Perhaps it’s difficult to imagine a world in which “weird” isn’t a sellable commodity. It certainly wasn’t an effortless sell in the Reagan 80s. Not until a then little-known persona by the name of Pee-wee Herman released a movie called Pee-wee’s Big Adventure. The year was 1985, and the director was also then little-known Tim Burton. A man who would, in addition to Pee-wee, go on to make “weird” “his thing.” And in the 80s, it seemed no one (at least not at the executive level) was yet fully aware of the kind of profitability that could signal. Until the surprise hit of Summer 1985 was Pee-wee’s Big Adventure (released the same year as Back to the Future and The Goonies, each with their own product placement machinations). It was to mark Burton’s first feature-length film, and one that he was given the opportunity to direct because Paul Reubens liked what he saw in Burton’s first two short films, Vincent and Frankenweenie.
As it turned out, there was no better man for the job, with the surreal, offbeat tone of the narrative (which takes a page from Vittorio De Sica’s The Bicycle Thief [obviously with a more comedic slant]) perfectly suited to Burton’s already well-established style, complete with musical accompaniments from Danny Elfman. Needless to say, it was a style that would serve a plot like this for the better. Because the more over-the-top and bizarre it was, the easier it became to ignore a lack of “realism” and get invested in the loss of this man-boy’s bike. To feel his pain…and his joy when the red cruiser is at last found again.
His obsession with it, some might argue, is purely sentimental. And after all, he’s sure to tell his nemesis, Francis (Mark Holton), “I wouldn’t sell my bike for all the money in the world.” This after Francis tries to buy it off him because his father said he could have anything he wanted for his birthday. Pee-wee is the first to burst the rich kid’s bubble, giving him a lesson on how some things aren’t for sale. And yet, more than an emotional attachment to the bike, it’s obvious that he values it because of the status it gives him because it’s so sought-after. It’s about the way it makes him feel. So, for as absurd as the movie might come across, there’s nothing more rooted in realism than that. Perhaps few films of the 80s are able to better embody the importance an object can have to a person. Become a very extension of that person (presaging how phones would do the same thing). Which doesn’t seem coincidental considering the decade it was released.
At a time of ramped-up consumerism, “synergy” was becoming an increasing buzz word in the realm of advertising. And in the 80s, cross-promotional items from movies were the name of the game. From Rambo lunchboxes to Slimer from Ghostbusters-themed Hi-C packaging (bless your resilient little guts if you imbibed the “Ecto Cooler”), the only thing better than tie-in products, for corporations anyway, was getting their wares placed in the film itself. With 1982’s E.T., Hershey’s set the trend for the pervasive product placement viewers would barely notice anymore after so many hours spent absorbing media in that fashion. Pee-wee’s Big Adventure would prove no exception to the 80s movie rule. Starting with the Murray bicycle itself, Pee-wee’s odyssey is as much a consumerist one as it is a quest to unearth his bike.
The ease with which companies got in bed with movies was, in part, spurred by Reagan’s deregulation policies, which themselves were the brainchild of big business and a collective of nefarious think tanks that banded together in the 1970s to present theories about how newly-enacted environmental and consumer protection laws were serving as nothing more than senseless red tape to slow down economic progress and give more fuel to stagflation. With everything suddenly in favor of “servicing the corporation,” there appeared to be no calling into question the “ethics” of presenting these products so flagrantly. And, after all, weren’t the movies just doing viewers a solid by reflecting the America they lived in right back to them? An endless parade of adverts all shouting the same thing, “Buy me!” Or, to use a subliminal message from They Live, “Obey.” Obey what, exactly? Society, capitalism and the status quo.
What’s more, Reubens and Burton are adept in the language of how to make someone appear left out for not having the “right” product. Or at least a product of a similar vein to the “hottest thing.” So it is that, just after Pee-wee’s bike is stolen, he’s forced to wander the strip mall street on foot, like some sort of peasant, while everyone else around him is on a bike. Even the motorized toys. Thus, he’s now been cut down to size, made “lesser than”—when only twenty minutes ago, he was the peacocking bike rider trying to outperform the tricks of the kids around him riding on less cumbersome wheels. The underlying message: you are what you own. Property is the thing—this being why it’s such a standout moment to see that one of the crowning additions to Pee-wee’s bike is an engraved plate that reads, “Property of Pee-wee Herman.” And what’s more essential to capitalistic adherence than owning property? Property that becomes so easy to confuse with “characteristics” of ourselves. So it is that Pee-wee’s identity is as entrenched in the bike as it is in making random, off-color laughing sounds. His refusal to accept any substitutes also speaks to the concept of brand loyalty. Nothing else will compare to or ever be as good as the bike Pee-wee had before. He wants what he wants, and nothing else will do.
In 80s America, this type of mentality was at an apex, with “nothing but the best” philosophies at play as a means to further distinguish Western capitalism from Soviet communism (and yes, the Soviets do get accused by Pee-wee of stealing his bike). Pee-wee, for as “different” as he is, still falls prey to that pervasive mentality. The vestiges of which continue to endure to this apocalyptic day. For, as the Pee-wee’s Big Adventure-influenced movie, Barbie, puts it, “Ideas live forever.” And capitalistic ones are all but impossible to deprogram people of. This, in part, is why Pee-wee Herman cannot exactly lay genuine claim to a phrase like, “I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.” For, in the end, he capitulates to not only being a slave to an object—his bike—but also to giving in to a monogamous relationship with Dottie. Because, the truth is, even the biggest “weirdos” just want stability and nice things. Surrendering to the warmth (becoming much more literal every day) provided by material trappings.
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