Welcome back to the Deep Dive. Before we really
get into it today, I want you to actually close
your eyes for just a second. Okay, setting the
mood right off the bat. Yeah, just bear with
me. Imagine you are walking down this set of
concrete steps in Boston. You reach out, you
push open this heavy wooden door, and you're
immediately hit with the smell of stale beer.
Maybe a little sawdust on the floor. Exactly.
Some sawdust. And you hear the sound of a studio
audience or, you know, maybe just a group of
really close friends shouting a single name in
unison. It is. It's arguably the most famous
basement in television history. We are, of course,
talking about Cheers, but I want to be clear
right up front. If you think this is just going
to be some light nostalgia trip where we hum
the theme song and talk about how funny the jokes
were, well, we need to set the stage properly.
Right, because we have a massive stack of documents
here. I mean, we're looking at extensive character
biographies, deep production notes, casting histories,
even psychological profiles of the characters
that the writers put together. It is a heavy
stack of paper. It's heavy. And frankly, it kind
of needs to be. Because when you dive into these
sources, you realize Cheers wasn't just a sitcom.
If you really look at the anatomy of the show,
it was this rare lightning in a bottle moment.
The writing, the acting, the cultural timing,
it all just aligned perfectly. So our mission
today for this deep dive is to dissect that exact
anatomy. We really want to figure out how a washed
up pitcher. A pretentious academic, a pretty
cynical waitress and a couple of neurotic bar
flies managed to create this this surrogate family
that basically had America completely obsessed
for 11 years. 11 seasons. It's a massive run.
And we're going to look at the what ifs, too,
because the source material reveals these. crazy
casting choices that almost happened. Oh, the
alternate universe cheers is wild. It really
is. It would have resulted in a completely fundamentally
different show. Right. It makes for a really
fascinating case study because you look at these
production notes and you realize that purely
on paper, this show probably shouldn't have worked.
Not at all. It's a show about a group of distinct,
often deeply flawed individuals, people who in
literally any other setting in the world probably
wouldn't even speak to each other. But down in
the bar, they are family. So I think we have
to start at the center of the universe, right?
The gravitational pull of the entire show. The
man behind the bar. Sam Malone. Sam Mayday Malone.
the anchor of the whole thing. Now, everybody
knows Sam Malone as the cool bartender, the ladies
man. But when I started reading through his official
character biography in these notes, I was genuinely
surprised by how much sheer tragedy is baked
into his backstory. Yeah, there is a lot being
there. He isn't just a former player. It's a
really dark history. That is a crucial observation
to make early on because it's so easy to just
view Sam through the lens of his charm. But according
to the writer's notes, the character is defined
almost entirely by lost potential. He isn't just
a guy who used to play sports. He's a former
relief pitcher for the Boston Red Sox. Wearing
jersey number 16. Right, number 16. And the sources
give us a very specific timeline that really
matters for his psychology. He pitched in 1973.
He was a member of the 1975 AL champion team.
So he reached the absolute peak. He was right
there. But here is the key question the notes
pose. Why did he stop? It wasn't a blown out
shoulder. Yeah. It wasn't old age catching up
with him. It was the bottle. Alcoholism. Yes.
And that is an incredibly heavy backstory for
a network sitcom lead. in the early 1980s. It
really is. And there's this detail in the production
notes that just absolutely stuck out to me. It
mentions that he bought the bar in 1977. But
the kicker is he bought the bar while he was
still actively drinking. During his drinking
days, yes. Wait, let's just pause on that. He
bought a bar while he was an active alcoholic.
Exactly. Just think about the psychology of a
decision like that. The notes suggest he didn't
buy it as some savvy real estate investment.
He bought it because that is where he lived his
life. So by the time we actually meet him in
the pilot episode, yes, he is the owner, but
he is also a recovering alcoholic whose daily
job is working in a bar. Surrounded by the temptation.
Every single day. He is literally surrounding
himself with the exact substance that destroyed
his major league career. That is just so intense
to think about. It adds this entire layer of
daily willpower to the character that I completely
missed when I used to just watch the show casually.
It almost feels like a form of penance. It really
is penance. Yeah. And it completely sets up his
specific personality type. He's not an intellectual
guy. The show makes a very big deal about the
fact that he barely scraped through high school.
Although the notes do say he eventually got his
diploma in season three. He did, yes. Yeah. But
he was always a jock first. He openly admits
to being unintelligent in the academic sense.
Yeah. But what he possesses, and I love the phrase
the creators used in the outline for this. Oh,
relief pitcher arrogance. I saw that phrase in
the notes and I highlighted it. What exactly
does that mean in this specific context? Well,
think about what a real world relief pitcher
actually does. They don't start the game. The
game is totally on the line. To succeed in that
role, they have to have this icy, almost irrational
confidence to just step on the mound, save the
day, and then walk off. Just unshakable swagger.
Exactly. And the writers noted that Sam treats
his entire life with that exact same energy.
He is not a planner. He doesn't think five steps
ahead. He just reacts to whatever crisis is in
front of him with this immense swagger. And he
definitely brings that swagger to his dating
life. I mean, we really have to unpack the womanizing
here because Sam Malone is basically the gold
standard archetype of the 80s ladies' man. Oh,
absolutely. He drives the red Corvette. He is
just constantly chasing women. He is. And when
you look at it through the lens of the psychological
profiles in the source material, this behavior
is described as a mixture of... exhibitionist
narcissism, and really deep insecurity. He desperately
needs that validation. He craves it. He's often
dating women who are undeniably beautiful, but
perhaps a bit one -dimensional, or they're just
there for a good time. He avoids depth. But there
is a code, right? The character bios mention
he actually has some standards. The famous Sam
Malone code, yes. It's detailed in the notes
for the episode, Sam Turns the Other Cheek, where
he explicitly states his ethical line for dating.
He actively avoids married, underage, and comatose
women. I mean, the bar is incredibly low, but
I suppose at least there is a bar. It is a tremendously
low bar. But it's fascinating because underneath
all that bravado and the red Corvette, the biography
reveals exactly why he is so insecure. We have
to talk about his family dynamics to really understand
him, specifically his brother. Derek Malone.
The unseen Derek. The sources describe Derek
as being effortlessly talented. He's handsome.
He's a successful international lawyer. He's
a total polymath. He is basically better than
Sam at absolutely everything. And how did the
parents react to that? The notes are clear that
they heavily, heavily favored Derek. Oh, that
stings. So you have Sam, a guy who actually became
a professional athlete. For most families, that's
a massive, unbelievable achievement. But in the
Malone family, he is still the disappointment.
He's just the bartender. So every time he chases
a woman or shows off his car or tells a story
about the Red Sox, he is subconsciously trying
to prove to the world that he has worth. Precisely.
That makes him so much more sympathetic than
just reading him as a guy who likes to go on
dates. But here is where it gets really interesting
for me. And this brings us to the casting history.
Because when you say the name Sam Malone, you
just immediately see Ted Danson. It is physically
impossible to separate the actor from the character.
But the production notes say the role wasn't
written for him at all. No, not even close to
it. The original concept for Sam Malone wasn't
a baseball player. The creators originally wrote
the character as a former football player, specifically
a wide receiver for the New England Patriots.
A football player. That changes his entire physical
presence. It changes everything. And because
of that original vision, the casting directors
were looking at actual real -life football players
to cast in the lead role. Like who? Who was actually
on the list? Well... The notes show that Fred
Dreyer was the absolute frontrunner. Fred Dreyer.
Wait, is that the guy who ended up playing the
sportscaster Dave Richards on the show later
on? The very same guy. Before acting, he was
a defensive end for the L .A. Rams. He was a
legitimate, high -level professional athlete.
And he was shortlisted for the role of Sam because
he naturally possessed that exact physical presence
and authentic locker room energy they thought
they wanted. So why didn't he get it? What shifted?
It all came down to chemistry. The producers
were auditioning actresses for the role of Diane
at the exact same time. And the notes explain
that when they finally put Ted Danson in a room
to read with Shelley Long, the energy in the
room just fundamentally shifted. It just clicked.
It did. Danson had this underlying vulnerability
that the actual football players just didn't
quite capture. He could play the arrogance, sure,
but you could also see a genuine sadness in his
eyes. Thank goodness they paid attention to that
chemistry check. But speaking of Ted Danson,
there is a literal secret about his physical
appearance that I found deep in the production
notes. I had absolutely no idea about this. Oh,
are you referring to the hair situation? I am.
I mean, I always thought he just had that naturally
great thick head of hair. It's iconic. Well,
he did have great hair, but he needed a little
bit of help. It is a well -documented fact in
the casting and production history that Ted Danson
wore a hairpiece to cover a bald spot on the
crown of his head during filming. That is just
wild to me. Did they ever actually address it
on the show or was it a strict backstage secret?
They actually did address it on screen. Not immediately,
of course, but much later in the series. There's
a specific episode where Sam physically takes
off the hairpiece to show his vulnerability to
someone. Wow. The notes highlighted as this brilliant
meta moment where the actor's actual reality
bled directly into the character's narrative.
It was a way of showing the audience that even
Sam Malone, this supposedly perfect physical
specimen, was aging and dealing with insecurity.
I love that they leaned into it. So we have our
anchor Sam. But as we established, a relief pitcher
needs a batter to throw against. You cannot have
a successful television show with just a cool
guy hanging out in his own bar. You desperately
need conflict. And that brings us to our second
section, Diane Chambers. The ultimate foil. The
spark that lights the whole thing up. The pilot
episode, which is called Give Me a Ring Sometime,
sets this dynamic up just so perfectly. Diane
isn't casually walking into a bar to get a drink
with friends. She doesn't want to be in this
basement at all. No, she is there with her fiancé,
Professor Sunder Sloan. And the notes detail
just how tragic this initial setup is. She is
completely, totally out of her element. She is
sitting there anticipating catching a flight
to the Caribbean for a romantic wedding. And
instead, Sumner just leaves her there. He completely
abandons her. He goes right back to his ex -wife.
So Diane is left stranded in this gritty basement
bar with no job, no money, no fiance, and a highly
specific skill set that is entirely academic.
She has absolutely no real -world survival skills.
None. So she is forced by sheer circumstance
to take a job as a waitress in a place that she
openly considers to be vast. And that class clash
is the entire engine of the show for those first
five seasons. We're talking about a woman who
went to Bennington College. She went to Boston
University. She constantly quotes obscure poetry.
And she is taking orders from Sam, a guy who,
as the writer's notes joke, probably thinks War
and Peace is a heavy book simply because of its
physical weight. Exactly. The producers explicitly
noted that they modeled this core relationship
on those classic Spencer Tracy and Katharine
Hepburn movies. Films like Woman of the Year.
Right. It's that precise mixture of intense romance
and biting antagonism. They completely drive
each other crazy. They insult each other's intelligence.
But there is this undeniable magnetic pull between
them that they can't ignore. It really was the
original television blueprint for the will -they
-won't -they dynamic. But when you actually sit
down and look at the summary of their relationship
timeline in the sources, it wasn't just playful
flirting. It was actually kind of deeply toxic,
wasn't it? Oh, it was incredibly volatile. The
notes describe it as a cycle of mutual destruction.
The sources outline this recurring pattern. They
manage to get close. One of them gets deeply
insecure about the class difference or their
past. They lash out verbally, and then they have
a spectacular breakup. The fallout is always
huge. I mean, look at the end of season two.
Their breakup is so catastrophic that it actually
sends Sam into a full -blown relapse. Right,
which goes back to our earlier point about his
alcoholism. Yeah. It is very dark material. Yeah.
And Diane's consequence is just as severe. She
ends up checking into a psychiatric hospital
because of the severe emotional stress of their
relationship. That is a remarkably heavy plot
line for a romantic comedy couple. It really
pushes the boundaries of the sitcom format. And
ironically, according to the character bios,
that psychiatric hospital stay is exactly where
she meets Frasier Crane. But we will definitely
get to them a bit later. So Sam and Diane go
back and forth for years. Failed proposals, bitter
rejections. It really feels like they are doomed
to just torture each other forever. But then
season five happens. The pivotal season. The
episode. They are finally standing at the altar.
They are. It genuinely looks like the show is
going to finally give the fans exactly what they've
been begging for. And then Diane gets a once
in a lifetime chance to finish her novel. Or
she just leaves. She leaves him to pursue her
writing career. And looking at the historical
context in the production notes, this was a massive
industry shaking deal at the time. Shelley Long
deciding to leave the show was front page national
news. People must have been terrified the show
was going to tank. They genuinely thought it
would die without that central dynamic, because
for the general public, Sam and Diane literally
were the show. But she did eventually come back
for the series finale six years later. And reading
through the nights on the finale, I think. The
way the writers handled that reunion says so
much about the show's overall philosophy. It's
brilliant. Because they almost get back together.
They are holding hands. They're planning to pack
up and move to Los Angeles together. And then
they don't do it. Why didn't they? Because in
the final moments, they both realize that they
are simply better off apart. It is a very mature,
albeit incredibly bittersweet, conclusion to
their saga. The writers clearly understood that
raw passion just isn't enough to sustain a functional
life together. It's a hard truth. Sam ultimately
belongs to the bar, and Diane fundamentally belongs
to her art, or at least her lifelong pursuit
of it. If they had actually stayed together and
moved to L .A., they would have just destroyed
each other all over again. It is such a brave
choice for a sitcom finale. Most shows would
just force the happy ending to appease the audience.
But this was the honest ending. It respected
who the characters had become. Okay, let's step
away from the heavy drama of the back office
and the romance for a minute, because you can't
have a deep dive into Cheers without talking
about the people permanently sitting on the stools.
The lifeblood of the bar. We have to talk about
the barflies. And we absolutely have to start
with the man whose very name is literally the
main sound effect of the entire show. Norm. Norm
Peterson, or as I actually learned for the first
time from reading his character bio, Hillary
Norman Peterson. Yes, Hillary, the sad sack accountant
who is essentially a structural fixture of the
bar itself. Now, I just always assumed Norm was
part of the original master plan from day one.
He's just too iconic not to be. But the casting
notes say otherwise. This is genuinely one of
my favorite what ifs in the entire stack of documents.
Norm was not in the original script. Not his
regular character anyway. George Wendt came in
and auditioned for a minor throwaway role named
George. Okay. And how big was the role? He had
exactly one line in the pilot script. One line?
What was it? He was supposed to be Diane's very
first customer. She walks over, asks him what
he wants to drink, and his only line was just
the word beer. That's it. Just the word beer.
Just beer. But the casting notes say he delivered
that single word with such a specific... desperate
yet strangely joyful energy that the producers
just burst out laughing in the room. They saw
the magic immediately. They realized right then
and there, we need to see this guy sitting at
this bar every single day. Yeah. So they took
that energy and expanded the one line role into
the character of Norm Peterson. That is the ultimate
testament to the power of an actor's delivery.
And of course, you really can't talk about Norm
without talking about the other most important
woman in his life, the one we never actually
get to see. The Unseen Wife. It became one of
the show's absolute longest -running dags. Norm
constantly complains about her. He makes these
really harsh jokes about her weight and her family.
She is very often the punchline of his entrance
into the bar. She is. But the interesting psychological
question the writers posed is, is he actually
a bad husband? Or is that just typical bar talk?
Right, the bravado of the basement. What do the
character notes say? That's where the nuance
comes in. The sources point out that despite
all the constant jokes and despite having several
very real opportunities to cheat on her over
11 years, Norm never actually does. He is oddly
fiercely loyal to Vera. He just complains to
Cope. He loves her. In his own highly specific
way. He really prefers to be sitting at the bar
rather than being at home. Now, there is a production
note here about Vera actually appearing on screen
exactly once. Did I miss an episode? You might
have watched it and still missed it because you
didn't actually get to see her face. It happens
in the famous episode Thanksgiving Orphans. There
is this massive chaotic food fight involving
the whole cast. Oh, I remember the food fight.
Right. Well, right in the middle of it. Vera
finally comes to the front door and smack, she
gets it squarely in the face with a pumpkin pie
the literal second the door opens. Okay, we literally
only see a pie -covered face. Exactly. Over the
years, we see her legs occasionally, we hear
her voice muffled off -screen, but the face always
remains a total mystery. It's just a brilliant
production trick to keep the joke alive for a
decade. And we should briefly mention his career
trajectory, too, because for a guy whose entire
brand is sitting motionless on a stool, he actually
moved around professionally quite a bit. He did
have an arc. He started the series as an accountant,
very corporate, wearing a suit, incredibly miserable.
But the show carefully tracks his gradual drift.
He loses the accounting job, becomes a house
painter. and eventually pivots into being an
interior decorator. Which is such a funny shift.
It's a slow, deliberate slide into less corporate,
less demanding work. And the psychological notes
point out that this perfectly fits his ultimate
desire to have complete control over his own
schedule, mainly so he can guarantee he has more
time to spend at Shears. Priorities. And sitting
right next to him... Usually aggravating him
to no end is the man who knows a little bit about
everything and absolutely a lot about nothing
at all, Cliff Clavin. The mail carrier. The ultimate
knowledge dispenser. Now, John Ratzenberger,
the actor who played Cliff this, is yet another
case of an actor just creating a legendary role,
essentially out of thin air, right? Absolutely.
The casting history notes detail this amazing
story. Ratzenberger originally came in and auditioned
for a completely different part. Some sources
think it might have even been for the Norm role.
But he read for it. And as he was walking out
of the audition room, he sensed he wasn't going
to get the job. So what did he do? So, with his
hand literally on the doorknob, he turned back
to the producers and asked them a question. What
did he ask? He asked if they had written a bar
know -it -all. He just pitched the character
right there on the spot? He did. He told them,
look. Every single bar in New England has that
one guy who sits in the corner and pretends to
be an absolute expert on everything in the world,
even though he clearly has no idea what he's
talking about. And the producers bought it. The
producers looked at each other and realized they
actually didn't have that specific archetype
in the script. They needed him. That is just
genius self -advocacy. And originally, the notes
say they were going to make this character a
security guard, right? Yes, that was the first
draft of Cliff. But they quickly changed his
profession to a postman. And the writer's reasoning
for this is just hilarious. They thought that
postmen were generally perceived by the public
as more knowledgeable simply because they are
out walking the neighborhood every day. They
see the whole town. Right. They see things. They
meet people. It gave Cliff this thin, plausible
reason to constantly believe he knew everything
about the community and the world at large. And
Cliff certainly thinks he is worldly. But underneath
all that trivia and the uniform, the bios highlight
that he is deeply, deeply insecure. Oh, incredibly
insecure. The notes mention he constantly wishes
he was a tough Marine, but he couldn't get in
because he has flat feet. He still is at home
with his mother, Esther Clavin. Oh, Esther. The
mother -son dynamic is huge for understanding
Cliff. It explains his extreme awkwardness around
women, his general arrested development. He is
basically a guy desperately trying to project
this worldly bravado just to mask the fact that
he's still essentially a frightened little boy
living in his childhood bedroom. But he did have
his one shining moment of ultimate glory. We
have to talk about the Jeopardy episode. I feel
like this specific half hour is just permanently
etched in the television history. The episode
title is What Is. Cliff Cliven. And yes, it is
absolutely legendary. So he actually manages
to get cast on the real show, Jeopardy, within
the fictional universe of Cheers. He does. Alex
Trebek is there and everything. And the incredibly
funny thing is he's actually doing incredibly
well. The episode notes say he racks up $22 ,000
by the end of the first two rounds. He is just
destroying the competition. Because the categories
on the board just happen to align perfectly with
his bizarre, specific, trivial knowledge. He
has an absolute mathematical lock on the game.
No one can catch him. And then comes Final Jeopardy.
And he bets it all. He absolutely does not need
to do this. He just needs to bet a single dollar
to secure the win. But his ego takes over and
he bets every single penny. And what was the
clue? Let's get it exact. The clue was Archibald
Leach, Bernard Schwartz, and Lucille LeSour.
And the correct answer? The correct response
is who are Cary Grant, Tony Curtis, and Joan
Crawford? Those are their real birth names. And
Cliff, in all his wisdom, answers. Who are three
people who have never been in my kitchen. Which,
I mean, you have to admit, is technically true.
It is entirely technically true, but shockingly,
Alex Trebek... did not accept it as a valid response.
So Cliff loses everything. And the cultural impact
of this was so huge that it actually inspired
a term in the real world among hardcore Jeopardy
fans. Wait, really? What's the term? It's called
Clavin's Rule, which basically means if you have
an insurmountable lead going into Final Jeopardy,
don't be an idiot and bet everything. Just bet
enough to win. That is painful, but so fitting.
Now, speaking of strange rules and legalities.
There is a very weird real life legal battle
involving Cliff and Norm that I saw mentioned
in the production history. It's referred to as
the robot lawsuit. And honestly, this sounds
like something I am completely making up. Oh,
I assure you, this is a very real, very fascinating
piece of intellectual property history. In 1993,
actors George Wendt and John Ratzenberger. actually
filed a lawsuit against a massive corporation
called Host International. Host International.
They run a lot of those airport bars and restaurants,
right? Exactly. They had secured the rights to
set up airport bars that were themed after Cheers.
And as part of the decor, they installed two
life -size animatronic robots in these bars.
Oh, no. One was a heavyset guy who sat at the
end of the bar, and the other was a guy wearing
a blue postal uniform. Very subtle. Extremely
subtle. Now, legally... They didn't name these
robots Norm and Cliff. They gave them generic
names like Hank and Bob. But they look remarkably
like the actors and they were programmed to chatter
back and forth just like them. So the actual
actors sued the company. They did. Yeah. And
their legal argument was that this violated their
personality rights. Now, this is a very distinct
legal concept. It wasn't a standard copyright
claim because the television studio legally owned
the fictional characters of Norm Peterson and
Cliff Clavin. Right. The studio owns the intellectual
property. But Wendt and Ratzenberger were arguing,
you aren't just using the script. You are using
our literal physical likenesses as real human
beings to sell beer in an airport. That is a
brilliant argument. Did they end up winning the
case? Well, the legal battle dragged on for years.
Eventually, they ended up settling out of court
for an undisclosed amount. But it remains a landmark
case in entertainment law because it helped establish
the precedent that an actor's specific physical
portrayal and identity is somewhat separate from
the written character on the page. Robots in
an airport bar causing landmark legal precedent.
That truly feels like something Cliff would have
a little known fact about. Oh, he would definitely
bore the entire bar with a 20 minute speech about
personality rights. Absolutely. OK, so we've
covered the front of the house, the romance and
the bar flies. Now we really need to talk about
the spark plug of the show, the absolute firebrand.
Carla Tortelli. Played brilliantly by Rhea Pearlman.
The casting notes say she was actually the very
first actor officially hired for the ensemble.
She was cast before Ted Danson, before Shelley
Long. That's right. The creators knew they absolutely
needed her specific energy immediately to ground
the show. Because Carla is the complete antithesis
of the typical television waitress archetype.
She is definitely not service with a smile. Not
at all. She is deeply cynical. She is fiercely
superstitious. She is openly aggressive to the
customers. And as the show makes a point of highlighting
constantly, she is incredibly fertile. The fertility
is a massive ongoing plot point. I mean, the
bio says she starts the pilot episode with four
kids. And by the series finale, she has a total
of eight. It's a huge running gag. The joke is
basically that if she even makes eye contact
with a man, she gets pregnant. And interestingly,
the production notes point out that Raya Perlman's
actual real -life pregnancies were directly written
into the show's storylines. That's a great way
to handle it. Yeah, so whenever Carla was pregnant
on screen, Rhea was usually pregnant in real
life. Her home life sounds like absolute, unmitigated
chaos. We have to talk about the men in her life
that caused this chaos. Starting with the infamous
ex -husband, Nick Tortelli. Played by Dan Hedaya.
And he is the embodiment of sleaze. He wears
the deeply unbuttoned shirts, the chest hair,
the gold chains. He's a total con man. But despite
all that, Carla is still wildly obsessed with
him in this very weird, toxic way. It's described
in the notes as this primal, almost animalistic
attraction that she just can't shake. He eventually
moves on and gets remarried to a much younger
woman named Loretta. Loretta is great. She's
this sweet, very naive blonde who is essentially
the exact opposite of Carla's dark energy. And
the network actually gave Nick and Loretta their
own spinoff show called The Tortellus. I have
to be honest, I completely forgot about that
spinoff until I read these notes. You and Most
of America. It was canceled very, very quickly.
But it just shows how distinct and powerful those
specific characters were that the network thought
they could carry their own series. But the real
tragedy for Carla, and honestly, some of the
darkest comedy in the entire series, comes with
her second husband, Eddie Lebec. The French -Canadian
hockey goalie. This entire storyline is just
wild. So he's a professional goalie for the Boston
Bruins. He and Carla fall madly in love. But
they share this massive flaw. They are both incredibly
paralyzingly superstitious. Right. And their
shared superstition is that if things are going
too well in Eddie's personal life, he plays terribly
on the ice. So they develop this insane dynamic
where they have to actively stage breakups or
get into massive screaming matches right before
his games just so he can maintain his winning
streak. That is exhausting. And then we have
to talk about the Zamboni incident. It remains
one of the most utterly bizarre character deaths
in sitcom history. Eddie Lubeck is tragically
killed by an ice resurfacer, a Zamboni, while
heroically trying to save a teammate's life on
the ice. It is incredibly tragic, but the show
manages to play it with that highly specific,
very dark cheers humor. But the real twist happens
at the funeral. I did not see this coming at
all when I was reading the episode summary. Oh,
the funeral scene. This is classic, terrible
Carlo look. She's standing there at the funeral,
deeply mourning her beloved husband, and suddenly
another grieving woman shows up. Another wife.
Another wife. Her name is Gloria, and she also
has twins. Wait, so Eddie was a full -blown bigamist.
He was a bigamist. He had an entire secret second
family living on the side the whole time. That
is just devastating. Carla finally, after all
these years, finds a decent guy, gets slowly
run over by a Zamboni, and then it turns out
his entire life was a lie. And that, psychologically
speaking, is exactly why Carla is the way she
is. The world just constantly keeps kicking her
down, so her defense mechanism is to kick back
twice as hard. That deep -seated bitterness made
her such a mathematically necessary ingredient
in the show's chemistry. You really need that
balance. You do. You had Sam's endless charm.
You had Diane's naive optimism. And then you
had Carla's absolute grounding cynicism acting
as an anchor to keep the show from ever getting
too sweet or sentimental. It really is a perfect
structural balance, but that balance inevitably
had to shift. Shears ran for 11 very long seasons.
Cast members left, new ones had to come in. We
titled this next section The Replacements, but
some of these characters became total television
legends in their own right. Oh, absolutely. The
evolution of the ensemble cast is really what
kept the show on the air for over a decade. The
notes make it clear that if the producers had
just tried to replace departing actors with cheap
clones of the old characters, the show would
have failed instantly. Instead, they smartly
pivoted. Let's start with the saddest off -screen
transition, the real -life loss of coach ship.
Nicholas Colasanto. He played Coach Ernie Pantuso.
He was arguably the emotional heart of the bar
in those critical early seasons. He played the
dumb guy archetype, but he possessed this profound,
almost innocent wisdom. And he tragically died
in real life right after season three. It was
a massive, devastating blow to the cast and crew.
He was a genuine father figure to everyone on
set. So the producers had an impossible task.
They had to fill that specific second bartender
slot. And their answer was to bring in Woody
Boyd. Enter Woody Harrelson. Now, the easy, lazy
thing to do would have been to just cast another
older, slightly senile former baseball player
to replicate Coach's dynamic with Sam. But they
went in the complete opposite direction. They
brought in a 20 -something kid, a wildly naive
farm boy from Hanover, Indiana. It was such a
brilliant pivot because Woody wasn't dumb in
the exact same way Coach was confused by age.
Woody was just completely, utterly innocent to
the ways of the world. He simply didn't understand
sarcasm or city life. Right. And to emotionally
bridge the gap for the audience, the writers
established that Woody was actually pen pals
with Coach. That was his organic connection to
the bar. He took a bus to Boston to finally meet
his pen pal, found out the heartbreaking news
that he had died, and Sam, out of loyalty to
Coach, gave Woody a job. Woody's character arc
over the series is pretty wild. He goes from
this wide -eyed farm boy to eventually marrying
Kelly Gaines, who is basically sheltered, incredibly
wealthy heiress. The comedic contrast between
Woody and Kelly is absolute gold. Kelly is extremely
sheltered by her wealth, while Woody is just
a simple farm boy. But at their core, they're
both very simple, very sweet people. And eventually
the arc concludes with Woody actually getting
elected to the Boston City Council. It's this
classic, absurd American success story that happens
completely by accident. Then we have Frasier
Crane. Now, looking at the casting notes, Frasier
was never supposed to stick around, was he? No,
not at all. Kelsey Grammer was originally brought
in essentially as a temporary plot device. He
was just supposed to be a rebound romance for
Diane, designed purely to make Sam jealous for
a few episodes. He was the... pretentious psychiatrist.
The writers fully intended for him to get dumped
and disappear. So why did he end up staying for
decades? Because Kelsey Grammer was just too
incredibly good in the role. The notes say he
could deliver these incredibly long, complex,
eloquent, pompous speeches, but somehow make
them hilarious rather than annoying. And the
writers quickly realized that he fit perfectly
into the ecosystem as a completely different
kind of barfly. He contrasted with Norm and Cliff.
Exactly. He wasn't a working class guy. He added
this entirely new upper crust flavor to the basement.
And then, to make him even better, they brought
in Lilith. Lilith Sternen, played by Baby Neuwirth,
the notoriously stern psychiatrist. Their dynamic
together is just iconic. It is so incredibly
cold. It is freezing cold, highly analytical,
but somehow underneath it all, deeply passionate.
They're the ultimate intellectual power couple
from hell. They speak to each other in full paragraphs.
They clinically analyze their own physical attraction
in real time while it's actively happening. And
they eventually get married and have a son, Frederick.
Right. And even though they eventually divorce,
which discourse perfectly sets up the premise
for the Frasier spinoff, their joint presence
on Cheers significantly elevated the overall
vocabulary and the comedic tone of the show.
And finally, we have to talk about the biggest
replacement of all. Shelley Long decides to leave.
The show loses its primary female lead. Who steps
in to fill that massive void? Rebecca Howe, played
by Kirstie Alley. The writers dubbed her the
anti -Diane. Exactly. The notes state clearly
they did not want to cast another academic. They
definitely didn't want another overqualified
waitress. So they brought in an ambitious businesswoman.
She works for this massive conglomerate called
the Lillian Corporation. And she actually takes
over ownership of the bar. So she becomes Sam's
boss. That is the crucial power shift. Suddenly,
Sam is no longer the undisputed king of his own
castle. He is just an employee. And Rebecca is
tough. She's corporate. She wears the aggressive
shoulder pads at first. At first is definitely
the key phrase there, because her character changes
so drastically. Her character devolution is one
of the most fascinating arcs in the notes. She
starts season six as this icy, untouchable corporate
climber. But as the seasons progress... Though
writers realize that Kirstie Alley is incredibly
gifted at physical comedy and playing panic.
She is so funny when she's stressed. Right. So
Rebecca slowly morphs into this deeply neurotic,
highly insecure disaster of a human being who
becomes entirely obsessed with marrying rich
men. The notorious gold digger phase. Yes. She
is just constantly chasing high society status.
Her painful obsession with her corporate boss,
Evan Drake, is agonizing to watch. And then,
of course, the whole saga of Robin Colcord. Robin
Colcord, the billionaire. Played by Roger Reese.
He is this dashing, incredibly mysterious, jet
-setting billionaire. Rebecca truly thinks she
has finally made it to the top. But then the
rug is pulled out and it turns out he's a massive
white collar criminal. He actually goes to federal
prison, right? He goes to jail, loses every dime
of his money and is reduced to being a total
pauper. But Rebecca wastes so much time and dignity
chasing that specific illusion of wealth. And
the really interesting dynamic shift with Sam
is that unlike Diane. Rebecca constantly rejects
him. Exactly. With Diane, Sam was always chasing
her intellect and trying to drag her down to
his level. With Rebecca, Sam is mostly just chasing
her physically, but she rejects him flat out
because he is the help. He's just a bartender.
He is financially beneath her corporate aspirations.
It totally flipped the traditional television
power dynamic. It finally allowed Sam to be the
one who wasn't in total control of the romantic
situation. It did. And more importantly, The
notes suggest it allowed Sam to naturally age.
He wasn't just the effortlessly cool guy anymore.
He was an aging former athlete trying to figure
out his diminishing place in a rapidly changing
corporate world. Now, a truly great bar isn't
just made up of the staff and the daily regulars.
It's the entire neighborhood, the extended universe
of cheers. There are some incredible recurring
characters in these notes that just add so much
specific flavor to the show. We absolutely have
to give a shout out to Harry the Hat. Harry Anderson.
Yeah. The resident magician and local con artist.
He was such a highly specific, weird character.
He would just waltz in and trick the regular
patrons out of their money with these incredibly
elaborate bar bets. Oh, like the classic, I bet
you 20 bucks I can drink that shot of whiskey
without physically touching the hat covering
it. That kind of classic grift. But the funny
thing is, the bar regulars loved him anyway.
Because he was their con artist. It's a tribal
thing. He was almost framed as a chaotic good
character. Whenever Cheers had a problem, he
would often use his deceptive powers to help
the gang defend themselves against their local
rivals. And speaking of local rivals, we definitely
have to talk about Gary's Old Town Tavern. The
ultimate nemesis. Gary's was basically everything.
Cheers wasn't. It was wildly successful, supposedly
had great food, and it was a very modern sports
bar. The Bar Wars episodes are absolute television
classics. They're the best. It was an annual
tradition, Cheers versus Gary's. They competed
in bowling tournaments, basketball games, even
Bloody Mary mixing contests. And the running
joke was that Cheers almost always lost. They
were the lovable losers. Gary was just always
one step ahead and outsmarted them. Well, except
for when they deployed Harry the Hat. Exactly.
There's that legendary storyline where Harry
helps the Cheers gang execute a massive con that
basically destroys Gary's entire bar. It was
a completely vicious business rivalry, but the
writers used it perfectly to bond the dysfunctional
Cheers gang together against a common enemy.
And then right upstairs from the basement, you
had Melville's. The incredibly snooty fine dining
restaurant owned by the insufferable John Allen
Hill. He was a much later addition to the cast,
right? Yes, towards the later seasons. He was
the building's landlord. And he had this endlessly
combative relationship with Sam, arguing mostly
over petty things like rent increases, customer
bathroom access, and parking spots. But he also
developed a very strange, highly aggressive sexual
relationship with Carla. Thoroughly disgusted
everyone else in the bar. Visibly nauseated them.
It was just another bizarre layer of that enemy
with benefits dynamic to show love to play with.
And we absolutely cannot wrap up the cast list
without mentioning the ultimate background guys,
Al and Phil. The literal furniture of the bar.
Al had that incredibly distinct gravelly voice.
They rarely had their own huge storylines, but
they were just always physically there in the
frame. The notes emphasize how crucial they were
for world building. It reinforced the idea that
this is a real operating business. If you walked
into Cheers on a random Tuesday afternoon, Al
would be there. If you walked in on a Friday
night, Al would be there. So we've unpacked the
entire roster. We've looked at the fallen pitcher,
the academic princess, the sad sack bar flies
and all the replacements. When you step back
from this massive stack of source material and
look at the 11 year picture. What is the core
takeaway? Why did this highly specific mix of
damaged people resonate so hard with the American
public? I really think it just comes right back
down to the core promise of the theme song. You
want to go where everybody knows your name. The
writers fundamentally designed the bar to be
a sanctuary. A sanctuary for losers. In a very
real way, yes. Just look at the objective facts
of their lives. Sam is a recovering alcoholic
dealing with a failed baseball career. Diane
is a deeply insecure failed writer who couldn't
cut it in the academic world. Norm is a completely
failed accountant who actively hides from his
own wife. Cliff is socially incompetent and lives
with his mother. Their marriages constantly fail.
Their chosen careers completely stall out. But
the physical bar itself is the one constant in
their lives. It's the one place on Earth where
all of that external failure simply doesn't matter.
You walk down those concrete stairs and you are
immediately accepted unconditionally. You become
part of the tribe. That is actually a really
beautiful way to look at it. It is a profoundly
dysfunctional family, but at the end of the day,
it is a family. Precisely. The core theme of
the show is about the deep human comfort of belonging,
even if you feel like you don't fit in anywhere
else in society. Before we completely wrap up
today, though, I do want to leave you with a
thought and honestly, a pretty provocative question
that really struck me while I was reading through
the psychological profile of Sam Malone and just
thinking about the modern world. We spent a lot
of time talking about his womanizing, his so
-called code, his relief pitcher arrogance. Right.
The core of his character. If Cheers were somehow
made today in exactly the same way it was written
back then, how do you think we would actually
view Sam Malone? Oh, that is the million dollar
provocative question. I mean, let's just look
at the raw facts. He was the boss of the business
and he was constantly relentlessly hitting on
his own female employees, first Diane, then Rebecca.
He was aggressively hitting on his customers.
He basically used his own place of business as
a personal hunting ground. Now, in the 1980s,
he was portrayed on screen as the charming rogue.
He was the undisputed hero of the story. He was.
He was the cool guy every guy wanted to be. But
today, if we look at those exact same actions
through the modern lens of workplace harassment
and corporate power dynamics, is he actually
a predator? It is a very complicated television
legacy. The reality is, if you aired those exact
early episodes today on network television without
any historical context, Sam's behavior would
absolutely be flagged as incredibly problematic.
He crosses professional lines constantly. He
frequently doesn't take no for an answer on the
first try. He actively manipulates workplace
situations to isolate women. But the framing
of the show tells the audience it's romantic.
It does. And that is the massive difference in
the cultural lens. In the 80s, that relentless
chase was broadly seen by society as romantic
persistence. It was flattering. Today, we have
a much clearer understanding that when your literal
boss chases you romantically, it's not cute romance.
It is the definition of a hostile work environment.
It really changes how you watch the older episodes,
doesn't it? It definitely adds a layer of friction.
But it doesn't mean the show itself isn't still
incredibly funny or masterfully written. It just
means you have to acknowledge that you are watching
a very specific time capsule of gender dynamics
that have fortunately evolved quite a bit since
1982. You can still appreciate the character's
internal struggle and Ted Danson's undeniable
charm, while also openly acknowledging that,
yeah, a modern HR department would absolutely
have a field day with Sam Malone in 2026. A modern
HR department would have that basement bar shut
down and boarded up in about a week. Without
a single doubt in my mind, the lawsuits would
be astronomical. Just something interesting for
you to mull over the next time you hear that
iconic piano intro start playing on a rerun.
And that is going to do it for this deep dive
into the anatomy of Cheers. We really hope you
enjoyed dissecting this incredibly dysfunctional
TV family with us. Thanks for listening.