Who could believe that Captain Kangaroo had a demonic nature that was repeatedly revealed on his kiddie TV show – that he was a moral monster, reveling in his lack of empathy, finding pleasure in the unceasing torment of a helpless being?
I could. Captain Kangaroo was my introduction to the stunning malevolence that can lurk beneath an exterior as charming as Stalin’s smile.
Dancing Bear, a shuffling, human-like, furry creature, was a staple on the program I watched every weekday morning as a child. He danced and never made a sound. In the center of his face was a big, dark circle.
I thought the circle was his mouth, frozen open in a mute scream of terror, loneliness and despair, while the Captain made him dance for our amusement. Dance, bear, dance! Dance in your horror and anguish! Dance!
I would stare at our black-and-white television, feeling hollow, feeling as if I couldn’t even blink, unable to look away from the soul-chilling spectacle. The Captain could act so nice – what inner Beelzebub drove him to bring out the pitiful Dancing Bear, episode after episode? Why not just leave the pathetic half-human beast in the dungeon where he obviously lived?
School days ended my viewing of Captain Kangaroo, and over time, the horrible memory faded. It was years later when my mind wandered back and I realized: Hey, moron, that circle on Dancing Bear's face was his nose!
Sorry, Captain. I had you all wrong.
I couldn't understand why he always had his mouth open so wide either. It's too big to be a nose. I hadn't made the connection to Edvard Munch but it's all too clear now. I remember years later realizing that big black circle was a window for the person inside the bear, just artlessly executed.
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