Super Bowl XXXIX Fails to Offend

The Super Bowl may be the quintessential American cultural event, which is a shame in many respects. However, a sport that glorifies violence and committee meetings (an apt description cribbed from George Will), coupled with “superstar” halftime entertainment, leavened with the most expensive and allegedly brilliant advertising does seem to sum up America to most foreigners if not to most Americans. This year, Super Bowl XXXIX (or 39 for those who lack pretension) didn’t offend anyone, and the game was even worth watching.

Beginning with the game, the Patriots and the Eagles went into the fourth quarter tied. This was a far cry from previous Super Bowls that were ugly, one-sided blow-outs by the half. Indeed, New England won by a mere 3 points. Had Donovan McNabb, the Philadelphia quarterback, not thrown two interceptions early in the game, the Patriots wouldn’t be champs this morning. And even then, better management of the clock in the final quarter could have reversed the result. Football purists claimed the games wasn’t very well played, but when the title isn’t decided until the last 10 minutes, one can’t complain about the entertainment value.

The halftime entertainment was as safe as houses – which was deliberate following Janet Jackson’s pectoral exposure last year. Sir Paul McCartney played four tunes and then left. “Hey, Jude” proved again to be the best song he ever wrote (“Yesterday” fans simply cannot be reasoned with), “Live and Let Die” is the second best Bond theme ever (“View to a Kill” is tops), and “Drive My Car” actually sounded better last night than it did on vinyl decades ago. “Get Back” did offer a reference to “California grass” that might have been offensive to the prohibitionists, but one likes to think of it as a real estate reference. Sir Paul did remove his jacket, but he did not follow through on his threat to perform nude. The world is grateful.

The commercials this year were a weak bunch. Bud Light’s skydiving ad early on promised something more, but most were lame. Pepsi had the best ad of the night: Sean Combs (Puff Daddy, P. Diddy, producer of hip hop) caught a ride to an awards show with a Pepsi deliveryman. Immediately, Americans started driving Pepsi trucks everywhere. One suspects the critique of the herd-like mentality of most people went unappreciated. The dumbest ad, for a car which shall be spared being named, had a talking dog misunderstanding the difference between a “leash” and a “lease.”

The final issue for this year’s event, and mercifully, it is but once a year, is the painful two weeks’ hype topped off by Fox running hours of pre-game nonsense. By the time the game actually started, fatigue had set in for most viewers. Indeed, if this is how the game will continue to be broadcast, the only decent place to watch the Super Bowl will be Hawaii. If the game stinks, one can hit the beach, and if not, it will still be over early enough for the viewer to recover before Monday morning at the job.


© Copyright 2005 by The Kensington Review, J. Myhre, Editor. No part of this publication may be reproduced without written consent.

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