The Muppet Movie (1979, James Frawley)

The uncanny decade.

Inevitably, there are spoilers here. Read with care. Thanks!

What is it? The Muppet Movie, directed by James Frawley, written by Jerry Juhl and Jack Burns, and starring Jim Henson, Frank Oz, Jerry Nelson, Richard Hunt, Dave Goelz, Charles Durning and Austin Pendleton.

First viewing? No; last seen literally just months ago, 18 July 2021. Not sure how many times I’ve seen it, but pretty sure I saw it first run in the theater.

What’s it about? Kermit the Frog (Jim Henson) leaves his swamp home to travel to Hollywood in order to audition for World Wide Studios and become a star. Along the way, he picks up comedian Fozzie Bear (Frank Oz), plumber Gonzo (Dave Goelz), pianist Rowlf (Henson), and Miss Bogen County pageant winner Miss Piggy (Oz), while also being stalked by frog leg restauranteur Doc Hopper (Charles Durning).

What are your thoughts about it? The 1970s: Watergate, paranoia, rising gas prices, “malaise.” Puppets?

One of the things I love about movies from the 1970s is the unfettered pessimism. It seemed like the one time in Hollywood history when major motion pictures could end on a bummer note. Heroes failing, evil winning, and ambiguity? You bet!

The Muppet Movie throws unfettered pessimism right back in unfettered pessimism’s face. Possibly the most joyful film of the 70s, it’s hard to talk about without simply listing every wonderful moment, which occur approximately one per minute. “The Rainbow Connection.” The dive bar that somehow crosses multiple countries and eras. “Movin’ Right Along.” “Can You Picture That?” The head-on collision. Miss Piggy’s rapturous vision of her and Kermit together, which somehow involves Kermit drowning. “Sparking Muscatel, one of the finest wines of Idaho.” Mel Brooks licking a button. Everything Austin Pendleton does because that guy’s awesome. The funniest moment by far, the one that makes me laugh just by thinking about it… well, I won’t spoil it, but it’s what Kermit says when he sees what the Electric Mayhem did to Fozzie’s Studebaker.

For my first oral report in school, when I was in 3rd grade or something, my topic was Studebakers. For most of my life, I couldn’t figure out why I chose that, of all things. I realize now it had to be because of this.

I love the comedy here, the vaudeville humor and ratatat wordplay, the classic Paul Williams¹ and Kenny Ascher old timey singalong soundtrack. The film only works, though, if we believe in these (mostly) small, strange creatures. And we only believe if the puppeteers are any good. Please brace yourselves when I tell you the shocking news that Jim Henson and his team are inhumanly-skilled puppeteers. Note that almost none of the Muppets have moving eyes; they’re mostly large pieces of immobile plastic ². The only tools the puppeteers have at their disposal are their voices, how wide the Muppet’s mouth is open, the angle of their head, and whatever body (puppet?) language they can convey. Yet, the array of emotions they can convey is astounding. Right from the jump, Kermit, hanging out on a log playing a banjo, is never an inanimate object; he’s a living uncanny creature.

Wanted to find a shot where Kermit looks at his hand on the frets, like people do when they play stringed instruments.

The funniest moment, however, isn’t the best moment. No, the best moment, the moment that solidifies the excellence of the departed Mr. Henson and The Muppet Movie overall, comes at the end. Studio mogul Orson Welles, with little fanfare, speaks into an intercom and gives Kermit exactly what he came for: the chance to be a star and make people happy. The dream he had, which didn’t even exist a few days prior, that he pursued on a whim, and to his surprise, swept up an entire football team’s worth of Muppets to go along with him, is coming true. Upon hearing the news, the other Muppets cheer and jump for joy… but not Kermit. Kermit is stunned into silence. The weight of the moment is visible on his face, his body. He’s gotten exactly what he wanted and now his life has changed irrevocably. This moment, created through the contrast of a real emotion and its delivery system via a lifeless piece of felt, crushes me every time.

To be honest, that’s how I’d look if Orson Welles were staring at me from on high.

How many stars out of five? Four. (I don’t like Miss Piggy that much. Sorry! Wouldn’t change her for anything, I just don’t enjoy the character.)

Where can I stream it? As of this writing³, you can watch it for free on Disney+, and rent or buy it from Amazon, Apple, YouTube, Spectrum, Vudu, Microsoft Store, Google Play, and AMC Theatres On Demand.

What can we take from it? Part of what I want to get at with Against the ’70s is that genres are swell, but the walls they create are also meant to be broken, whether in film or literature or role-playing games. My selection of Against the ’70s canon films, involving carnivorous beds, devil cars, and deep psychological issues suggests a certain type of game; throwing The Muppet Movie into the mix radically throws off any ingrained assumptions. Are we really expected to just let players run creatures of felt and foam in the middle of these deadly scenarios?

Well, yes.

I’m not saying it wouldn’t be weird. What I am saying is, weirdness like this should be embraced. Not to subvert my own point, but I don’t think this is that far from the source material. The Muppets don’t belong in the real world, they aren’t possible. Yet here they are, existing in the same physical space as Richard Pryor and Elliott Gould, and treated as if they are completely normal. If the Muppets can drive cross country, win beauty pageants, and buy used cars, then there’s no reason why they can’t fight death beds and cars from Hell. The only obstacle is our predetermined concept of genre, which shouldn’t be an obstacle at all.

In the Cypher System, shotguns are considered heavy weapons, and inflict six points of damage. Also in the Cypher System, Austin Pendleton (behind the wheel) is considered a national treasure.

Here, for your enjoyment, are two options for the Cypher Sytem. The first is the Feltling descriptor, so-called because I’ve used the word “Muppet” more than enough here and I don’t want to summon any Mouse House lawyers. All credit is due to BJ Hypes, who did this idea first for Dungeons & Dragons Fifth Edtion with their “Muppetborn” race. (Give it a read, it’s brilliant.) Now, the Cypher System tends to frown upon the idea of using Descriptors for (what we generally call in ttrpgs) “race.” As it says in the book, “the differences between a Mysterious character and a Virtuous one are probably greater than those between an Alpha Centaurian and an Earthling.” This is terrific advice. There’s the obviously sus connotations of race, which, fortunately, most rpg companies are phasing out in favor of better terms. There’s also the implication that, for the purpose of resolving dramatic events that happen in the game, a character’s inborn characteristics should have more weight than the actions they take based on their personality. The more I think about it, the more that seems messed up.

Now: let’s ignore this advice for the rest of the post.

The second option is The Screenplay, a cypher that pushes the meta-ness of the Feltling world, probably to the point of unease. Can’t blame any GM for taking a pass on this one; genre shouldn’t be an obstacle for Against the ’70s games, but tone certainly can be. At the same time, consider running a self-contained adventure for the usual party of characters where something like The Screenplay would fit right in. NewsRadio did an one-off episode that took place on a space station in the future; no reason why we, as GMs, can’t apply that same attitude to game sessions.

FELTLING (DESCRIPTOR)

You are made of felt, and possibly foam and rubber as well. You shouldn’t be alive and sentient, but you are. Contrary to popular myth, you do in fact have a lower half to your body, even if it’s also true you tend to stand behind tables, desks, pianos, etc. You may resemble any kind of being (human, frog, bear, dog, pig, etc.) and you identify with that type of being, even when you aren’t technically that type of being. Feltlings are capable of any profession; however, regardless of your career, you bring to it a desire to delight and a song in your heart.

Living Cartoon: +4 to either Might, Speed, or Intellect. Whatever you are, you are that to an extreme degree.

Skill: You are trained in entertaining other people, whether by singing, playing music, telling jokes, throwing boomerang fish, or the like.

Break Out into Song: Once per session, a Feltling can stop all action in the scene and sing a song about their feelings that also relates to the current scene or situation. (Cruel GMs can ask the player to make up a song to sing on the spot. Kinder GMs can ask the player to define the general idea of the song.) Once the song is finished, the Feltling can choose one of two effects. The first choice is all the Feltling’s PC allies get a free level of effort on their next task. The second choice is that, if in the middle of a combat or otherwise antagonistic scene, the Feltling can attempt an Intellect task at a difficulty level set by the GM. If they succeed, the combat or hostile scene immediately ends, and a peaceful resolution is determined by the GM and the players. The enemies in this scene may come back later hostile, but for now, the Felting and their PC allies get what they want from the scene.

Inability: Feltlings generally always tell the truth, in an open, naive kind of way. Any task involving lying or deception is hindered.

Initial Link to the Starting Adventure: From the following list of options, choose how you became involved in the first adventure.

1. The PCs were heading for a destination that was interesting, so you came along.

2. You were looking for a group of people to entertain, and you found some.

3. You fell madly in love at first sight with one of the PCs so you had to join up with them.

4. You had to get out of town quick because things were getting messy, and the PCs picked you up.

THE SCREENPLAY (CYPHER - MANIFEST)

Level: 1d6

Effect: A narrative of very heavy duty proportions, the screenplay is a collection of approximately one hundred and twenty 8 1/2” x 11” pages, with a heavy stock cover and held together with two brass fasteners. The screenplay contains the the story of the entire adventure or session the character is currently in. The character can then find wherever they currently are in the screenplay, and can choose to read what happened in the past or read ahead to find out what happens in the future. They can use both options, but only once each. If they choose the past, they can learn one significant fact for each level of the screenplay. For example, they could learn clues they missed from an earlier scene, or if an enemy was carrying something important or valuable. This is not limited to what the character experienced; if it’s feasible that, say, a major antagonist had a significant conversation with an underling that would’ve happened “off screen,” the character could access that. Ask the player what it is they want to find out and work with them to make it happen in a sensible and coherent way.

If they choose the future, then at any point afterwards, at any point during a scene, they may declare that they read what was going to happen, and may neutralize or change the scene in any way that makes sense. If actions needed to take place in the past for this to work, then they are retroactively declared to have been done. For example, if they know there is an ambush around the corner, they can declare that had already prepared for it and can even surprise the ambushers.

Once the character has chosen both the past and the future, the screenplay disappears (it gets left behind somewhere, the pages mysteriously turn blank, it’s destroyed by a GM Intrusion, etc.)

Originally published 11/26/21 on Subtack.