous opportunity to see and understand them in ways that had previously passed him by. Yet Fluke is surprisingly cautious on the whole idea of revisiting the past in order to right old wrongs. It is a redemptive story, in that Fluke's experiences as a dog leave him with a renewed perspective and appreciation for life that was totally lost on him as a human, but it ultimately serves to bear out Rumbo's reflections that, "There's no going back - you can't be sorry for what's been. You've got to be." The harshest lesson Fluke has to learn is that his desire to be re-assimilated into his old family, however sincere, is misguided. Shortly before Fluke is reunited with Carol and Brian, he's greeted by the "STOP" sign on the side of a school bus, a clear warning from the cosmos not to proceed, but one that either does not register with Fluke or that he chooses to ignore.

The entire plot point about Thomas being a negligent husband and father is exclusive to the movie; in the book, the relationship that Nigel Nettle (for 'twas his name) had with his kin isn't explored in any substantial depth. In both cases, however, Fluke's urge to be reunited with his family is driven by a basic inability to let go of the past, something that very nearly leads to tragedy for them all. At the end of the book, Fluke muses that, "a ghost had been vanquished. That ghost was my humanness." In the film, there is the added complexity that Fluke is mourning for the life he could otherwise have led, not only if he hadn't died, but if he'd taken advantage of the opportunities he had while they were available to him. Part of what drives Fluke is regret and the recognition that he squandered his time as a human. But as Rumbo says, there can be no going back. At first, the positive bonds Fluke reforges with Carol and Brian convinces him that returning to them was the right thing, and that he has been restored to his proper place: "This was where I really belonged. Sooner or later, I'd find a way to tell them who I really was." But of course, he can't. There is a fundamental communication barrier that cannot be broken. And as much as Fluke would love to resume his role as Thomas and pick up where things left off, the world as he once knew it is changing. Years have passed since Thomas's death, and while his family still mourn their loss, there are ways in which they are beginning to heal and continue their lives without him, something that Fluke finds utterly unfathomable. His regained bliss is disturbed the instant that Stolz's character, Jeff, finally appears in person, and a darker impulse suddenly awakens in Fluke. He becomes a savage, snarling beast, at which point his newly-carved niche as family pet is in serious jeopardy.

Jeff, Thomas's former business partner and Carol's present lover, is portrayed as fairly brooding figure for much of the film, and the viewer is encouraged to share in Fluke's suspicions of him, but - spoilers - these turn out to be red herrings designed to throw us off the scent of the more troubling underlying motive that has been unconsciously driving Fluke this entire time. In the film's pivotal plot twist, it is revealed that Jeff was not, in fact, Thomas's killer. To the contrary, he attempted revive Thomas after his accident, something that Fluke only recalls after he's launched a brutal attack on Jeff from the backseat of his car, causing him to crash and potentially killing them both. Jeff might not have murdered Thomas (who was not murdered at all, but rather a victim of his own recklessness), but Fluke recognises him as an existential threat to everything he was as Thomas, and his reaction is one of jealous retribution. Jeff's real transgression is in attempting to take Thomas's place, both personally and professionally - he now has full ownership of Thomas's business, and has his sights set on marrying Carol. Fluke's uncontrollable hostility toward Jeff is, on the dog level, a manifestation of his primal desire to defend his territory, but it is in service of a very human resistance to the entire notion of life going on without him. His desire to return to his family has less to do with protecting them from any phantom threat than with imposing himself on the world he'd left behind and preserving his own legacy. In other words, the human ego is still very much alive and thriving. This element is present in Herbert's novel, in which part of Fluke's rage toward Jeff's literary counterpart, Reg, stems from seeing the words "Never Forgotten" on his tombstone and believing this to be flagrantly untrue. However, Fluke later returns to the grave and notes that fresh flowers have been laid there, at which point he comes to terms with the idea that his family finding renewed purpose after his death should not be seen as an affront to his memory: "The memory of the husband, the father, the friend would dull with time, but I'd always be somewhere in the corner of their minds." Fluke's personal odyssey entails the coming to terms with his own loss, of the man he once was and, in the film, the man he senses he could have been had he lived his life differently. He comes to accept that the time for both has now passed, and rather than spend his current existence pining for what has gone, he must relinquish his grip on his family and allow them the freedom to grow and develop in their changing circumstances, even if it means having to go his own separate way. The film's other key message is conveyed in Rumbo's musing that, "Love hurts". Pain and loss are to be accepted as an unavoidable part of life.

As noted, Carlei's film isn't perfect, its most glaring weakness being a narrative thread involving Ron Perlman (better known as the future Hellboy), who has a sideline in harvesting stray dogs and selling them to vivisection labs. This is one of the film's original creations, for no such thread occurs in Herbert's book. Here, it's a bizarre and unpleasant tangent that's quickly forgotten (although Herbert's book had no shortage of those, hence the whole wretched saga with Miss Birdle) - its sole purpose, in narrative terms, is to bring about Rumbo's death. On that note, Rumbo's dying revelation - that he too was once a human - falls slightly flat as a plot twist. We, like Fluke, suspect that Rumbo was also a human in a former life, and when, mortally wounded, he admits to Fluke that he used to be Bert's brother, it's a touching moment, but its impact is somewhat blunted by the fact that you at home will have figured out Rumbo's former identity long before he tells Fluke. There is a visual clue from earlier in the film that is implemented with a woeful lack of subtlety. Incidentally, I recall once reading a criticism of the laboratory scene which made specific note of the moment where Rumbo activates a button that opens the door to all the animals' cages, in a manner described by the reviewer as being very "un-dog-like". True, it does look goofy as hell, although you would do well to keep in mind that Rumbo is a dog who retains memories of being human (a concept not explored in as much detail as in the book), so some anthropomorphisms must be permitted. The greater oddity is why the lab would have such a plot-convenient button in the first place. It is, however, a circle, and the idea of a circle governing all is a highly enticing one in the context of this particular story.

Circles are an important recurring motif throughout Fluke - it opens with a shot of the Earth as seen from outer space, a curiously grandiose starting point for a film that spends most of its time surveying the world from the dog's eye-view. We also have the circular holes through which chemicals are administered to Fluke's eyes during his mercifully brief stint as a lab animal and, most prominently of all, the engagement ring that Thomas presents to Carol in a flashback sequence, with the assurance that, "Two connected circles mean forever". Thomas correctly identifies the representation of eternity, but possesses a misguided understanding as to what "forever" actually entails. It is not, as he assumes, a matter of everything maintaining a fixed and permanent state. The circle symbolises the ongoing cycle of life, and the process by which it is constantly renewed and perpetuated. Everything has its time and its place and, eventually, all things must pass, but the circle is evocative of the idea that within this process there is no discernible beginning or end. Things simply move from one state to another and, through that, the basic essence of life endures and continues, forever finding its way back along the cycle of life, death and renewal. The circle also symbolises interconnectivity, and the notion that everything is intrinsically linked, hence the opening shot of the Earth, indicating that Fluke's story is just one of many in a sprawling network of beings all attempting to navigate their way through a vast and intimidating cosmos, something that Fluke contemplates in his closing narration. Paths may intersect along the way, but everything inevitably has to continue along its own route. Meanwhile, the title and character name of "Fluke", much like the title of Ardolino's aforementioned Chances Are, points to the capriciousness of existence, and to the chance encounters that enable individual lives to intersect and leave their respective marks on one another - in the case of Fluke/Thomas and his family, at least twice.

Although Fluke is told from the perspective of the deceased, his journey can, if you like, be interpreted as an allegory for the bereaved themselves successfully coming through the grieving process, with Fluke's final decision to "release" his family signifying the lessening of grief and the accommodation of memory in such a way that it is no longer debilitating. As Fluke observes at the end of the book, a ghost has been vanquished. The film also functions as an affecting plea for a greater appreciation and respect for non-human forms of life, and for their part in the ongoing proliferation and continuation of life (although if Herbert was going for such a message in his novel then I think there is a definite point at which he royally blows it).

In both Herbert's novel and Carlei's film, Fluke survives the second crash and atones for his grotesque error of judgement by reviving the unconscious Reg/Jeff, after which he goes his own way. The film, however, gives additional closure to Fluke's relationship with his family, which in the book comes about more obliquely via those freshly-laid flowers. Here, Fluke gets to make one last ditch attempt to communicate to Carol who he really is, by scratching at the "forever" engraving on Thomas's tombstone (thus recalling the words of his marriage proposal), and apparently succeeds - Carol does not make her newfound knowledge explicit, but is visibly aghast as Fluke limps away. Fluke ends his bond with Carol, at least in the direct sense, by once again emphasising the eternal nature of the connection they forged, which is now understood to refer not to permanence or possession, but to something far broader - the level on which all things remain connected, and are constantly affecting and perpetuating one another. Fluke then leaves them for good, having decided that his family have a right to move on with their lives and that his presence would only be an obstruction; all he can do now is accept his life as a dog and find the pleasure and value in that. The last glimpse we see of the Johnsons shows Jeff, fully recovered from his injuries, returning to the family home and presenting Brian with a new puppy. They may be fully restored as a family unit, with Jeff now filling the void left by Thomas, but the puppy signifies the extent to which Fluke/Thomas's own legacy will continue in their lives; by simply intervening a second time around he has left another mark and created an additional void that needs filling. The young life likewise represents a new beginning, the continuation of yet another individual story that has intersected the family's own - there is a brief moment where Carol, still haunted by her final encounter with Fluke, stares the puppy intently in the eyes, as if contemplating the likelihood that it too was human in a former life.

Above all, Carlei's film teaches that where one door closes, another opens, as is demonstrated in the final moments, when Fluke, having retreated deep into the wilderness, encounters a squirrel, who is revealed to be Rumbo in his latest form. Once again, sheer fluke has enabled two familiar paths to intersect, although things are not quite as they were before, and perhaps that's even a good thing. Rumbo's excitement at getting to regale his old friend with the ins and outs of being a squirrel presents this impermanence as something to be embraced, for with every change comes the opportunity to see and understand the world from a fresh and exciting new angle. This is reinforced in a brief post-credits scene, which shows Rumbo (as a dog) and Fluke (as a puppy) running together, indicating that we have, in a metaphorical sense, returned to the beginning of the story, with their friendship newly rejuvenated and many further adventures lying ahead of them.

Here are some additional differences between Carlei's film and Herbert's novel:

• The book is set in the United Kingdom, whereas the film relocates the action to the States.
• Bella is in the book, but is a fairly different character. There, she is not homeless, and lives with her abusive, alcoholic son. She still takes in Fluke off the streets and feeds him, but is forced to turn him out when her son disapproves. In the book, Bella does not die, let alone get reincarnated as a firefly. Her main function in the film - to give Fluke his name - is in the book fulfilled by a junkyard worker named Lenny. In both cases, Fluke receives his name through his ability to play the shell game.
• The film (thankfully!) excises all of the details about Rumbo's passion for rat killing, including a confrontation with an unusually articulate rat who is hinted to also have some memory of his former life as a human. Sadly, it doesn't go in the rat's favour. Let's just say that I like movie Rumbo a whole lot better than book Rumbo. Movie Rumbo does not seem to share book Rumbo's prejudices, for he helps rats by freeing them at the lab.
• As noted, the entire vivisection lab arc occurs only the film. In the book, Rumbo is killed during a police raid on the junk yard when a pile of debris collapses on him. Furthermore, he dies immediately, and never confesses to Fluke that he was once human.
• There are literal ghosts in the book too, something not represented in the movie. In the book, they're a strange outlier, and have no obvious story purpose.
• In addition to the interludes with Miss Birdle and the vixen, the book has a chapter in which Fluke encounters a badger who shares some of his insight and speculation on the reincarnation process.
• While, most of the human characters' names have been changed, Carol's name remains the same in both versions.
• The character of Brian is exclusive to the film. In the book Fluke does not have a son, but a daughter named Polly. Polly does not form as tight a bond with Fluke as Brian does in the film. The climatic plot point about Brian being lost in a snowstorm and Fluke having to find him has no such equivalent in the book. I haven't said much about Brian, but he's the character who occasionally threatens to tip the film over from poignancy into mawkishness, particularly toward the end when it dabbles with the idea of him having a psychic connection with Fluke.
• The part about Fluke being reunited with Rumbo in the form of a squirrel does occur in the book, but plays out slightly differently. There, it's implied that Rumbo does not actually recognise Fluke, and the two of them do not become friends again.
• Both the book and the film are narrated from Fluke's perspective, although the book has an additional twist with regards to whom he is telling the story that is not carried over into the film. There, Fluke has been speaking directly to the viewer this entire time, whereas in the book he is revealed to have been telling the story to a dying vagrant who, in his moribund state, is apparently capable of understanding the dog. The book contains a short epilogue, narrated from the third-person perspective, regarding the fate of the vagrant once Fluke leaves him: "He died. And he waited."

Finally, I mentioned earlier that I have a weakness for stories about reincarnation. I suppose this can be attributed in part to my deep personal attachment to a pet species with a painfully short lifespan. When you're a rat owner for the long haul, you experience loss and having to start over so many times that it's helpful to think of this cycle, in its way, as the continuation of one universal life. The upside is that you get to frequently experience the joy of a new beginning, albeit with the paradox that you are, inevitably, setting yourself up to have your heart broken all over again. The story that I think perfectly encapsulates the darker side of the process? Stephen King's Pet Sematary. You're bringing something back from the dead, so that ultimately it can stab you in the eye.

Logo Case Study: Rainbow Releasing (aka If You Want Poetry, Stand And Stare)

If you've ever seen Henry Jaglom's 1995 film Last Summer in The Hamptons, you'll know what kind of shock it throws your way in the opening moments. Jaglom (for this is his production company) takes an unrelenting approach in cold-plunging us into his directorial vision - when you start up the film, you're immediately greeted by none other than Orson Welles' steely gaze staring you down from above a miniature wooden rainbow. The camera zooms in, with Welles refusing to break his glare, and the words "A Rainbow Release" materialise on screen. Fade to black, and we're in that promised summer in the Hamptons. This inexplicable image (to those unversed in Jaglom's filmography, anyhow) is made all the more disconcerting for playing out in total silence. No bombastic jingles here, but what we have is very bit as upsetting. In other words, the ideal logo.

The Rainbow Releasing logo is a particular favourite of mine. It's spooky, striking and above all unique - I don't think there's any other production logo out there that quite captures this one's particular flavour. For this reason, it has built up a fair amount of notoriety among logophobia aficionados, despite its relative obscurity (as far as I'm aware, it appears in only two movies - Last Summer in The Hamptons, and Jaglom's 2001 film Festival in Cannes; if you're familiar with it, then odds are that you're either a buff of logos or a buff of Jaglom). I'll admit that I find that notoriety both totally understandable and a little bemusing. It's an unsettling logo, no question, and the sheer intensity of Welles' stare really is something. But therein lies the mitigating factor - it registers immediately that this is Orson Welles we're looking at, otherwise known as the director of this masterpiece. He has one of the most recognisable mugs on the planet; his stare here may not be the most placating, but you can put a name to it. There's an immediate familiarity about this logo. But there's strangeness too, and I think this is why it strikes a nerve with so many viewers. There is an eerie kind of incongruity to just about every slightest detail. Even the name, Rainbow Releasing, seems at odds with the imagery, the presence of that wooden rainbow notwithstanding. It suggests warmth, vibrancy, effervescence, fun. Which is not quite communicated in what we see in the logo. This thing is certainly enigmatic, but it's threatening.

In actuality, the image in question is a nod to Jaglom's personal roots, for it's taken from his debut feature, A Safe Place from 1971, in which Welles starred as a character known as The Magician. Unfortunately, the film itself continues to elude me, and I have never been able to track down a copy and view it for myself, so the exact context of the scene in question remains a mystery to me. Criterion did release the film as part of a box set called America Lost and Found: The BBS Story in 2010, but not in a region coding that I can use. From what I can tell, it's about a young woman named Noah (Tuesday Weld) living in New York in the early 70s, caught up in some kind of love triangle and attempting to reconcile herself with her childhood innocence. As for Welles The Magician, he's possibly supposed to be an imaginary friends of hers. On their website, Criterion describe the picture as a "delicate, introspective drama, laced with fantasy elements." I have to admit that, on paper, the entire thing sounds absolutely fantastic. Tuesday Weld, Orson Welles and Jack Nicholson in a movie in which fantasy and reality are repeatedly mingling, so that you can't tell what's real in the context of the picture and what's not? I would watch this thing in a heartbeat, if I could just get hold of it. Unfortunately, people in 1971 felt very differently. Jaglom's debut endured a critical savaging, cinemagoers ignored it, and the film has largely languished in obscurity ever since, although Criterion's more recent recognition might be the first step in rehabilitating its tattered reputation.

Welles himself had of course been deceased for ten years by the time that Jaglon appropriated his likeness into his production logo and inducted him to the logophobic canon, so he never knew about this fantastic little footnote in his legacy. As with Ubu the dog, we have that uncanniness in being confronted with a motionless image of a dead being - there's some movement at the beginning, but the bulk of the logo is comprised of an uncomfortable close-up with a single freeze frame. Once again we have that focus on inertia, and the distillation of life to static image, only here we have the added malaise of the undead image gazing back, as if regarding us with a kind of other-worldly presence from beyond the grave.

What makes the logo particularly inspired, though, is the balance it strikes between charm and menace, between the whimsical and the downright uncanny. It's surreal enough to play like a disturbed dream that's flirting dangerously close to crossing over into nightmare territory, or an attempted retreat into a would-be reassuring memory that's taken on an unwelcome life of its own. Which may well be appropriate, given the source. Weld's character in A Safe Place is out to recreate the safety of her childhood (hence the title) and I couldn't tell you if she finds it with Welles and that box from which he produces his wooden rainbow, but I certainly don't think that Jaglom's audience finds it within the isolated space of the logo (it's been pointed out that the arched arrangement of the "A Rainbow Release" lettering does not quite sync up with the shape of Welles' wooden rainbow, adding to the off-kilter feel, although I understand that this was modified for its appearance before Festival in Cannes). What it captures, and captures beautifully, is a kind of disturbance lurking beneath the surface of the image, so that we have the feeling of being profoundly unsafe without being able to pinpoint what, exactly, is so vehemently wrong. After all, there should be nothing inherently unsettling about the sight of Orson Welles holding up a rainbow, but by focusing on the discomfiture of a single, frozen moment, Jaglon manages to bring out the ominous, creeping tension that exists only in the scene's hidden cracks.

That summer in the Hamptons wasn't any safer.

Talking Heads '98: The Outside Dog (aka It's A Blessing We're Detached)

First of all, a disclaimer. Life during lockdown has seen media outlets try some creative strategies in order to stay afloat, one of the more unexpected developments being the BBC's renewed interest in Alan Bennett's classic monologue series, Talking Heads, which recently got a shiny new makeover thanks to its social distance-friendly filming format (and, as a bonus, its prevalent interest in the subject of isolation). Before we get started, I should be clear that this commentary refers strictly to the original version of "The Outside Dog" with Julie Walters, and not to the remake with Rochenda Sandall, which I have yet to watch. I'm sure that Sandall gives a perfectly fine performance, but mine is a prejudiced ticker. When I saw the announcement that we were getting a new series of Talking Heads, my heart leapt, naive fool that I am, as for a brief second there I believed that we were actually getting a Talking Heads 3, something I had been clamoring for ever since studying the series back in school. Then, when I read the fine print and realised that only two of the monologues were brand new and the rest would be remakes of existing installments, such was my disappointment that I couldn't help but harbor a slight grudge against the entire project. Perhaps one day, when my disappointment has fully subsided, I'll be willing to give the remakes a fair chance. Today will not be that day, however.

Prior to this recent development, Talking Heads was comprised of two six-episode series, the first of which was broadcast in 1988 and the second, Talking Heads 2, in 1998. Each episode centres around a different character, typically one experiencing some form of personal or social alienation, who confides their assorted hopes, fears and suspicions to the camera. The speakers regard the camera as a kind of confessional, opening up in ways that most of them would presumably not do in the presence of the various other characters they mention, but they are nevertheless each very selective in how they present themselves. Part of what makes Talking Heads such a complex and absorbing series is that you can never afford to lose sight of the fact that you are, inevitably, only getting one character's side of the story, forcing you to read between the lines to decipher what additional details they might unwittingly reveal about themselves and the people around them. Bennett's keen wit and sharp eye for character observation ensures that every monologue has something to offer in the way of mirth, but they are by no means uplifting viewing - of the original twelve monologues, only a minority have endings that are not thoroughly upsetting. The two that end the most happily are, coincidentally, the two featuring Patricia Routledge - "A Lady of Letters" and "Miss Fozzard Finds Her Feet" - and in both cases the happy ending is achieved through entirely unconventional means. In each we see Routledge play a judgemental and narrow-minded individual who, by the end of her experience, appears to have learned and grown, and developed a greater empathy and/or tolerance for her fellow human being. "A Chip In The Sugar" has more of a neutral ending than an outright happy one - it's an episode where the status quo ends up being reaffirmed, which is both a good and bad thing. "The Hand of God" closes on a note of deep humiliation for its protagonist that is nevertheless hilarious to the viewer. The remaining eight, however, all have bleak conclusions, although the level of bleakness varies from episode to episode. Some, such as "Her Big Chance", result in the protagonist being left in much the same pitiable situation as when we came in, with no indication that they'll be escaping their rut any time soon. In others, like "Soldiering On", we witness the total downfall of the character, or, as in "Playing Sandwiches", one of several implied downfalls in what clearly forms part of a vicious cycle for the character. And then we have the two monologues featuring Thora Hird - "A Cream Cracker Under The Settee" and "Waiting For The Telegram" - in which the respective protagonist is left with nothing to look forward to except her own (potentially imminent) demise. No character, however, winds up in a situation as unenviably nightmarish as that of Marjory (Julie Walters) of "The Outside Dog", a genuinely terrifying piece that is perhaps the closest Bennett has ever come to outright horror. On another level, it plays beguilingly like a good old-fashioned murder mystery, but for the fact that we, much like the main character, are aware all along who the culprit is. On top of which, it's also very, very funny. No surprise to learn that it was apparently a major influence on Steve Pemberton and Reece Shearsmith's blackly comic anthology series Inside No. 9.

"The Outside Dog" forms part of a trilogy of particularly grim Talking Heads installments that figure consecutively in the middle of Series 2, the other two being "Playing Sandwiches" and "Nights In The Garden of Spain". All three deal with the highly disturbing goings-on in seemingly banal venues, sexual abuse being a universal feature, along with characters who, presumably in response to the sordid reality of their lives, subsume themselves in some kind of extensive cleanliness routine. Whereas "Playing Sandwiches" is a "beware the friendly stranger" narrative (with the twist that it's told from the perspective of said friendly stranger, who perhaps doesn't strike us wholly as being so strange), "Nights In The Gardens of Spain" is more concerned with the abuses that occur within the domestic, familial sphere, or what protagonist Rosemary (Penelope Wilton) glibly describes as "the real face of suburbia." "The Outside Dog", which falls smack dab in the middle of the trio, serves as a bridge between the two. It boasts the most extreme (and by consequence the least probable) scenario, in that Marjory's husband, Stuart, is a suspected serial killer. It's surely no coincidence that Marjory is also the most pathological neat freak of the lot - unlike Wilfred (David Haig) of "Playing Sandwiches", whose diligence in eradicating litter is within the bounds of his job as a park keeper, and Rosemary, whose delight in enabling a garden to flourish apparently serves as an outlet for the kind of loving, nurturing energies that are denied in her own martial relationship, Marjory's dedication to keeping her domestic space spotless is indicative of a deep hostility toward the outside world. This is initially manifested in her disdain for Stuart's dog Tina, who is denied entry to the property and spends her days tethered to a kennel in the yard, hence the title. To Marjory, Tina represents all that is brooding and distasteful about the world beyond. In the early stages of the monologue, Marjory takes pride in asserting how well-trained she has Stuart, who works in a slaughterhouse, a job wont to get messy, and who hails from a family she describes as being "scarcely above the pigsty level". Her success in conditioning him to ritually remove the blood from his boots before entering the house, and in enforcing the inflexible rule that Tina must not follow, would indeed appear to bear out her assertions. But of course, the viewer knows that what she says isn't quite accurate, as Marjory is only concerned how Stuart behaves when inside the property. Like Tina, whose presence Marjory (barely) tolerates so long as she remains outside in the yard, Marjory seems willing turn a blind eye to whatever Stuart gets up to when he's out there in the open; it may even be the nexus on which their domestic arrangement hinges. But even then, her claims that Stuart is always perfectly well-mannered when under their shared roof transpire to be completely false. For not only might Stuart have another, very different kind of ritual that he practices out in the wastelands on his nightly walks with Tina, it becomes apparent throughout the course of the monologue that Stuart has a penchant for aggressive sex that definitely isn't mutual, but which Marjory is powerless to reject.

Marjory's uneasy relationship with Tina is an early signal that her handle on the situation is considerably weaker than she lets on, for there are multiple ways in which Tina is beyond her control. Not only does Tina bark incessantly in Stuart's absence, incurring the wrath of a neighbour whom Marjory also abhors, her very presence, even outside the home, represents an encroachment on Marjory's sense of safety. In the opening scene, Marjory confides her irrational suspicion that Tina "spies on" her, which is suggestive of the level of control Stuart exerts in their relationship, even when he is not present. Viewed as a mere dog, one might easily feel a degree of sympathy for Tina, who spends all her time exiled to the yard and presumably barks due to her discomfort whenever Stuart, her sole ally, is not around. Tina is, on the one hand, a rival to Stuart's affections; Marjory clearly envies the doting relationship the dog has with her husband, and the disparaging manner with which she describes Tina ("She licks his boots, literally") suggests that she sees the dog as knowingly commandeering attention from herself. But although the viewer cannot take seriously Marjory's insinuations that Tina is conspiring against her, as the monologue goes on, Tina does take on a more sinister aura, if only by her association with Stuart's nauseating nocturnal life. The dog, it seems, is indeed in on something that Marjory isn't. Which is not to say that Marjory is totally oblivious.

Tina maintains an important presence all throughout the story, not just as an emblem of the ongoing domestic tensions between Marjory and Stuart, but as a major plot point later on in the monologue, when she comes dangerously close to exposing Stuart's connection to the string of brutally murdered prostitutes that have been showing up in the surrounding area. (She is, incidentally, the only animal character of any consequence in any of the Talking Heads installments, although dogs named Tina seem to be a running gag throughout Bennett's monologues* - one is also mentioned at the start of "Miss Fozzard Finds Her Feet", and in "A Woman of No Importance", which is not officially part of the Talking Heads canon, but served as a prototype for the series.)  The obvious symbolism to be gleaned from the titular dog is that she stands as a totem for Stuart's own bestial nature. He is thus the real "Outside Dog" of the story, one who supposedly surrenders his feral impulses at the door on entering the property (although not actually), but transforms into quite the bloodthirsty cur when left to roam out in the wilderness. The connection is made especially conspicuous in Marjory's early assertions that, "It was me that trained Stuart. Me that trained the dog. Apart from the din, you can't train that." She would like to believe that she has both mucky pups broken-in, but Tina has found another means by which to express her uncouth nature, and Stuart, it seems, is just the same (Marjory's resignation toward Tina's persistent barking likewise foreshadows her passivity toward Stuart's ongoing sexual abuse), It is also borne out by Tina's overall character trajectory, as by the end of the monologue, the have barriers come down and she has finally become an inside dog, which is symbolic of the total erosion of Marjory's presumption of control.

This is the most obvious interpretation. You might even say that it's a little too obvious to truly satisfy. I would not dispute that there is a definite parallel to be drawn between Tina's banishment to the yard and Stuart's apparent ability to separate his domestic life from his private activities, but I'm personally more inclined to see Tina less as an analogue to Stuart than to Marjory herself. The "real" Outside Dog is Marjory, and she resents Tina so because it repulses her to glance out the window every day and see her own mirror image staring back at her. Marjory claims that she has Stuart trained, but the reverse seems far more probable. Clearly, Stuart has Marjory on a very tight leash. It is not Stuart who's been conditioned to swill off when he returns to the property, but Marjory, who is required to disregard all suspicion and never question where Stuart goes or what he has been up to (as she says of Tina, "Never makes a muff when he's around"). And when night sets in, she has no recourse but to roll over and accept his unpleasant sexual aggression. The allusion is made all the more salient when viewed back-to-back with "Nights in The Gardens of Spain", which, more so than any other Talking Heads installment, serves as a direct companion piece to "The Outside Dog", in touching on several identical themes. There, the unassuming Rosemary slowly comes to terms with the revelation that the couple next door were far from the bland, respectable neighbours she'd always envisioned, when the wife murders the husband after years of withstanding his incessant physical and sexual abuse, which included keeping her on a collar and leash: "It turns out that Mister led her a dog's life...literally." (Meanwhile, there is no sex life to speak of between Rosemary and her own husband, Henry, but it is suggested that he's abused her on a much more emotional level.) Marjory's distaste at Tina's boot-licking (literal and figurative) stems from her understanding that she is basically no different - or rather, that Tina leads the type of dog's life she can only aspire toward. Both she and Tina are at Stuart's beck and call, yet Tina is regarded with tremendous favouritism by Stuart, while Marjory is excluded from his confidence and affections. Stuart privileges Tina by allowing her to come with him and share in his nocturnal predation, while Marjory is simply a chew toy for him to sink his teeth into afterwards. Tina may be the one who is forced out into the yard, yet it is Marjory who is effectively left out in the cold.

The viewer is given no reason to doubt Stuart's guilt in the killings, but the nagging question hanging all throughout "The Outside Dog" is just how much does Marjory know? She blatantly has her concerns about the situation, and some of Stuart's behaviours certainly invite suspicion, but it is not altogether clear at what point Marjory crosses over from casual wariness to full-on complicity. At the beginning of the monologue, she indicates that she has suspicions as to the truthfulness of what Stuart tells her, even before the killings get underway ("He took the van over to Rawdon last night. Said it was Rawdon, anyway..."). Later, when Stuart is arrested and the house ransacked for evidence, Marjory is slightly dishonest with the police officer who asks her if Stuart has any additional items of clothing outside of the property. She doesn't exactly lie, for she is specifically asked if Stuart has anything at the dry cleaners. But she does not mention that Stuart has a pair of slacks that she has not seen for some time, and which he claims to be keeping at work. Marjory's hostility toward police intervention entails the warning that she is in a precarious position, as if she is discovered to have colluded with Stuart in any way then she could end up being tried herself; Marjory responds, as if by reflex, by diverting matters to her cleanliness regime ("I said, don't put those sheets back, I shall have them all to wash now you've been handling them"). Cleanliness matters to Marjory because it is her only means of asserting control, hence why this is her go-to retort on being threatened by the police. This line is particularly revealing of her vulnerability, for not only is her response painfully ineffectual, it also suggests that, on another, far deeper level, her desire for physical purity is reflective of her need to purge herself of her own guilt in knowing far more about Stuart's activities than she cares to acknowledge. We suspect that, even early on in the monologue, when Marjory notices that Stuart has become much more thorough in swilling off his boots and comments only, "I don't know what's gotten into him", that she is nowhere near naive as she lets on. Her feigned naivety, like her excessive cleanliness, is a defense mechanism. Clearly, Marjory does know, by intuition, that Stuart is the killer, but to act on that knowledge goes against her conditioning to never make a muff when he is around (and also when he isn't).

Nevertheless, Marjory is very nearly spurred into action toward the end of the monologue, when she happens upon evidence so incriminating that not even she can turn a blind eye. In spite of her misgivings around Stuart's slovenliness outside of the home, it seems that he has been very, very clean and meticulous in how he goes about his business. The evidence presented against him in court is largely circumstantial, with no traces of blood being located on his tools or clothing. The only hard forensic evidence appearing to link him directly to the murders is discovered on Tina's fur, which his defense successfully argues could have been accumulated when Tina was let of her leash and allowed to run around the wasteland. (Marjory confides to the camera that she knows this to be untrue, as Tina has not been spayed and Stuart would never allow her to run free, which further echoes the extreme control he has over Marjory.) Marjory, however, is in the process of cleaning Tina's kennel when she discovers that something is clogging up the flow of water from underneath, and pulls out Stuart's missing slacks, which are heavily soiled (presumably with blood). Marjory finally considers reaching out to the outside world, only to discover that it is already too late; the jury has returned with a verdict, and Stuart has been acquitted. The monologue ends with Marjory enduring another night of abuse from Stuart, after which she sneaks outside into the yard and returns the slacks to where she found them. The kennel itself is now vacant, for Tina has finally gained entry to the house, thus eradicating the one advantage that Marjory ever truly held over her four-legged rival. Significantly, when Marjory comments on the media's joyous coverage of Stuart's acquittal, she focuses with particular disdain on Tina's appearance in the press photo ("dog licking his face, ears up, paws on his shoulder, loving every minute of it"). Stuart and Tina are indeed the very epitome of a close-knit, loving couple and, terrified though Marjory is of the prospect of having to resume her everyday life with Stuart, her long-standing jealousy at not getting to share all the same privileges as Tina cannot help but rear its head. Perhaps she would feel more comfortable with the arrangement if her murderous husband were as doting toward her as he is to his dog.

At the very end, we find Marjory gazing longingly into the outside world for the first time, having spent the entirety of the monologue attempting to shut it out in all its assorted intrusions. Early on, she has to contend with encroachers in the form of a neighbour who repeatedly complains to her about Tina's barking and Stuart's mother, whom Marjory suspects deliberately scatters cigarette ash all over the shop just to annoy her. Later, as Stuart becomes the focus of police and media attention, Marjory likewise finds her own personal space under constant siege. We end up questioning what Marjory's reluctance to speak out reveals more of - her being cowed by Stuart, or her distrust of the outside world. Marjory, it seems, does not have much of a life outside of the house. She mentions, briefly, that she used to work as a teacher, and at one point expresses a desire to visit the local library, but there are apparently no friends or social activities to speak of (the closest she comes is in recounting the experience of being spat at by a member of the public while grocery shopping after Stuart's arrest). Perhaps this is indicative of the level of control that Stuart exerts over her, or alternatively of Marjory's naive assumption that she is ultimately safer in sticking with what is familiar, an assumption that leaves her susceptible to self-willed entrapment (it is notable that, whereas Wilfred and Rosemary moved through a variety of different locations in their respective monologues, Marjory is never seen outside her kitchen or living room). At one point, reflecting on one of Stuart's particularly loud and aggressive sexual outbursts, Marjory thinks of the neighbours and observes, "It's a blessing we're detached." The double entendre is unmissable, but this is also reflective of Marjory's preference for isolation. (The notion of a detached house signifying an indifferent community is evoked again in "Nights In The Gardens of Spain" in one of Rosemary's opening comments: "They're mostly detached houses, and you never even hear shouting.") She wishes to keep the world and its associated filth, literal and figurative, at bay, but by the end of the monologue seems ready to accept that dark unknown as her means of salvation, only to find that it has turned its back on her. The press have disappeared, leaving only a broken chair in the middle of the street. Returning the slacks to the kennel is of course a futile attempt to restore everything to its perceived proper place, not least her own willful ignorance, but it is here that Marjory momentarily regards the outside world in more picturesque terms than before ("It's a bit moonlighty"). It's as if she feels a newfound affinity for the outside world, now that her eyes are finally wide open to the horrors that await her back inside the house. The very first time I saw "The Outside Dog", I was half-expecting Marjory to crawl inside Tina's kennel and assume her new place there, having decided that she's better off leaving Stuart and Tina to their domestic wilderness, but nothing quite so ludicrous occurs. Instead, Marjory seems to accept her complete powerlessness in the matter - she retreats back into the house and receives another outburst from Stuart.

The lingering question at the end of the monologue concerns what life will look like for Marjory and Stuart going forward. Will things carry on much as they did before, the only alteration being that Tina now gets to reside inside the house? Will Stuart go out and kill again, or will he decide against running the risk of being recaptured, and instead direct all of his bestial energies at Marjory every night? Is there the possibility that Stuart might even slaughter Marjory in order to ensure her silence? (Marjory has, perhaps unwisely, revealed to Stuart that she cleaned Tina's kennel in his absence.) The suggestion is teased at the beginning of the final sequence, when Marjory recounts being informed by a member of the press that, "The paper's got a lot of money invested in you," to which she responds, forebodingly, "That's your funeral". And Stuart certainly isn't fooled by Marjory's insistence that she wasn't surprised by the verdict. When quizzed by Stuart as to what she thinks, she gives only the non-committal answer of, "I don't know, do I?", to which Stuart responds, "You bloody better know." I suspect, though, that the moment in which Stuart was most tempted to kill Marjory had already occurred much earlier on in the monologue, when Marjory mentions that Stuart took her out in the van to an unknown location (identified, ominously, as "somewhere") and asked her point blank if she suspected him of being the killer. Marjory's reasonably casual recollection suggests that not even she was fully aware of the danger she was in at the time. This is echoed in their exchange at the end of the monologue, when Stuart mocks the likening of Marjory to his mother (who, unlike Marjory, did not conceal her suspicions from the police). Stuart has, I suspect, known all along that Marjory is attuned to what's going on, but is confident that he has her under his complete control. Life for himself and Marjory will be defined by the sordid business of knowing, and knowing that the other knows, with Stuart, if not actually killing Marjory, then certainly stifling the last remaining vitality from her. (Rosemary ends up in a very similar position at the end of "Nights In The Gardens of Spain"; in her case, I do not believe that Henry presents any risk of physical harm to her, but she nevertheless has to live with the knowledge that he too has a few disturbing secrets in his own history, and Henry, we suspect, is not oblivious to Rosemary's knowing.) It is a terribly unsettling point at which to leave our character. But you can always remedy by following it up with a viewing of "Miss Fozzard Finds Her Feet". That one should cheer you right up.

* Although what the joke is anybody's guess.

Charly and The Giddy Delights of Toytown Techno

1992 saw the rise of a peculiar phenomenon known as "toytown techno", whereby the cartoon tunes of yesteryear were given a modern electronic makeover for consumption by the rave music scene that was on fire at the time. "Charly", a 1991 hit for The Prodigy, is often credited with starting the craze, although we can trace earlier examples still in Mark Summers' 1990 record "Summer's Magic", which gave the theme tune to BBC children's series The Magic Roundabout a particularly funky spin, and novelty dance record "Thunderbirds Are Go!" by FAB feat. MC Parker (also 1990), which sampled music and dialogue from 1960s marionette action series Thunderbirds. But the success of "Charly" certainly gave the green light to a wave of copycat records that plundered artifacts of 1970s childhood for raw sampling material. Not everyone was so thrilled by the sudden desire to get back to Toytown. Dance music magazine Mixmag famously accused "Charly" of "killing rave", with editor Dom Phillips condemning the record as "a million nightmare novelty that countless grinning [Top of The Pops] goons have introduced over the years." The Prodigy responded with the proverbial middle finger, by torching a copy of Mixmag in the video to their 1992 single "Fire". Good call. If Mixmag weren't hip enough to understand the appeal of combining that yearning for a bygone childhood with cutting-edge electronica, then that's probably the best use of their pages. Would these people seriously sooner have lived in a world without Shaft's charming reworking of the Roobarb and Custard theme? The farts. But whatever its merits, it was not a phenomenon built for longevity. By the autumn of 1992, Toytown had all but petered out. It was to prove as exhilarating and ephemeral as childhood itself.

Reflecting on "Summer's Magic", Summers commented that the success of toytown techno was linked to the fact that childhood innocence and rave hedonism were not, in practice, all that far removed: “The illegal substances people were taking at raves at the time made them feel happy and light. I suppose when they heard something like Summers Magic, that sense of euphoria comes flooding back, [reminding] them of that bygone age when they were innocent.” With "Charly", though, there was inevitably a more sinister undercurrent, pertaining to the source of the sample, a series of animated public information films produced in 1973 to advise children on various aspects of everyday safety. The track incorporated audio of what was supposedly a cat meowing (in actuality, disc jockey/comedian Kenny Everett doing his finest cat impersonation), followed by the voice of a child working translation duties: "Charley says, always tell your mummy before you go off somewhere." In the PIFs, Charley was a wise, if rather accident-prone cat, who would regularly dispense cautionary pointers to his owner, a young boy named Tony (Tony was apparently voiced by the child of somebody who knew the producer; I'm not sure if he's ever been identified by name). The series was structured around the likeably ludicrous premise that Charley's mews were unintelligible to the viewer, but Tony was fully capable of discerning pearls of wisdom in that barrage of feline gibberish. There was a total of six "Charley Says" films in general, never more than a minute in length, with each following one of two formulas - either Charley would fall victim to some kind of mishap and learn a valuable lesson which he then shared with Tony, or Charley would discourage Tony from doing something seriously stupid. In the most infamous of the six, Charley prevented Tony from disappearing with a predatory prowler who attempted to lure him from the safety of the playground with the promise of puppies. Like any PIF, the darkness in the "Charley" series came from the juxtaposition of the horrific with the mundane, although the stranger installment particularly stands out for conveying a sense of childhood innocence on a knife edge. The evocation of this sensation in the Prodigy track struck a nerve with some listeners, including Jeremy J. Beadle (no, not that Jeremy Beadle), author of the 1993 book Will Pop Eat Itself?: Pop Music in the Soundbite Era, who notes that, "by an unpleasant quirk of coincidence (at least one hopes it was), "Charly" made a remarkably high chart debut (Number 9) in mid-August, the week after a series of grisly child abductions and murders had figured in the headlines." (p.214) In actuality, though, the sample used in the Prodigy track came not from Tony's brush with a suspicious-sounding stranger, but from by far the least threatening PIF in the series, in which Tony is again tempted to go astray, not by an ominous interloper, but by a couple of perfectly benign peers, Vera and Dave, who invite him to join them on a picnic. The fly in the ointment here is Charley's reminder that Tony should never up and leave without first telling his mother where he is going. This ends up throwing a wrench into Tony's plans, for it takes him so long to attract his distracted mother's attentions that Vera and Dave eventually decide that he's not coming and go on their way, whereupon his mother compensates by taking Tony and Charley on a picnic with her instead. The PIF ends with Tony addressing the viewer with the following statement:

"Charley says, always tell your mummy before you go off somewhere, so she knows who you are with."

This is the most genial of all the "Charley" films, as Tony and Charley are not implied to be in any danger at any point. The kind of threat that Tony unwittingly came up against in the "Strangers" PIF very faintly rears its head in Tony's closing words, but from a safe enough distance. Telling your mother where you are going is a good idea, presumably so that she can prevent you from wandering off with anyone inappropriate (especially if you don't have a talking cat to act as your guardian). Alternatively, the lesson could be interpreted as being more for the mother's benefit than Tony's own, so that she doesn't freak out when she realises that Tony is missing. There is perhaps also an implicit, unintentional message to be gleaned from this scenario by the more rebellious viewer - namely, that adherence to authority comes at the expense of your own personal enjoyment. It's because Tony and Charley follow the rules that they don't get to go on a picnic with Vera and Dave, and while a picnic with Mummy is accepted as an excellent alternative, the film does arguably end up reinforcing the idea that the "correct" way to do anything is always under the watchful eye of authority. There is an obvious subversion on this very theme in the Prodigy's use of the sample (which excises the final part of Tony's statement, thus diminishing the closing assurance of safety), raves representing the kind of forbidden venue that Mummy probably doesn't want to hear you're going off to. The suggestion of darkness and danger, conjured up by the use of the PIF, is in this context thrilling, while the sonic strangeness of Charley's disembodied meows adds to the record's sinister ambience, so that Charley, the supposed voice of wisdom and adversary of suspicious strangers, here seems unnervingly alien; familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. The track transforms the sample into an ironic celebration of those rebellious souls who have evaded parental (or otherwise) authority and embraced the wilderness. In a total inversion on the intention behind the "Charley" films, the track seems entirely in love with the seductive nature of danger (a mood reflected in the record cover to "Charly", which showed a facial close-up of a very different, considerably less benevolent-looking cat, baring its teeth in what looks like an almost demonically malevolent smile). To that end, it fulfills a similar function as Bam Bam's amazingly nightmarish 1988 acid house track "Where's Your Child?", which I can only assume was conceived in response to those "Do You Know Where Your Children Are?" PSAs that were commonplace in US television throughout the 1980s.

The subversiveness does not stop there, however, as there is an additional joke in the track's appropriation of all these repeated references to a character named Charley, "Charlie" being a common street name for cocaine. This is a joke that Beadle is wise to, and finds wholly objectionable: "The use of the "Charly" sample was simply a clever way of advertising what the raves at which the record was so heavily featured were really about." Rave records were hardly shy about flaunting their association with recreational drugs culture (to a point that all but reached self-parody a year after "Charly", when The Shamen delivered a highly commercial, controversy-baiting track in which they sung the praises of an individual with the ridiculously unsubtle pun-tastic moniker of "Ebeneezer Goode"). In "Charly", the drug and and the (indirect) voice of authority are blended to a seemingly incongruous degree, which is perhaps made all the more unnerving for the fact that it is conveyed through the voice of an actual child (one presumably as naive as Tony as to the true nature of the dangers he was talking about). The combination of drug and authority suggests usurpation; the drug becomes the new voice of wisdom, its suggestion that we always keep Mummy up to speed what we are doing being immediately followed by an invisible wink. The voice of Tony, meanwhile, suggests both the imperiled childhood innocence present in the original PIFs, and a sort of smirking, child-like love of testing one's boundaries. The marriage of drugs culture and kids' entertainment at first glance seems at odds, but it is perhaps an entirely appropriate and affectionate acknowledgement of the incredibly off-the-wall nature of such entertainment. After all, what kind of drugs would you have to be on to think that your cat was lecturing you about stranger danger?

(As a side-note, there are sometimes even benefits to not being in on the joke where these sample-heavy dance records are concerned. I used to think that the man ranting the titular phrase throughout Praga Khan's "Injected With A Poison" had THE COOLEST VOICE EVER, but it turns out that he's a televangelist. Bummer.)

This was a marriage that permeated Toytown Techno at every turning, from the suggestive title of Urban Hype's "Trip To Trumpton" to the music video to "Sesame's Treet" by Smart E's, which included a run-down of the alphabet in which the letter E was pointedly absent (although very much visible in the name of the act). In the case of "Summer Magic", the track wasn't so much subverting the intentions behind the source of its sample so much as tapping into the pre-existing lore surrounding the characters. It certainly didn't require the creation of a quirky rave record to draw an association in the public's mind between The Magic Roundabout and drugs use. Anybody with even the vaguest knowledge of old-school BBC children's programming knows that The Magic Roundabout was really the UK retooling of a French series, Le Manège enchanté. When the BBC acquired the series in 1965 they chose, for whatever reason, not to translate directly from the French original, but to use the footage as the basis for their own original scripts and stories (similar to what Saban Entertainment did with Samurai Pizza Cats). The series gained a cult following among adult viewers, and a popular fan theory persisted that the English dub had deliberately reinterpreted the series as a commentary on the contemporary drugs culture, with each character representing a different kind of drugs user. Dylan, the rabbit, was obviously a stoner, but I've heard mixed interpretations as to what Dougal's sugar cube addiction was intended to signify.

As an epilogue, Charley did make a small comeback in 2014, when Electrical Safety First released two new films featuring Charley and Tony, exploring different aspects of electrical safety around the home. The revival made the puzzling decision, however, to have Tony voiced not by an actual child, but by TV personality David Walliams, which changes the tone of the films significantly (Walliams also provided the voice of Charley - Everett, sadly, died in 1995, although I'm not sure what prevented them from using archived audio to recreate the role). The result is an unmistakably adult voice disturbing the sense of childhood naivety that the originals pinned down so hauntingly. As such, it's rather hard to distinguish between the new revived Charley and the glut of online parodies that were fairly common in the 2000s (there was one in particular that made the rounds in the mid-00s, a re-dubbed version of the "Strangers" PIF narrated from the playground predator's point of view, in which we discovered that he at least had good taste in naming his dogs, and which now seems to have vanished without trace). As they say, you can't go home again. Every now and then, though, perhaps you can answer the seductive call of Toytown as it beckons you from off in the distance.