On the eve of “The Simpsons” taking a torch from “The Flintstones”–no, it’s not that somebody is turning the Fox series into an inane live-action movie, at least not this decade–I have a confession:
On Sunday “The Simpsons” will air its 167th, and history making, episode. TV’s previous longest running prime-time cartoon, “The Flintstones,” died at 166. And I, to my enduring shame, didn’t come on board until about No. 100, an admission that is a little like an English major allowing that he has never read “Hamlet,” or someone living in Paris for four months without visiting the Louvre, except to go to the giftshop. (OK, both of those things are also true about me, but let’s stay on topic.)
Smart friends and acquaintances, along with writers I admired, for years had raved about dad Homer, mom Marge, son Bart and daughter Lisa, about the whip-smart writing, the giddily literate skewering of popular culture, the sheer tumbling density of the program’s humor. But unless you count early morning debates with a golfing partner over the proper phonetic spelling of Homer’s trademark exclamation of realized stupidity, “D’oh,” I had somehow managed to not discover what the fuss was all about.
Part of it was getting over the hurdle of, as a relatively newish adult, watching a cartoon.
Part of it, I suspect, was all the furor over Bart Simpson. The T-shirtization of not-all-that-clever catch phrases like “Don`t have a cow, man” and “I’m Bart Simpson. Who the hell are you?”; the mass parental indignation at such a show possibly offering role models to America’s youth–these cultural responses seemed primary indicators that here was one more instance of big smoke from small fire.
And besides, as always, it is easier, more productive and generally more sane not to invite one more television show into your life.
The up side of all this avoidance, though, was considerable. When I finally broke down and watched–under the influence of my presumptive spouse some three years ago, I think, about the time “The Simpsons” started appearing in syndication–it was with an almost overwhelming wonderment.
I very quickly threatened to become what I had long derided: a one TV-show geek. I taped each day’s new rerun and watched the tapes with frequent rewinding. I memorized lines and quoted them gleefully, reveling, for instance, in sharing with new dads what Homer had learned about being a father: “Do the opposite of what the boy says.”
Any anti-authoritarianism led to recollection of one of the tenets of wisdom Homer passed on to Bart when he thought he was going to die: “Stick it to the Man.”
I would fondly recount episodes to people who, I didn’t bother noticing, had the kinds of grins on their faces indicative of internal monologues about perseverance: the time Homer spent a whole episode with his arm stuck up the dispensing chute of a soda machine, only to learn at the end that it was because he wouldn’t let go of the soda can.
The crowded pantheon of sharply delineated characters grew more vivid to me than any on TV.
I was this close to explaining to people how I found it perfectly natural to go around in public dressed up in a Bart Simpson costume, on my way to make “Simpsons” hand gestures and mouth “Simpsons” catch phrases at a hotel function room gathering of my similarly attired new friends.
It never got quite that far. But everything people had said about the show, born as a crude but beloved accoutrement to the old “Tracey Ullman Show” in 1987, had been confirmed. I was especially surprised to find that at the center of the sparkling satire was a–sniff–heart of gold.
This was a family that, however clay-footed, ultimately loved, respected and supported one another. Far from tearing down the family, as all the vilification of rapscallion Bart would have had you believe, it firmed it up.
And this essential human core is ultimately the chief reason “The Simpsons” has been able to last.
It also helped that it began with James L. Brooks (“The Mary Tyler Moore Show”) and cartoonist Matt Groening at the helm and has consistenly drawn Hollywood’s top writing talent. When I interviewed NBC late-night host Conan O’Brien, who had in large measure established himself by being one of “The Simpsons” top writers, he described the writing process as a relentless drive toward adding more and better jokes.
“People think, What’s the trick of `The Simpsons’?” he said. “We would start with a good script and then, page by page, comb through it: `That could be funnier right there.’ And then we would sit there for an hour, if it took that, and then get it. A week later, after we’d done another script, we’d pick up that one and again comb through it. Then after the read-through, we’d comb through it again. . . . `Simpsons’ episodes are being worked on until they air, because the mouth movements are pretty imprecise. Homer can say, `I`m hungry’ or `Look, it’s Michelangelo,” and you don’t have to change the animation.”
“The Simpsons,” too, is something original, unlike “The Flintsones,” which unabashedly knocked off a live-action series, “The Honeymooners,” to form the basis for its long-running (1960-66) parody on suburbia.
Far from being an impediment, the fact that these are cartoon characters helps make the stories more universal: There is something liberating to the viewer about having a script and character without an intermediary–someone you know is another human being, pretending–in between.
Some fans claim that “The Simpsons” in recent years has lost steam, that it’s not as unrelentingly funny, not as savvy in picking and picking apart its targets.
I’ve seen episodes this season both luminous (Lisa’s date and the family’s move to a prefab suburb with a dark secret) and lurching (the insistently self-aware “X-Files” parody). But dissatisfaction with the show is probably more the result of familiarity, and having nowhere to go but down, than anything else.
Sunday’s milestone episode (7 p.m., WFLD-Ch. 32), in typical self-referential fashion, addresses this. The cartoon-within-the-cartoon, the ultraviolent “Itchy & Scratchy Show,” is losing ratings and so adds a new character. Homer wins the job as the character’s voice, but some fans react with dismay.
But a better response to the show’s current critics was offered up, inadvertently, in recent years by Homer himself: “Eggheads! What do they know?”
– Quickly: Elsewhere Sunday, on “60 Minutes” (6 p.m., WBBM-Ch. 2) correspondent Steve Kroft’s profile of NBC star Jerry Seinfeld is more entertaining than it is revealing. Humor made Seinfeld and humor keeps his personal self safe here. The comic’s “Seinfeld” castmates add little.
And on a new edition of the always anticipated “Masterpiece Theatre: Prime Suspect” (8 p.m. Sunday, WTTW-Ch. 11) Helen Mirren’s Jane Tennison character finds herself transferred to the hinterlands, matching wits and nerve with a charismatic local drug lord (a riveting Steven Mackintosh). The first of a two-parter (concluding Feb. 16), the episode is too distant from Tennison to be counted among the finest “Prime Suspects,” but that’s like saying the filet mignon is a tad undersized.
