A Faithful Friend... A Slow Death

I remember so many early mornings spent in front of the television, Pop-Tart and bowl of Cookie Crisp in hand... Voltron, Transformers, Rainbow Brite and best of all, Scooby-Doo. But this is much deeper than the cliché of childhood memories.This is about tragedy. This is about loss of innocence. This is about Scooby-Doo... the movie.

So pure in its early animated days, Scooby-Doo was thin plot lines, poor animation and predictable endings with monsters who were men wrapped in cotton-candy. But it was also exciting, original trash entertainment.

However, capitalism noticed this success and exploited its authenticity. A blond-haired Freddie Prinze, Jr. and computer-animated talking dogs aside, this downward spiral began with the invention of a pup named Scrappy-Doo. 

The creators of (S)crappy put a stranglehold on that originality and expanded to a franchise that diluted their original work and emphasized the antics of an annoying little pup. Then they gave us the spin-off, the hour-long segments combined with the most worthless of cartoons. Remember the Scrappy-Doo/Richie Rich hour and the ever-horrid "A Pup Named Scooby-Doo" years? With Scrappy-Doo in tow, I was embarrassed to watch Scooby, and, as a delusional seven-year-old, could not stand the egotistical ramblings of the little pissant. Just as Batman never should have had Robin, Scooby-Doo never should have had his midget alter ego, Scrappy.  

Real Scooby-Doo had guest appearances: our (once) favorite stars--Davey Jones, The Harlem Globetrotters, Batman--vibrant in cookie-cutter animation. The utter nature of Scooby-Doo, and the culture it emulates, is not something that can ever be reproduced--try as you might, Mr. Prinze. The next thing I know, Fat Albert is going to be thrust into reproduction and Mushmouth is going to be stuttering his way into action-figure market glory.  

Scooby-Doo means so much more than its cheap animation lets on. It is the product of a unique time period in American life. The Scooby-Doo movie is not retro; it's the nail in the coffin. This is the official close to my childhood, the finality of innovative thought. The death of Scooby-Doo.