The new "Sesame Street"

Most longtime fans trace the decline to Elmo. Ever since the red Muppet with the penchant for third-person self-references came on the scene, they say, "Sesame Street" has become less inventive and more generically cute. Of course, there were other, subtler clues. The video that played over the ending credits, usually shown only on Fridays, was changed from a walk through the park with the shaggy Muppet dog Barkley to a techno-soundtracked animation, for example. But it was really Elmo, and his barrette-festooned, tutu-wearing friend Zoe, that marked the beginning of the end.

So when an AP article tried to assuage anxieties about the new and improved "Sesame Street" by telling readers that "Elmo is keeping his red fur...(a)nd his goldfish," veteran viewers were understandably not reassured.

Tinkering with a cultural heavyweight like "Sesame Street", whose 4,000th episode aired Friday, is not a task to be undertaken lightly. According to the AP article, Michael Loman, the show's executive producer, "admitted to trepidation at changing a show that has become an institution." Even The Onion acknowledged the show's struggle to play with its format without alienating its audience, speculating that the new show will contain a "sensitive segment [where] Bob, Susan and Maria explain why change is good to distraught 30-year-old viewers."

What, you didn't think "veteran viewers" referred to kids, did you? Yes, kids like sameness and routine, and they're rumored to be part of the show's audience. But for sheer hostility to any kind of change, you can't beat twenty- and thirtysomethings who grew up with "Sesame Street" and think it just hasn't been the same since Mr. Hooper died, or maybe even since Snuffleupagus showed himself.

Not that the latest changes would pass muster even with a reviewer who doesn't have years of his or her life inextricably bound up with Big Bird and Grover and that two-headed purple monster with bananas for horns. This twentysomething viewer is admittedly a bit hidebound, but with the latest round of alterations, it can finally be said: "Sesame Street" is no longer an entertaining way to pass an hour when you're sick, nor does it stir up the tiniest sliver of nostalgia.

The first thing you notice is that even the opening song is different. It doesn't start out with the bouncy chords we're used to. Instead, it plods along indifferently, while Big Bird runs through the park with children in bright, modern clothing. Don't they know that 1970s children in brown corduroy overalls and miniature bell-bottoms are the last great hope for the future? How dare they replace us with these Esprit-clad upstarts who probably couldn't complete the sentence "Free to be, ___"?

The listless intro leads into a new, ordered "Sesame Street" universe, where there's a stifling sameness to everything. First, there's always a segment with Big Bird. Then there's one with monsters. Then the Count comes on to introduce the number of the day.

Fans of the vampiric enumerator have already noticed something's wrong. Back in the day, the number of the day didn't need to be introduced. It popped up as a recurring motif throughout the show. Sometimes, there would be two numbers of the day. It was anarchy.

But the new "Sesame Street" is predicated on the idea that kids can't handle that kind of instability, and so the day's number is announced right at the outset and the same way every time: The Count presses numbered keys on an organ keyboard, and when the right number appears, confetti is released. That's right, bright, colorful confetti, not gothic lightning and thunder. Then the Count counts to that number, still sans lightning or thunder. The dark, sinister master of the numeric universe has been reduced to a kind of Muppet Vanna White.

The Count isn't the only character who has been toned down or underused. In a move that's sure to make an envious Bert even more vulnerable to the blandishments of terrorists, Ernie now gets his own segment on every show. But he spends most of it hiding in a box. "Journey to Ernie" consists of Big Bird looking for Ernie in various places, and then finding him, usually in the third or fourth place. That's it. The segment uses so little of Ernie's goofy, mischievous personality that it's not hard to see it and remember it as having starred Grover.

All of this pales in comparison, though, to a feature that started a few years ago, the execrable "Elmo's World," which now occupies the entire last 15 minutes of every episode. Beginning with stock footage of Elmo greeting his goldfish Dorothy and laughing when Dorothy fails to say hello to the audience as prompted, "Elmo's World" is some of the least compelling children's television ever. Each segment consists of Elmo "learning" about something that doesn't really need to be learned about, like bananas, and then correcting the allegedly comical errors of a mute, slightly creepy man named Mr. Noodle.

Watching this for a while, you almost forget why it's such a travesty in the first place. There are plenty of terrible children's shows, most of which I saw during the recent bout with the flu that got me watching "Sesame Street" in the first place. But when you think of what this formulaic tripe is replacing, it's heartbreaking. Remember when Kermit tried to report on the London fog, but he couldn't finish because the famous London Frog kept interrupting him? Don the composer, who slammed his head into his keyboard after not being able to complete the last line of "Yankee Doodle Dandy"? Numberella, who couldn't go to the number ball because all the numbers between 1 and 20 were taken, until her fairy Countfather stepped in?

Of course, there was more to the old "Sesame Street" than Muppets. There were also tiny, brilliant short films and animations on everything from the necessity of sleep to life in Haiti. Now, the sheer bulk of such features as "Elmo's World" has cut down on the shorts, and it will be a while before we see the pinball machine with the "one two three FOUR five six seven eight NINE ten eleven twe-e-e-e-lve" song again.

But why do someone else's kids have to sit through that musty old pinball machine animation? So children of the '80s can feel nostalgic when we're flipping through the channels? Well, it's true that, for most of us, you can't put a price on seeing that cartoon about the angry typewriter one more time. But the '70s and '80s stuff has more than sentimental value. It's bigger, wittier, slyer — just better. Why did they change it? Bob? Susan? Maria? WHY?

— Julia Lipman (julia@flakmag.com)