LUDIC LOG

Notes on a wordless advertisement for Rice Krispies cereal found in Betty comics #113, August 2002:

In this eerily quiet cereal advertisement -- there are no speech balloons, captions, or footnotes of any kind, a rarity in today's ultra-busy, oversaturated market -- we see Snap, Crackle and Pop, the spokeselves for Rice Krispies cereal in a rare unguarded moment. The Rice Krispies elves, long accepted as the holy trinity of humanoid breakfast cereal mascottery, have been around for decades, but are curiously enigmatic; little is known about them beyond their onomatopoeic names and their enthusiasm for the product they endorse. This ad, located on page 23 of the author's edition of Betty #23, catches them off their guards and gives us a glimpse at their true personalities to a degree that we are unused to seeing. And what we see is both enlightening and disturbing.

First, the three elven pitchmen are shown standing before a bank of cold, metallic-gray lockers which rest on a dull gray tile floor. Is this the locker room at Kellogg's headquarters, and is the depressing institutional quality of the scene typical of the daily routine of these oddly effusive spokesthings? Or have the three cartoon mascots been enrolled in a public high school, where they will no doubt be the subject of bullying and harrassment from the non-elf population and other students who have three dimensions and who do not have visible trademarks floating next to their feet? No clues are given. However, as is clear from the play of light and shadow, the attention of the photographer is focused on them, and they preen falsely for the camera.

Examining the contents of their lockers is a lesson in alienation, wish-fulfillment and the psychology of denial. Turning first to Pop, the oldest and least considered member of the cerealic troika, we see him standing in front of his locker wearing a bandleader's uniform and cap (is he in the marching band? If so, this would argue un favor of the lockers being in school; and yet, where is his instrument? Where are the textbooks? Where are the other students? Is this mere fantasy, or have the other children allowed him to join the band as a cruel joke a la Carrie or a carnivalic reversal of values a la The Hunchback of Notre Dame?). His brunet hair is styled identically to that of Snap; he clearly wants to associate himself with even the most artificial representations of power and influence by aping the group's putative leader. He stuffs his face with Rice Krispies Treats cereal, and on his face is a euphoric but strangely distant expression; for it is clear that Pop is a bulimic, and he is no doubt enjoying his treats while contemplating the certain knowledge that he will vomit it up in the bathroom within the half-hour. His locker contains nothing but food: boxes of Rice Krispies, both full and empty, bits of food scattered all over, and a bowl that has spilt its contents, milk and cereal alike, into the area. His mania for eating and slovenly lifestyle attests to his food-obssesion; but his slender body attests to his eating disorder. His psychology demands he constantly eat, while his ambition demands he remain beautiful so as to compete with Snap's coveted spot.

Crackle, clearly, has narcissictic personality disorder. A hedonist to the core, his locker contains the outward signs of party-hearty gregariousness: a boom box, a skateboard sticker, a stack of CDs, a soccer ball. But it also contains hints of his self-obsession: a tube of hair gel and, alarmingly, both a mirror in front of which he preens and a photograph of himself. His stylish, suspiciously neat clothing, fancy cravat, trendy haircut and tight jeans are persuasive indicators of a closet homosexual, but the heavy-lidded, seductive stare with which he favors his reflection speaks of someone whose only true love is himself. The Cocoa Krispies bowl in his locker is suspiciously clean and the accompanying box unopened; since Crackle clearly has no interest in anything other than his own image, it may have even been placed there, a prop inserted by a public-relations-minded photographer. Most unsettling of all is the fact that Crackle's putative purpose in standing in front of the mirror is to groom his expensive coiffure; however, he is still wearing his hat. Who can say what bizarre psychological condition is indicated by this show?

Even a causal glimpse at Snap's locker reveals utter fascism -- and utter frustration. The chef-hatted, raincoat-wearing redheaded leader of the trio is a compulsive neat freak (he manically dusts his locker with a wide-eyed smile as, within, we see two pair of perfectly pressed replacement caps and jackets), always a sign of the totalitarian personality. He also seems possessive and nervous to the point of lunacy: there are three bowls in his locker, but only one spoon. A charitable interpretation would be that he simply eats three times as much as the other elves, but a more sinister one might be that he always keeps extras on hand in case someone eats theirs, allowing him to play the provider -- and the martyr. There is also a trophy in the locker, but no indication what he won it for; could it be the prize was stolen from the athletic, soccer-playing Crackle in an attempt to remind the others that glory is reserved only for him? Worst of all are his books -- management-theory tomes of a climbing social Machiavelli with titles like Be the Boss, Spend Time Wisely, Little and in Charge, A Book About Leadership and Come In First. Snap, frustrated by how he has tried for over 40 years to take charge through blind ambition and the ruthless suppression of his brothers, must be forever on the edge of violence. And when the day comes when he crosses, God help us all.