Oliver Postgate, Transformers, and the Need for A Show with a Plot

It's sad that it takes a death to make me post something less than scathing. I like to think it's a microcosmic indictment of the world's condition.

As some of you may have already noticed, Oliver Postgate recently passed away. I did not have the privilege of knowing Mr. Postgate's work; I did not grow up with it, nor even discover it with any depth except via news about his demise. His work seems fantastic, and it strikes me that people of the proper upbringing are reacting to him much the way I (and basically the entire rest of the world) reacted to the death of Jim Henson.

Not to subvert a man's death for my own blogging purposes (metanarrative equals absolution), but the part about Mr. Postgate's death that struck me the hardest was this snippet from the Guardian: "He thought the youngsters were getting a penny-pinching deal, especially in the matter of storytelling."

All death is a tragedy. The death of a creative person is a tragedy. But the death of someone who held this belief and did something about it is a travesty.

As a child of the Eighties, I am spoiled when it comes to children's programming. I used to be a Saturday morning cartoon junkie; I'd wake up early, toast and butter a bagel, pour a glass of juice, and sit down on the floor with my eyes searingly close to the TV so I could enjoy some quality time with my narratives of choice. Then the mid-Nineties rolled through, and I started learning about the joy and heat of late-night gaming sessions, and I started seeing a lot fewer dawns and a lot more half-dead mornings. I had never before experienced waking up from sleeping too much. And while I can easily blame Dungeons & Dragons or the Super Nintendo for this effect, some of it is just this: children's television programming had really, really started to suck.

There are and were exceptions, of course. But everyone seems to think that children are not only eight, but eight, not very bright, and riddled with the most cartoonish version of ADHD. TV shows seemed to focus on hammering home a moral (the environment was really quite popular, with Captain Planet as the nadir) or else just flashing bright colors and fart jokes until the half-hour's up and the kids go home. The Eighties had some of that, but the Eighties also had some shows that I can rewatch as an adult and manage to maintain my lunch, which I cannot say for anything I remember from the Nineties.

So, what was it about the Eighties that was so great? Was it the strong animation? The variety of studios involved in the competition? Maybe both of those helped. But coming at it as an adult, I have to say that Mr. Postgate hit on it—it was the storytelling.

As an example, allow me to hit on the cartoon I've been alluding to for two posts now. If you are someone I converse with on a regular basis, you might have heard some of this. Yes, that's right.

It's time to talk about Transformers.
Nota Bene: Here there be spoilers.



I am one of Those Kids; the ones who were just the right age in 1986 to be seriously damaged when Optimus Prime died. I have the image of orange smoke pouring out of Prowl's mouth burned onto my optic nerve. I got obsessed with reliving this childhood nostalgia recently, and started watching old episodes through DVDs and other more dubious sources; culminating in watching the real Transformers movie this weekend, with a fellow Literature student. Naturally, like any geek, I had to complain; and so here, it was about plot holes. But then I examined them, partially with prodding on my friend's part; and I realized that there was something about Transformers that I had not previously appreciated: it had consistency.

Consider the aforementioned scene with the death of Prowl (as well as, to be fair, Brawn, Ratchet, and Ironhide—raise your hand if that sentence made you wince). These deaths are delivered via the weapons of (who else?) Megatron, Soundwave, and Starscream. Which wouldn't be a problem, except that at least one of the decedents had taken a blast from at least one of the aggressors during the first two seasons of the series, and had come through just needing some repairs. I was annoyed by this, of course; my status as one of Those Kids also means I have the God-given right to carp about how the movie was working hard to sell toys. But making a comment aloud about "Megatron's variable-power arm-cannon" made me really consider those words—and, call me an apologist, but what if those words are actually true?

(The discussion that ensues here is nerdy enough to potentially cause you to develop vision problems, pimples, and possibly virginity. You have been warned.)

The first two seasons of the show take place in the eighties. The Autobots and Decepticons awaken after a crash landing on Earth, and renew an internecine conflict mostly focused around control of Cybertron. Having re-watched the episodes now, there are two issues that constantly come up in that series: power supplies, and parts for repairs. The need for power is in fact most of the driving motivation for the Decepticon plots that form the bulk of the narrative, even though that's just one hurdle in Megatron's ultimate plan—total control of Cybertron. Go back and watch the show, and note how often battles between the Autobots and Decepticons end when one side or the other orders a retreat. I believe the words you want are "a lot". This behavior is never entirely explicated in the series, but it is not difficult to conclude that the Transformers are doing this to conserve resources—and that the deaths in the movie are the result of a twenty-year shift from a battle of resources and attrition to an all-out war.

This consistency within the mythology is, miraculously, further reinforced by some of the spinoffs: Beast Wars and Transformers Animated both make reference to the events of Generation 1, with Animated even using a clip from the first Generation 1 episode when they discuss the history of the Transformers. Animated does casually ignore certain elements, of course—there are clear ways in which the series is a bit of a franchise reboot—but the point is, this sort of consistency is deliberate. The example I gave above is not all that far-fetched.

I could fill a book with examples of how the Transformers universe manages to maintain internal consistency (though it has its continuity errors—notably the Dinobots), but that might bore even me. I will end by getting back to my point, which is that the few series nowadays that seem to have this kind of consistency are deliberately building upon other works--Transformers, comic books, Disney films—and are rarely doing much original world-building. Even series for adults have problems keeping their narrative threads from unwinding; but when I look at shows intended for children I see a noticeable dearth of attention paid to anything more than running gags and shiny colors. And personally, I consider this a travesty; which is why I thank the universe for providing me with old shows on DVD, and why I can be unfamiliar with Mr. Postgate's works and still be saddened at such a blow to children's entertainment.

So, goodbye, Mr. Postgate. I never knew you, but I know you treated children like human beings, and for that I can never thank you enough. Good luck with whatever you've traveled on to, and consider yourself on the list for eventual brain-to-jar conversion.

Next time: Why I don't feel ashamed for writing about Transformers