writersclub.iafrica.com | kathy_hofmeyr | maguffin Death to Smoochy

‘Death to Smoochy’ is a film for anyone who has ever watched children’s television and wanted desperately to punish the wanker in the plush suit. If you have ever fought the irrepressible urge to assault Woofles, torture a Tellytubby or garrotte Barney (of course, garrotting’s too good for him), then this is the movie for you.

Rainbow Randolph (Robin Williams) is precisely the sort of grinning moron for whom the kids go wild. At the top of his game, however, with millions in merchandising, avarice overcomes him and he is caught by the FBI taking bribes for allowing kids to appear on his show. The payola scandal ends his career and the station is desperate to fill his shoes.

Enter Sheldon Mopes, a.k.a. Smoochy the Rhino (Edward Norton). Nora Wells (played by the irrepressible Catherine Keener) “discovers” him singing his awful, awful inspirational songs at a bunch of junkies at the Coney Island Methadone Clinic and raises him to the level of kiddie-TV superstar.

On screen Smoochy is every bit as popular as his predecessor, but there the similarity ends. Where Randolph was a selfish charlatan with a drinking problem, Sheldon is squeaky clean — fingernails-on-a-blackboard squeaky. He is “a bottle of pancake syrup with legs”. His addiction to spirulina, yoga, integrity and anything organic make him every network executive’s worst nightmare. Smoochy refuses to promote anything containing refined sugar, preservatives, sodium or plastic — and bang goes any hope of merchandising.

Randolph, now penniless and living on the street, is throwing every last shred of energy into destroying the Rhino. Sinking lower and lower into obsessive lunacy, he tries everything to discredit his rival, including an impromptu appearance in Smoochy’s Magic Jungle laden with penis-shaped cookies — and worse.

Smoochy, in the meantime, has hired himself a shit-hot agent and wangled himself an executive producer spot on the show. It seems nothing can stop him — or can it?

KATHY HOFMEYR

would like to be remembered as a best-selling author, a little-known blues singer and perhaps someone’s favourite aunt. She lives in Jo’burg with her dogs, two pure-bred mongrels named Harpo and Buffy.

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It is hardly a perfect film, and both box-office and the critics bore vociferous witness to that. For one thing, diminutive actor Danny Woodburn, a more than passable comedian, is criminally underused; for another, so much happens that gorgeous sequences which could be longer are cut to shreds. It’s also a little silly at times, the outcomes a little too pat and what the hell’s with that expressionist ice show sporting a bronze-brassiered Valkyrie diva and a dead rhino?

If anything, ‘Death to Smoochy’ has too much plot. This is not a film for children, although it is lightning-paced, hilarious and extremely colourful. The intrigue and ulterior motives of the various characters could supply a dozen films’ worth of villains. We have the Italian mob, represented by Merv Green (the husky-voiced Harvey Fierstein of ‘Torch Song Trilogy’ and ‘Mrs Doubtfire’). The Irish mob also plays a major role — and it’s headed up by Tommy Cotter, played by Pam Ferris (Ma from ‘The Darling Buds of May’). Throw in the unholy trinity of network exec Frank Stokes (the inimitable Jon Stewart), agent Burke Bennett (Danny DeVito, who is also the director) and heroin addict Buggy Ding-Dong (Vincent Schiavelli), plus the vigilante Rainbow Randolph and some Nazis, and even James Bond would have his hands full.

‘Death to Smoochy’ delves into the exploitative underbelly of children’s television and makes some very insightful comments on both the industry and consumerist American culture in general. The spending power of children (or “wallets with pigtails”) is a minor plot-point, but it is incisively invoked. Kicking Barney’s inane “I Love You, You Love Me” up several notches, composer David Newman and scriptwriter Andrew Resnick offer us songs like 'Oh, We’ll Get You Off That Smack, Oh Yes, We Will' and 'My Stepdad’s Not Mean, He’s Just Adjusting'.

Leaving Smoochyland aside for a moment and returning to our own world, some years ago a rumour circulated that the sidekicks of much-loved children’s character Captain Pugwash had borne the names Seaman Staines, Master Bates and Roger the Cabin Boy. Given adults’ cherished belief in the innocently limited vocabulary and aptitude only for single-entendre of the average child, a great many people actually believed it. While the other names escape me for the moment, I can state with certainty that the menial on the ship was in fact named Tom the Cabin Boy.

This same irony crops up repeatedly in ‘Death to Smoochy’. The punning on words such as “toss” and “snatch”, the constant references to Smoochy the Rhino’s “horn”, the very adult private lives of the publicly unblemished characters involved, and the relentless product placement indicating where the real money in kids’ entertainment lies speak to the hypocrisy of an industry peddling in innocence, run by the truly corrupt and profane. In the end, of course, it is the children in the film who remind us what shows designed for their entertainment are all about. Them, and a bullet in the head, of course.