Why The Teletubbies Are Evil

The shocking truth by Bret Easton Ellis

from Gear magazine, Jan/Feb 1999

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T H E R E IS A C H I L DR E N ’ S T V PRO GR A M that takes

place under gray English skies where a sun with the face of a baby so
adorable he must be computer-generated rises as a tinny march plays on the
soundtrack.
And then the Teletubbies appear—four blobs, performers in costumes,
each a different color of pale frosting with defining antennae flopping on
top of their heads—cavorting and frolicking in an astroturfed wasteland,
a barren miniature golf course. They take karate stances for no apparent
reason. They carry purses. They have names like Dipsy and Tinky-Winky.
They have smooth, ageless, simian faces. They speak in sentence fragments
and clipped phrases, sounding vaguely like giddy Japanese waitresses who
work at the sushi bar in Hell. Sometimes they interact with a narrator who
asks urgent questions along the lines of, “What’s in the bag, Tinky-Winky?”
Like toddlers, the Teletubbies are amazed by balls, pieces of felt and
plastic food. Holding balls, pieces of felt and plastic food. Holding hand
while dancing around a plant is an especially popular pastime. Toys are put
in bags and then pulled out of bags with great fanfare and encouragement.
Minutes go by as the Teletubbies fall over while the sun looks down on them
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and squeals with delight. Sober, straining to pay attention you have no idea
what’s going on. Imagining the performers in those suits making “tubby
custard,” tasting “tubby toast” and trying on hats can move you to make
yourself a very large drink.
Teletubbies share this space with giant, motley rabbits that are real and
lumber toward plastic flower beds (one insider tells me the rabbits are as
large as “small lambs” and are “bred especially” for this show). Farting noises
commence, periscopes pop out of astroturf, a pinwheel dispenses sparkly rays
causing the Teletubbies to huddle and spaz out, and that’s when the gray
squares on their bellies start glowing.
These Oompa Loompas on acid are actually living televisions—all
proudly baring a screen embedded in their stomachs, which flash to life,
showing short films of real children acting disconcertingly like Teletub-
bies—attempting gymnastics, zipping up bags, closing and opening drawers,
deciding what to wear, singing mindlessly, hiding from each other (actually
what any number of my friends in Manhattan do on a daily basis). This
documentary footage reminds you of the thin line between the speech pat-
terns of children and total drunks.
Though it lacks the forced, noxious gaiety of Barny, Teletubbies seems
like a wicked satirist’s idea of a horrible children’s program watched in a
future concocted by Huxley or Orwell or Gibson. They are reminiscent of
the mutants in David Cronenberg’s The Brood, and you can only stare and
think: well they must have been designed to upset us. It’s a dare. Marilyn
Manson’s calculated shock tactics seem phony compared to these psychedelic
teddy bears (a warning: do not play The Dope Show over Teletubbies with the
volume off). I would actually rather have my kids watch Taxi Cab Confessions
or Deliverance.
The soothing tones, the eerie quiet, the New Agey vibe, the immaculate
surfaces, everything so anal and controlled and antiseptic, a world where
even the spontaneous seems rehearsed, the sheer humorlessness of it all—is
what makes Teletubbies so creepy and emlematic of the new mothers and
fathers of my generation.
Part of my resentment stems from the fact that I’m at an age where
the majority of these friends are having children and settling down and this
intrudes upon my bachelor lifestyle: dinner reservations are now made at
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seven, wilder invitations are bypassed, casual indignation about drugs and
movie violence (these from former addicts, dealers, nymphos). But part of
it stems from the hypocrisy of adults—the creators of Teletubbies and the
scared, thoughtful parents plopping their kids in front of the tube—who
over-identify with children and want the world baby-proofed. Adults who
want the world to conform to their own notion of safety.
There was a mad, anarchic quality to Sesame Street—wit and sass were
in abundance—in the late 60’s and early 70’s. The puppets were boisterous
and often confused and fed up with the adults (authority figures) surround-
ing them. There were skits, rock songs, a general air of messiness that is
conspicuously absent from Teletubbies and which makes it such odious time
when cultural artifacts are stripped down to such an essential dumbness
that people can locate a purity and familiarity they find soothing. Comfort
abounds. Get Zen! Zone out! Sshhh.
One gets the feeling that if the Cookie Monster or Oscar the Grouch
entered Teletubby land, their uncontrollable natures would compel the Tel-
etubbies to club the living shit out of them and have the giant pinwheel make
their muppet corpses disappear.