I'd Rather Be In Sidcup (Signs That Say What Volkswagen Wants You To Say)

I'm not sure that I can adequately explain this, but "Left Bank Two", a popular De Wolfe library track recorded by Dutch outfit The Noveltones in 1963, is one of those musical compositions that automatically sets my hair on end. Take that series of advertisements for the Volkswagen Golf Mk4 from 1998, in which a succession of characters communicate, in lieu of spoken dialogue, by holding up a hand-written sign with some kind of revelatory statement about their innermost selves. I found the results creepy as hell, something I attribute 100% to their choice of musical accompaniment. It's a jaunty piece for sure, and any agency that opts to feature it in their advertising no doubt does so with the intention of relaying a sense of whimsy, but for myself that whimsy has always come in heavy quotation marks. "Left Bank Two" sounds to my ears like a strangely mocking tune, like there's a joke that everyone else is laughing at but I'm not getting - a joke that, for all I know could be at my own expense. Its presence invariably makes the atmosphere feel slightly cursed.

I could be in the minority, though. BMP DDB, who devised the campaign, likely selected the track for its nostalgic properties and because it has, for multiple UK generations, been a track associated with self-expression. "Left Bank Two" rose to prominence when it was used in the "Gallery" segments of BBC children's program Vision On (1964-1976), in which viewer-submitted artwork was showcased before the screen. The track became so iconic that it was retained for sequel series Take Hart (1977-1983) and Hartbeat (1984-1993), both presented by Tony Hart, who had co-presented Vision On, and for CBBC series SMart (1994-2009), which kept it relevant well into the 00s. Its appearance here is a clue that, just as those unassuming pencil sketches served as charming little windows into their young creators' souls, so too are the signs in the Golf campaign meant to be heartfelt statements on who their holders really are. In a way, my own interpretation seems perfectly fitting, since there is an extent to which the central joke of the campaign is very much at the viewer's expense. The nature of the signage is about subverting the narratives we might otherwise be inclined to project onto the subjects - the mismatch between what you see and what you get, as the tagline puts it. Some offer expressions of surprising vulnerability (the fisherman who complains of seasickness, the hiker who's reached the top of a rock formation only to decide that the experience is unfulfilling and he'd rather be in Sidcup). Other statements disclose traits that might not ordinarily be attributed to their authors, be they emotional (the "sensitive" nightclub bouncer), intellectual (the model with an IQ of 158 or, far more absurdly, the toddler who writes out a complex maths equation) or carnal (the very prim and proper woman in a supermarket car park who reveals her twin obsessions with chocolate and sex). Elsewhere, a businessman at a train station gestures to their fluid sense of identity, with the message, "At weekends my name is Mandy", the statement that most sharply encapsulates that discrepancy between how the subject presents for the sake of societal convention, and how they actually identify.

For these figures, the hand-written sign becomes a form of empowerment, a compelling shorthand for a secret being confided between the subject and the viewer, as an inner act of rebellion against the social constraints that would otherwise define them. Such defiance, the campaign suggested, made them soulmates of the Golf Mk4 itself, the humble exterior of which concealed a whopping 2864 improvements - as was boasted on the sign accompanying the vehicle in the closing image of each individual. I am aware of at least three different versions of the ad, each of which offered a slightly different arrangement of figures, and pictured a different character positioned beside the Golf at the end, as a further reinforcement of their spiritual alliance. In one, the bouncer. In another, the fisherman. In the third, the naturist who doesn't play volleyball.

The volleyball-shunning naturist stands out as by far the most puzzling of the subjects, given that the signage itself functions as a form of constraint that would at first appear to run contrary to the overall premise. Societal convention requires that she keeps her offending parts covered on daytime television, a purpose that her message, split across two strips of cardboard, conveniently serves. This does mean that she's denied the freedom of physical movement, lest the inoffensive arrangement be disturbed, a point emphasised by the highly animate nature of the other unclothed campers seen whizzing past on bikes and kicking footballs. Then again, her statement indicates that she wishes to be defined by her inactivity. Her dour expression, in contrast to the merriment unfolding around her, is a further indicator that she isn't the carefree, fun-loving naturist of stereotype. In one of the campaign's more touching situations, another subject, a man wearing a heavy frown, goes a step further and uses his sign, showing a drawing of a smiling face, to obscure his entire image, as a complete rejection of the outward narrative. He evidentially isn't great at expressing emotion, but wants you to know that he's a kindly soul within. (Did I say it was touching? The crude smiling face is honestly more disconcerting than the frown. But the gesture is noted and appreciated.)

The campaign was the cause of some controversy, when artist Gillian Wearing, a then-recent recipient of the Turner Prize, accused BMP DDB of having ripped off the concept from her 1992/93 project, Signs That Say What You Want Them To Say and Not Signs That Say What Someone Else Wants You To Say. In Wearing's case, members of the public were approached and given a marker pen and blank sign with which to create their own message. As with the Golf campaign, a large part of the appeal of Wearing's images lay in the disconnect between the subject and their selected statement - the most infamous had a well-dressed businessman holding a sign that said, "I'm desperate". Wearing contended that many of the scenarios used by BMP DDB were too similar to be coincidental (she felt, for example, that the nightclub bouncer holding up a sign that said "Sensitive" was evocative of her own image of a policeman holding up a sign that said, "Help"), but ultimately chose not to pursue legal action, citing a recent case in which director Mehdi Norowzian had sued Guinness and lost, following claims that their "Anticipation" campaign had borrowed excessively from his 1992 piece Joy. For their part, BMP DDB denied that they had stolen Wearing's idea, indicating that she was merely one of several sources that had fed their inspiration, (another being the iconic promo video to Bob Dylan's 1965 single "Subterranean Homesick Blues"). Myself, while I don't really blame Wearing for being cheesed off at what she saw, I think that some of the alleged connections are rather too tenuous to suggest transparent copying. I suspect that businessmen making "surprising" revelations were a feature of both because businessmen are an easy bunch to categorise as nondescript. A bouncer holding up a sign that says "sensitive" makes for a disarming image, but doesn't have quite the degree of troubling irony as a policeman holding up a sign reading "Help".  It would be inaccurate to suggest that the Golf campaign is devoid of social commentary (the ads are, after all, exercises in the unreliable nature of perception, and the toddler who's a maths whizz notwithstanding, there's no reason why the featured scenarios couldn't accurately describe any real-life people), but its main intention was presumably to be cute rather than challenging.

Regardless of whether or not the campaign pilfered its premise wholesale from Wearing, her objections highlight the other sense in which the joke here is ultimately at the expense of the viewer. As is noted by Russell Ferguson in the 1999 publication Gillian Wearing, "It is all the more painfully ironic...that the visual style of [Signs] has been repeatedly co-opted for commercial advertising - the epitome of signs that say what someone else wants you to say, of self-expression defined as your choice of commodities." (p.48) Whereas Wearing's work evokes the unpredictability and spontaneity of the everyday, the scenarios in the Golf campaign were entirely manufactured, and purposely designed to convince us that the ultimate form of self-expression is to buy a Golf. Just as the subjects' statements become shorthands for individuality prevailing in the face of society's preconceived notions, the Golf becomes a shorthand for their personal statements - to the point where there is nothing personal or individual about it. The apparent self-empowerment afforded to each figure, in getting to direct the course of their own narratives, inevitably steers us to the exact same conclusion, with the Golf Mk4 and its 2864 improvements. Still, with the sinister sauce of "Left Bank Two" at its disposal, it can scarcely fail to have its own eccentric vibe.

Dog of Death (aka Operation Scapegoat)

It's recently dawned on me what an uncharacteristically dark turn The Simpsons took in its third season. I tend to think of Season 8 as the one in which the tensions in the writers' room became startlingly manifest, and Frank Grimes (and others) served as handy whipping boys. But maybe there was something in the air in Season 3 too. Al Jean and Mike Reiss had taken over as showrunners, and we know that they tended to favour more extreme situations, with less obligation to realism than their predecessors; I'd hazard a guess that one of their starting approaches was to make the drama of the early series a notch edgier by throwing in a heightened sense of peril. (Unlike Oakley and Weinstein, who got steadily more cynical and pessimistic as they went along, Jean and Reiss seemed to get the darkness out of their system by the second half of their tenure, with Season 4 being a considerably lighter collection.) As a result, the series entered a phase in its burgeoning life in which it was suddenly prepared to get malevolent on a regular basis. Specifically, we had three episodes - "Bart The Murderer", "Dog of Death" and "Black Widower" - which (as their titles might imply) all entailed the threat death calling on a particular denizen of Springfield. In all three cases that threat was not ultimately realised, but the possibility that it could have gone that way was nevertheless palpable. It's not that the previous seasons weren't prepared to go to morbid places too. Season 2 had one episode, "One Fish, Two Fish, Blowfish, Blue Fish" that was all about Homer having to face up to his own mortality, having learned that his latest dining experience might have deadly consequences. Elsewhere, Bart had a near death experience in "Bart Gets Hit By a Car", while "Old Money" had a character actually die (albeit a one-off one). But Season 3's own Death Trilogy feels different. The threat of mortality comes from characters being very active and very willing hazards to one another. In the case of "Dog of Death" (episode 8F17), the danger to Santa's Little Helper originates from natural causes, with the kink in his digestive system that could be remedied with a costly operation. The real danger, however, rests on whether or not the Simpsons would choose to abandon him to his gruesome fate because he's suddenly become a financial burden. Then by the end the tables have turned, and the episode title is revealed to have a sinister double meaning. We've entered a situation in which Santa's Little Helper might become a dispenser of death, and Bart's life hangs on whether or not the dog will lose the urge to rip his erstwhile master's throat out.

"Dog of Death", which first aired on March 12th 1992, can be viewed as an uglier variation on the previous season's "Bart's Dog Gets an F", with the family once again at loggerheads as to whether they can keep Santa's Little Helper. The issue this time isn't the dog's desire to chew everything in sight, but his medical bills jeopardizing such luxuries as beer, ham night and weekly lottery tickets, when a trip to the vet reveals he has a twisted stomach. Realism in television: as a child, "twisted stomach" sounded to my ears like some fucked-up, made-up illness, but this is actually a legitimate disorder of which dog owners need to be wary. The technical term would be Gastric Dilatation Volvulus, when the stomach fills up with gas, causing it to expand and twist. All dogs can be affected, but the greyhound's body structure makes it one of the more susceptible breeds. The Simpsons clearly hadn't prepared for this possibility by having Santa's Little Helper insured, but maybe that wasn't such a big thing in 1992. Marge and Homer's initial response is that the $750 operation that will save the dog (about $1,676 in 2025 money) is too much to ask, and they instead turn to preparing the kids for the likelihood that they'll have to let their pet go. The kids aren't quite so accepting of this outcome, with Bart once again being the most motivated to fight in Santa's Little Helper's corner. Marge and Homer eventually relent, and figure out how they can afford the operation, if each member of the family is prepared to give up a regular expenditure. It's an easy enough thing to agree to upfront, but when the dog is restored to a clean bill of health and the family are having to adjust to a deluge of lifestyle changes, resentment starts to pile up toward their four-legged chum. Thus, "Dog of Death" explores a possibility that "Bart's Dog Gets an F" left untouched - what if Bart, whose bond with the dog is clearly the strongest, momentarily lost patience with Santa's Little Helper? The upshot is that Santa's Little Helper, feeling unwanted in the Simpsons' home, takes to the streets and ends up in the ownership of Mr Burns, who is set on transforming the gentle family pet into a savage attack dog.

Right now I'm revisiting the Santa's Little Helper episodes, which have traditionally been some of my least favourite episodes of the series, in the hopes that I might find something new in them now that I am myself a dog owner. But I'm already no stranger to the trauma of pet illness and the inconvenience of costly vet fees, so in many regards this is an episode that cuts close to the bone for me. Too close, in fact. I find this one rather difficult to watch, to the point where I'm compelled to automatically consign it to the bottom of my SLH rankings. It's a paradox, honestly, because compared to its competitors, "Dog of Death" does have quite a few things going for it. A criticism I'll often make of the Santa's Little Helper episodes is that they're prone to flimsy plotting, but that's not a charge I can really lay against "Dog of Death". Of the four SLH episodes from the classic era, this one has by far the strongest narrative bones. The stakes are high from early on, each act flows logically into the next and the lottery subplot is a perfect thematic complement in an episode where financial struggles play such a vital role. It's a basic story, but up until the last 90 seconds or so it is decently told, which gives it the edge over the greatly more sluggish "Bart's Dog Gets an F". The major disadvantage "Dog of Death" has next to "Bart's Dog Gets an F", and indeed every other SLH episode, is that it is an immensely difficult episode to like. Here's the most damning thing I can personally say about it: other than for the purposes of this review, I'm not sure that I've ever chosen to watch "Dog of Death" on my own terms. I've sat through it whenever it's on, but it's not an episode I've found myself scrolling to whenever I've felt like sticking on a Simpsons disc; there are at least 200 other episodes I'd be more inclined to give my time. Even "Secrets of a Successful Marriage", which is officially my least favourite of the classic era, has elements that make it more rewatchable.

Part of the problem is that the central scenario, while highly relatable, is bleak all over. The writers certainly had their work cut out in finding the humor in the matter, and most of the best jokes occur in the first act, in the lottery B-story (Kent Brockman is on particularly good form here). There's certainly nothing wrong with taking a dramatic approach and allowing a situation that's naturally downbeat to be so, but "Dog of Death" doesn't get the balance quite right. In fact, it frequently tips over into being downright mean-spirited, despite the production team explicitly stating on the episode commentary that their intention was to make it heart-warming, like the Christmas episode. Ostensibly, the Santa's Little Helper episodes were written to appeal to the animal lovers in the series' viewership, yet there are jokes in here that feel like they were purposely designed to rub animal lovers the wrong way, particularly if their affections lie with non-dog life. If you paid attention to some of my quibbles with "Bart's Dog Gets an F" and "Bart The Genius", you might have guessed that there were two jokes in particular I was going to take issue with, so let's just get them out of the way now. First, the black cat in the room. Writes Nathan Rabin in his review on the AV Club: "Santa’s Little Helper has it rough. He’s only trotted out when it suits the plot and more often than not he’s in some sort of terrible scrape." Not to sound like a broken record, but I once again feel the need to point out that Snowball II has it so much rougher. She (as far as we knew, still a he at this stage) seldom gets to be the centre of attention, and is usually only trotted out to be the target of some gratuitous put-down in episodes centred on her canine counterpart, a tradition originating with "Dog of Death". In this case, it's the punchline of the entire episode. As Santa's Little Helper is welcomed back with open arms and the entire family is clamoring to lay their loving hands upon him, Marge suggests that Homer pet the cat instead. Homer retorts, "The cat? What's the point?" Hey, just leave Snowball II alone, okay? She never did anything to hurt anyone. It seems an unnecessarily sour point to me that these dog episodes should be at such pains to assure us that the Simpsons love Santa's Little Helper deep down, whilst simultaneously implying they feel nothing but contempt for the family cat - a sentiment that's honestly not that evident outside of Santa's Little Helper episodes. It seems blatant enough that the Simpsons felt attachment to the original Snowball, so I'm not buying them as a clan of cat haters. The issue might be that Snowball II isn't living up to her predecessor's greatness, but since the series never cared to elaborate much on the household's feline dynamics, the family just come off being as inexplicably mean to an animal that's so unassuming. Yes, it's as clear as day that there are some strong anti-cat feelings amongst the writing staff, but I kind of feel that if they wanted the Simpsons to be vessels for that, they shouldn't have made them cat owners in the first place.

Are cats the most abused animal in all Simpsons history? That might depend on whether we're counting Scratchy among those mistreated critters. If so, there isn't much of a contest. If we're only including animals that are real, flesh-and-blood entities in-universe, then there is another creature the writers seem inordinately fond of harming. I've noticed that gags about hamsters being imperilled, abused or killed happen with surprising frequency within the series. By "Dog of Death", we were up to at least our third incident of hamster misfortune, and we already seem far removed from the cautiousness of "Bart The Genius", in which the hamsters were allowed to escape before the threat of dissection could be carried out. In this case, we actually have a dead hamster onscreen, getting zapped repeatedly by a defibrillator before a vet picks it up and tosses it through a basketball hoop into a waste bin, accompanied by squishy little sound effects. Damn, that's just cold. (This same clip works its way into "So It's Come To This: A Simpsons Clip Show", which is another reason why "Another Simpsons Clip Show" is superior.) If the former cat person in me gets a little miffed with certain assumptions in "Dog of Death", then the lifelong rodent lover is absolutely going to recoil. I can't imagine what the writers' beef with hamsters could be, but they obviously have it in for them (gerbils too, judging by "Who Shot Mr Burns? Part One").

But let's even out that burst of negativity by putting a spotlight on what "Dog of Death" does right. I do like the realism with which the initial Santa's Little Helper conflict is handled. It was apparently based on a real dilemma faced by writer John Swartzwelder's family when their dog got sick (although in their case it didn't have a happy ending), and there is an appropriate amount of gravitas surrounding Santa's Little Helper's illness. Episodes in which the family's financial troubles played a significant role were set to become a dying breed as we moved further into the 90s (when, with some rare exceptions, such as "Homer vs. Patty and Selma" of Season 6, the Simpsons had the means to do just about anything on a whim), but were a major part of the early seasons' integrity. As per the commentary, the sum of $750 was carefully chosen, as an amount that Homer and Marge would immediately balk at but could plausibly scrape together if they made the right allowances in their budget. The scene in the kitchen where the family argue over Santa's Little Helper's fate is very effectively delivered, particularly Bart's horror on realising that he and his parents aren't on the same page. There's a potent tension between his loving innocence and their more detached practicality. Santa's Little Helper might be a cherished member of the household, but the bitter truth is that Homer and Marge view him as essentially expendable - there is a part of them that would be willing to let him go, if it means keeping up all of their lifestyle habits. Homer's preliminary solution is to paper over the children's impending trauma by attempting to sell them on his vision of a Doggie Heaven, which takes an even more disturbing turn when he decides that there's also a Doggie Hell, and that Blondi and Checkers are likely sniffing at each other's butts therein, alongside a rogue Lassie. (I'm a lifelong fan of Benji, but nowhere near as well-versed when it comes to Lassie lore - does anyone know what the hell Homer is talking about when he brings up the bad Lassie who bit Timmy? Did that happen in one of the movies or was it something reputed to have occurred on set?) Bart's position, however, is the righteous one (something he carefully avoids compromising by expressing it without expletives), and Homer and Marge are persuaded that something more valuable is at risk here than their precious creature comforts - that is, until the stark realities of having to substitute pork chop night with chub night begin to sink in.

I also have "Dog of Death" to thank for introducing me to the work of author Shirley Jackson (if it hadn't, then I might never have written this piece on her story "Charles"). The name drop in this episode encouraged me to seek out and read "The Lottery", and Brockman didn't lie about its contents. "A chilling tale of conformity gone mad" would likewise be a pretty apt summary of a typical day in Springfield - this is the community who were previously prepared to lynch Homer and Bart over the beheading of a statue, so I daresay they are only a hair's breath away from implementing a ritual stoning. For now, "Dog of Death" offers up a relatively mild example of the townspeople's mass conformity, via their hysteria for a state lottery that trades in glib promises of easy wealth but is, as Moe neatly puts it, an exploiter of the poor and ignorant (of course, as a peddler of booze he doesn't quite grasp the irony). The way the lottery set-up first segues into the main story, with the family being too transfixed by the possibility of their numbers coming up to even notice the financial time bomb staggering across their living room, is an especially clever touch. Homer's bizarre fantasy of being transformed into some kind of gold-coated giant via a $130 million jackpot would be absurd under any circumstances, but seems particularly out of touch when the immediate reality is clearly signalling that things are about to get grim. Alas, the lottery win was as a pipe dream as delusional as those aspirations of having 14 karat gold grafted to his skin. Despite forking out for 50 tickets, Homer discovers that the odds were always brutally stacked against him, as the jackpot is snagged by none other than Brockman himself. The question of whether or not obscene wealth is the answer to all of life's ills becomes a touchy one in "Dog of Death", as Brockman's initiation into the millionaire lifestyle is contrasted with the Simpsons' sharp dip into a more frugal standard of living. Seeing the blinged-out Brockman flaunt his riches on TV, Homer churlishly retorts that there's one thing $130 million (plus a salary of $500,000) can't buy, and that's a dinosaur. (Maybe not a dinosaur, although Brockman does get a llama that bites Ted Kennedy, one of multiple Michael Jackson references in this script).

Shirley Jackson's lottery, which caused some controversy when the story her first published in 1948, is of a very different nature. The "winner", Tessie Hutchinson, voices her objections to the process, but is permanently silenced by the onslaught of stones thrown upon her by the very people who, up until a short moment ago, were her friends, neighbours and even family, and who regard her sacrifice is necessary for their collective benefit. It is a terrifying demonstration of the perils facing the individual who has been singled out and turned on by the group, who will no longer recognise them as one of their own, but as a scapegoat on which to vent their darker emotions. The reference in "Dog of Death" feels all the more pertinent for how the plot deals with Santa's Little Helper's own status as a member of the Simpsons family being jeopardized by a simple twist (literal and figurative) of fortune. His GDV leaves them divided - whereas Bart continues to see a beloved companion in dire need of help, Homer and Marge see an inconvenience that must be sacrificed for the family's greater good. Later on, the family all come to jointly scorn Santa's Little Helper, having settled the irrational sentiment that he's to blame for their frugal miseries. It's easier to blame something tangible, at which you can actively direct your rage, than simply fate for dealing you a lousy hand, as Marge discovers when the universe plays another of its sneaky cosmic tricks and has her exact numbers come up the first week after she's been made to give up on the lottery. Lisa likewise is tasked with writing a report on Renaissance astronomer Copernicus just when she was required to skip out on the relevant volume of Encyclopedia Generica (although in her case the universe is also merciful enough to leave a third-rate biography on Copernicus for her to find at the bus shelter, which is it's better than nothing). Homer is reduced to degrading himself for amusement of the patrons at Moe's Tavern, in the hopes that they'll give him change for a beer. Even Bart gets in on the scorn, after a budget haircut from a student barber takes most of the shape from his hair. (Of course, it could be worse. He could have been sent to Jake's Barber Shop, as in the "Deep Deep Trouble" video. Then there would be nothing but stubble.) The experience is enough to reduce his beloved friend into a "dumb dog" in Bart's eyes. When the Simpsons cease showing their dog any warmth or affection, Santa's Little Helper takes the hint that he can't run with this pack any more, and absconds the second the gate is left unsecured.

After an adventure in the wilderness that would make Benji proud, Santa's Little Helper is captured and impounded by the authorities (the Simpsons clearly didn't have him microchipped either, but maybe that also wasn't done in 1992). He's been expelled from his former position as a family dog, but there is a whole new identity on the horizon for him to fill - Mr Burns is looking for a replacement guard dog, now that his long-serving Crippler is about ready for retirement, and when he catches sight of Santa's Little Helper he senses potential in the homely greyhound. It is a mite questionable that Burns should go to a shelter and pick up a stray when it would be much more efficient for him to purchase a dog that had been specially bred and trained for the purpose (Burns doesn't seem like the kind of guy who'd have a "Don't shop, adopt" policy). But then I think the unwholesome implication is that Burns gets some sadistic pleasure from personally breaking and transforming a placid pet into a slavering beast. It's here that the script once again gets a little too mean-spirited for comfort, as Burns' procedure for conditioning Santa's Little Helper to want to immediately tear the flesh from the bones of everything he meets frankly makes Winthrop's training methods in "Bart's Dog Gets an F" look positively civilised. That horrifying sequence with him giving Santa's Little Helper the Clockwork Orange treatment is arguably a little too ridiculous and over the top to be taken seriously - and I do get a guilty little smile out of Burns' declaration that it will turn the dog into "a vicious, soulless killer", which was entirely the opposite intention of the treatment Alex received in A Clockwork Orange, but wittily gives the lie to the idea that the process was about healing and not dealing further damage. But we also see Burns punching Santa's Little Helper with boxing gloves and leaving visible contusions on his face, and that's just distressing to watch. To their credit, the animators do an excellent job of making the reprogrammed Santa's Little Helper look genuinely frightening, and like he could potentially do some serious damage to Bart when they inevitably cross paths again. I suppose it's in Burns' abuse of this naturally benign dog that we see some implicit suggestion of how the Simpsons were always much richer than the icy billionaire, even when subsisting on their diet of organ meats and chub. Burns has no understanding of a dog's value as a loving companion; to him, it's just a resource to be broken and turned against the world he wants to keep at bay. The Simpsons have experienced a pleasure that's totally beyond him, even if they are intermittently inclined to take that for granted.

I've already indicated that "Dog of Death" loses its way somewhat in the last 90 seconds; alas, it's here that it falls victim to the same trap as "Bart's Dog Gets an F", in reaching a solution that feels overly convenient and cliche. Naturally, the Simpsons come to miss Santa's Little Helper when he disappears and regret their ill-treatment of him. Bart once again is the most driven to action, and goes about knocking on every door in town on the chance someone has seen him; when he reaches Burns' mansion he has the hounds set on him, and naturally Santa's Little Helper leads the offence. I think this sequence is very well-staged and coveys the danger of the scenario to nail-biting effect - so it perhaps registers as a little hokey when the dog is suddenly and totally placated on hearing Bart say the words, "I love you." All of the Santa's Little Helper episodes, with the exception of "Two Dozen and One Greyhounds", rely on some form of "boy and his dog" triteness to reach their happy endings, but none hammer it in with quite the degree of gruesome manipulation as "Dog of Death". This is supposed to be the redemptive light at the end of a harrowing tunnel, but it feels like the episode taking the path of cheap sentiment after a discordantly malevolent ride, in an attempt to pass itself off as sensitive after all. I will give it that from a thematic sense it is at least more explicable than the solution to "Bart's Dog Gets an F". The Simpsons, especially Bart, had already demonstrated that their love for Santa's Little Helper was stronger than their need for life's various bells and whistles. No matter how much they grumbled about it in the aftermath, they still bought the dog the operation that saved his life. So this is Santa's Little Helper returning the favour by demonstrating that his bond with Bart is ultimately stronger than any of the vicious tendencies Burns has pummelled out of him. If they had applied a subtler had (say, lost the flashback montage altogether), some version this outcome might have worked. The element that I find unforgivably cheesy, though, is when Santa's Little Helper single handedly defends Bart from Burns' remaining guard dogs. We've acknowledged that Santa's Little Helper looks really scary when he's mad, sure, but the notion of him being able to frighten off an entire pack of blood-lustful hounds^[1] is a touch hard to swallow. Oh well, back home to shower the dog with praise and disrespect an inoffensive cat.

As if that particular double standard weren't enough, "Dog of Death" closes with a strange disclaimer, in which we're informed that no dogs were harmed in its making, but that a vomiting cat and a dead duck were somehow associated with its production. There's a fiendishness deep in this episode's heart that really doesn't mesh with its professions of tenderness, but at least it goes out gleefully upfront on the matter.

[1] Come to think of it, are Burns' dogs actually hounds? They look more like they were modelled on some kind of terrier breed. But maybe "Release the terriers!" doesn't have quite the same wham.

DETRiments: Mike and Joy

"Mike and Joy" was the outlier of DETR's "What's It Like?" drink driving campaign of late 1999, for various reasons. It centred on the perspective of bereaved relatives, in a series themed predominately around conversations with perpetrators, and how they accommodated the terrible knowledge that their lack of judgement had resulted in the death of another. It also forwent the baffling expressionism that punctuated the sorry testimonies of Terry, John and David; the surreal images of an undressed performance artist and misplaced eels are replaced by close-ups of the characters' physical surroundings, mostly remnants of the deceased in a manner designed to suggest a ghostly, lingering presence. What immediately connects it to the WIL series is the title card at the beginning. In accordance with the changed perspective, it asks a different, less lurid but equally grave question ("What's it like to lose someone?") and closes with an extension of the campaign tagline that explicitly connects it to the Y2K. As the title would indicate, this is the only duologue of the series, with the titular Mike and Joy telling the story of their daughter Michelle, who was died of head injuries when a drink driver smashed into the back of her car.

"Mike and Joy" is the entry that's the most strongly reminiscent of the campaign's then-recent predecessor, Drinking & Driving Wrecks Lives. It too was more interested in the suffering of innocents than the remorse of the perpetrator, to the point where the drink driver's lack of corporeality became a running feature. The focus of D&DWL, at least in the beginning, was the knock-on effects of accidents caused by drink driving, with its earlier installments tending to illustrate how people who weren't directly involved in those accidents were also impacted. We had the quietly devastated family in "Funeral", the lonely mother in "Jenny", the lamenting school friends in "Classroom" and the shaken first responder in "Fireman's Story" ("Pier" was unusual among that first wave in focusing on a crash victim who had survived to tell his own story). "Mike and Joy" most obviously recalls "Funeral" and "Jenny", not only with its depiction of parental grief, but with its closing emphasis on stopped time; just as the watch recovered from Stephen's jacket and Jenny's undisturbed teenage bedroom are reminders of a progression cruelly denied, the photographs of a smiling Michelle convey her own stolen future by reducing her to a series of static images. Like the mother in "Jenny", Mike and Joy are condemned to share in that stagnation, haunted by the absence of their daughter and the loss of the future that should have been. Joy states that life now consists of "a void, and there's nothing to fill it...nothing at all"; they are in a situation in which the world has stopped turning. The explicit reference to the millennium at the end of the PIF represents an attempt to tie this in with the broader concerns of the Y2K, evoking a sense of anticipation that teeters on the apocalyptic. The tagline alludes to the place of the individual within the grander scheme of time, both in terms of our vulnerabilities but also the potentially far-ranging impact of our personal choices. Against a backdrop of cultural celebration, in which our civilisation was giving itself a pat on the back for still being around after 2000 years, WIL served as a grim little countermove, playing on the tension between our best intentions and aspirations, and the world we might inadvertently create through the worst of our weaknesses.

Although "Mike and Joy" avoids the aggressively surreal imagery of the rest of the series, even it can't resist hitting us with at least one baffling and unsettling image. The commencing frame shows the silhouette of a ceramic angel that appears to be missing a wing, presumably a knick knack from Mike and Joy's house, with the sounds of an unseen fly buzzing in the backdrop. The fly obviously signifies death and decay. The angel should be a symbol of purity and salvation, but it seems corrupted, with its dark and broken form, a further indicator of thwarted potential. Elsewhere, "Mike and Joy" captures that distinctively nightmarish qualities that characterised the whole series; the horror of the situation is so uncanny that it appears unreal. Similar tricks are deployed to the other interviews - the alternating proximity to the subjects, and shots in which they appear to speak without moving their lips, suggesting an internal pain that persists below the surface. Most strikingly, the PIF is presented in a queasy purple hue, a representation of the emotional fog Mike and Joy now inhabit. Unlike David, who conducted his interview from a prison hallway, and Terry and John, who spoke in a more generic meeting room, Mike and Joy give their testimony from their living room, and there is a notably more overstuffed mise-en-scene, with the various decorating touches lending as an unnerving a feeling as the institutional backdrop of David's ad. They too are prisoners of a world that's been warped into an unearthly shape, with no prospect of refuge in what lies beyond. The view from window behind the broken angel displays only the vague impression of an oppressive brick wall. Our first glimpse of Mike and Joy shows them gazing from their living room window, into an indistinct space that, save for the outline of some not-so-green greenery, reveals essentially nothing.

DETRiments: David

The imminence of the Y2K engendered its share of anxieties, but what was really inescapable in those waning days of the 20th century was the overstated sense of cultural optimism. The transition from 1999 to the year 2000 wasn't just a time to raise a glass and to hang up a new calendar, but to contemplate the BOUNDLESSNESS OF HUMAN POTENTIAL. "Look how far civilisation has come and imagine what we could achieve tomorrow" was the mood of numerous contemporary campaigns. Seeing in the millennium would be a once in a lifetime event, the year 2000 the start of a bold and promising new era.

"What's It Like?", a drink driving campaign created by the Department of the Environment, Transport and the Regions (DETR) for the Christmas of 1999, was unmistakably a product of that premillennial grandiosity. On the one hand, it was designed to be a sobering counterpoint to the endless promotions urging us see in this new age in history by partying ourselves into a stupor, offering a grim reminder of what could go wrong on the very first day. It wasn't the Millennium Bug, but on a personal level its implications were every bit as apocalyptic - the possibility of causing some horrific life-changing accident as we slid back home in the early hours of January 1st. But even while imparting the usual lessons about human vulnerability, those inflated ideas about human potential had clearly gotten to DETR too, and had them as high as a kite. Watching "What's It Like?", it feels as though showing off and making some kind of artistic statement was on the agenda as much as convincing the public that a new millennium was not an invitation to let down their guard about drinking and driving. Compare it to "Drinking and Driving Wrecks Lives", in which the artiest piece on offer was the David Anderson-animated "Mark", a pastiche of Anderson's 1989 short "Deadsy"; there, the surreal visuals were nothing less than a ghoulishly playful means of delivering an exceptionally grim message, placing the narration halfway between a macabre campfire tale and a feverish nightmare. "What's It Like?", by contrast, has an air of thoroughgoing solemnity, its surreal visuals being expressionistic efforts to encapsulate the despair of its subjects. The results feel portentous, as if DETR's objective was to create less a series of public information films than of full-on arthouse vignettes.

Still, as the UK's last major drink driving campaign of the 1990s, a decade in which D&DWL had largely dominated, "What's It Like?" stands out as the last hurrah for a particular variety of PIF. Come the year 2000 and things were never going to be the same. The THINK! campaign was already in motion and set to inherit the mantle as the official face of British road safety. For all of those expressionistic trappings, "What's It Like?" has more in common with D&DWL, with its emphasis on broken souls and long-term emotional consequences, and also its willingness to incorporate flavour and creativity into the mix, ingredients that would become considerably scarcer under the THINK! regime. It reuses a familiar staple of D&DWL, the monologue, although the barebones authenticity of "Fireman's Story" was not desired here. Despite using a more artificial presentation than the Ken Stott PIF, the fiendish twist is that the testimonies in WIL might actually be genuine, or at least that's the conclusion we're being steered toward. "David", the most notable entry of the campaign thanks to its troubling mise-en-scene, included the ominous caption, "This is not an actor", in some edits, which could mean multiple things. It's a safe bet that "David" is probably not his real name, although I'm otherwise inclined to take the campaign at face value and accept this as a legitimate portrait of one man's irrepressible remorse. His performance certainly feels convincing, even if the arrangement has an obviously staged quality. Take that prison guard who's lingering in the backdrop - are they also the real deal? What are they there for, other than atmosphere?

The WIL campaign was comprised of four different segments, three of which focussed on the perspective of the perpetrator, opening with a title card posing chilling question "What's it like to kill someone?" Despite the luridness of this question, the featured individuals aren't murderers. As they point out repeatedly throughout, there was no intent, although in practice this doesn't change the fact that they were responsible for someone's death. The "David" PIF stands out since he's the only interviewee who is visibly imprisoned as a result of his actions. The other two, John and Terry, are featured in a more generic setting, the emphasis being purely on their emotional entrapment. "David" is clearly looking to put the fear of potential legal repercussions into viewers; its titular character actively alludes to it when he speaks of the impact on his family and his children's inability to comprehend the magnitude of what he's done. But the ultimate goal is to have those literal and figurative imprisonments blur into one - the symmetrical, coldly institutional backdrop has a queasy uncanniness, appearing to stretch out into infinity, echoing the subject's statements about there being no way out from his remorse. David opens his monologue with the word "Loneliness", which carries a certain irony when we consider that he is the only interviewed perpetrator who is not depicted alone. That prison guard is only metres away, yet there's an aloofness to his presence. He's an impassive bystander who exists as part of that institutional scenery, emphasising the disconnect that exists between David and the external world. Meanwhile, the camera's alternating proximity to David, which shifts from extreme close-ups to chilly remoteness, suggests an anguish active and throbbing, haunting and regarding its subject from all ranges. The air in here is of a nightmare from which you can't awaken; nothing quite seems real or solid, everything feels oppressive and threatening, the most terrible things are intangible but omnipresent. 

These images of David are so striking in themselves, and the story he tells so powerful that one has to wonder if they would have sufficed on their own, without the need for all the arthouse bells and whistles. But the PIF insists on getting befuddling, punctuating the monologue with an array of abstract visuals in grey and washed-out colours. Among these disconcerting sights (in the full 79 second edit) are hands reaching from the blackness, naked bodies bending and contorting, a splash of red stuff and...uh, eels from the looks of it? The eels are the one detail I can't make sense of - I'm not sure what purpose they serve, other than providing a visual that might make a few viewers squirm. But undressed bodies are an obvious shorthand for human vulnerability and the red splashes a stand-in for blood-soaked carnage. Other images are more direct - a bend in the road with an ominous haze rising above it (the presumable spot at which the accident occurred, refashioned to look a little more like something from a horror picture), a limp hand lying in the grass. WIL follows the D&DWL model, in largely shying away from images of the crash itself; one sequence, a POV shot from a driver's seat that flips into a spinning motion (excised from the 30 second version), brings us teasingly close to the action whilst showing us very little. This, as the monologue makes evident, signifies David's unending efforts to go back and revisit the life-changing incident in his mind, attempting in vain to come to terms with it through memories that are blurred, inaccessible and confounding to his present self. The abstract imagery might seem superfluous to some tastes, and perhaps a little ostentatious, but I appreciate the spooky character they bring to the WIL series. They are attempts to represent what is unspeakable, things that would ordinarily exist only between the cracks of a more conventional monologue.

When the WIL campaign was doing the rounds in December '99, I had yet to develop my love-hate relationship with the public information film. Back then, I straight-up hated them, and quickly learned to change the channel whenever that grim title card appeared. The "David" PIF I happened to tune into right in the middle of, so by the time I'd processed what the ad was about, it was too late to back out of it. I remember thinking then that the closing title, which implored the viewers, "Please don't drink and drive", seemed oddly quaint, less the voice of authority imparting instructions on how to behave than a woeful voice pleading with us to not keeping making the same mistakes when we really should have gotten the message following years of tireless D&DWL campaigning. Despite its macabre energy, I've always felt that WIL, more so than any of the D&DWL installments, betrayed an underlying sense of weary frustration, as if disappointed by the fact that drink driving PIFs were still necessary as we entered the year 2000. In that context, all those abstract images could be perceived as laborious attempts to grab attention more than anything else. Then again, the fourth PIF in the WIL series, "Mike and Joy", opened by asking a different question, and closing with what was effectively the punchline to the entire campaign: "This millennium take a moment to think about the rest of your life". No matter how far we think we've come as a civilisation or a species, we remain as fragile as we've ever been. One thoughtless decision is all it takes to bring our time to a smothering still.