Home Sweet Homer: The Strange Saga of the Real-Life Simpsons House in Nevada

Courtesy of FOX
Courtesy of FOX

At first glance, the two-story stucco house located on Red Bark Lane in Henderson, Nevada, looks very much the same as the neighboring homes located in the South Valley Ranch community. Neutral exterior paint covers the sides and attached garage. A rock garden has been spread over the soil. A cement walkway leads from the driveway to the front door.

Look closer and the irregularities begin to appear. The house has protruding bay windows and a rounded front entryway, which are both unusual for the prefabricated construction on the block. A chimney juts out from the roof, though Nevada residents are rarely in need of a wood-burning fire. Around the garage, some of the light-colored paint is flaking, revealing a cornea-scorching bright orange underneath.

The exterior of the 'Simpsons' replica home as it appears in 2018
Courtesy of Private Owner

Once upon a time, the house on Red Bark Lane wasn’t just another address in a sprawling suburban development: It was originally built as a nearly exact three-dimensional replica of 742 Evergreen Terrace, the Springfield residence of Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa, and Maggie Simpson. Working on a short schedule, architects and builders de-fictionalized the home featured in The Simpsons for a 1997 giveaway that was intended to leave one lucky fan with the ultimate in cartoon memorabilia. No detail was spared, from a food dish for their cat, Snowball II, to Duff beer cans in the fridge.

But controversy soon erupted in this faux-Springfield mock-up. The homeowner's association wasn’t keen on having a cartoon house that broke conformity requirements by being painted solar yellow. The sweepstakes winner rejected it outright. And the current owner had to learn to live with the property being a source of perpetual curiosity for fans of the show who brazenly turn her doorknobs and peer through her windows at all hours of the day and night. As it turns out, the reality of living in a fantasy can get a little complicated.

 
 

Heading into its 30th season in the fall, The Simpsons is the longest-running primetime scripted series in television history, surpassed in overall longevity only by daytime soaps, Sesame Street, and late-night institutions. Despite criticisms that the show has exhausted its potential, it remains a profitable empire for the Fox network, with no announced end in sight.

In 1997, the show’s future was less certain. Sales of tie-in Simpsons merchandise had fallen off from its high in the early 1990s, where it had raked in roughly $2 billion during a fevered explosion in popularity. Revenue had waned and so had licensee interest: The number of companies producing Simpsons goods dropped by 75 percent. In an attempt to reignite awareness, product merchandisers for the show planned a major rollout for best-of VHS tapes and a CD-ROM titled Virtual Springfield that would allow users to explore the family’s hometown and interact with its regulars.

What the network needed was a promotional vehicle—something to drive interest in both the show and its ancillary products. That idea came not from within Fox, but from an outside marketing expert who saw an opportunity for some corporate synergy. Jeff Charney was responsible for marketing at Kaufman and Broad, a home builder looking to promote both its brand and a new housing development in Henderson, Nevada, about 16 miles southeast of Las Vegas. While brainstorming in the shower, Charney got the idea to erect a replica of the Simpsons' home. He brought it to Kaufman and Broad’s builders, including project manager Mike Woodley. After determining it was feasible, the company pitched it to Fox, who gave their approval to proceed.

A look at the design of the Simpsons' kitchen
Courtesy of FOX

“It was a big deal for Kaufman and Broad because it meant all kinds of exposure,” Woodley tells Mental Floss. "The house itself was a pretty simple box-on-box design with a garage. I think I sketched it out in a day.”

There was some precedent for the stunt. In the 1970s, Kaufman and Broad chairman Bruce Karatz had agreed to build a house on top of Au Printemps, a department store in Paris, with the idea that it would intrigue people enough to visit the store’s upper floors. When they reached the summit, a Kaufman and Broad salesperson was waiting to pitch them on buying one of their homes.

The gimmick was hugely successful for both the builder and Au Printemps—it attracted more than 500,000 visitors in the four months it was open, and cemented the company as one that thought well outside the standard marketing boxes. “Bruce was an innovative guy,” Simpsons house architect Manny Gonzalez tells Mental Floss. “The easiest way to get publicity is to build a special house.”

 
 

Once the project was approved, Woodley and Gonzalez pored over 100 episodes of the show and storyboards on loan from the production to try and discern a layout. “We took a floor plan we already had and did things that still had to meet building code but was reminiscent of The Simpsons,” Gonzalez says. “We never would have put in a rounded door or windows in the spots they were in.”

The team’s goal was to be 90 percent normal, with occasional lapses into cartoon continuity. Door frames were widened and lengthened to accommodate Marge’s hair and Homer’s girth. The stairs leading to the second floor were slightly steeper than normal. The downstairs floor was poured and painted concrete rather than hardwood or carpet, the better to mimic the show’s flat colors. Bart’s treehouse was erected in the backyard.

“We knew someone had to live in it, so the kitchen was a little bigger than it is on the show,” Woodley says. “It had to be a real house.”

A look at the Simpsons' house living room
Courtesy of Rick Floyd

Construction was only part of the illusion. To get that lived-in look, a Hollywood production designer and photographer named Rick Floyd came in and accentuated the home with details that would impress the critical eye of series creator Matt Groening and die-hard fans alike. Floyd hung corn cob-patterned curtains in the kitchen; Bart’s bedroom closet held a row of identical shirts and shorts; mouse holes were painted on the walls near the floor; Lisa’s saxophone leaned against her bed. He even painted an oil stain in the driveway, a nod to Homer’s lack of automotive maintenance. He also flagged down a vehicle he saw while driving and offered the surprised owner $700 for it. Painted purple, it was a perfect match for the Simpsons' iconic wheels.

“We essentially disguised a regular tract home to look like The Simpsons home,” Gonzalez says.

As the house neared completion in August 1997 after just four months of work, local Kaufman and Broad employees sometimes came by for a look. “I drove by it when I was pregnant with twins,” Danielle, then a secretary for the company, tells Mental Floss. “Honestly, I declined to go in, because I wasn’t a fan of the show and it was too hot.”

By this point, Fox and Kaufman and Broad were arranging tours for locals and tourists hoping to catch a glimpse of the interior. Groening came out for an appearance and spray-painted some Bart graffiti on the garage before signing his name in the front path cement. Lines with wait times of more than two hours twisted around the block, and visitors were expected to wear surgical-style booties to avoid tracking in dirt from outside. Surprisingly, there were few attempts at swiping the decor.

“We glued a lot of stuff down,” Gonzalez says.

 
 

Fox kept the home open for tours that fall, all for the purpose of promoting the sweepstakes being advertised via Pepsi products. Buying Mug Root Beer, Brisk Iced Tea, or Slice would net consumers a numbered game piece. If it matched the one broadcast during the fall premiere of the show, they’d be the winner of the replica home, which Kaufman and Broad valued at $150,000. (First-place prize: a one-year supply of Mandarin Orange Slice.)

On September 21, 1997, those in possession of the game piece watched “The City of New York vs. Homer Simpson,” an episode that was later pulled from syndication for a brief period after the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks due to images and references to the World Trade Center. During the broadcast, the winning number was flashed onscreen.

Nothing happened.

A dresser sits in a replica of Lisa Simpson's bedroom
Courtesy of Rick Floyd

Whoever held the winning game piece (number 9786065) never stepped forward to claim their prize. The back-up plan was to choose at random one of the raffle forms that consumers could also submit via mail. In December 1997, it was announced the form chosen belonged to Barbara Howard, a 63-year-old retired factory worker from Richmond, Kentucky. She lived in an area so rural that Fox’s dispatched limo couldn’t get down the dirt road to her home. The network flew her in—her first time on a plane—with her two daughters and grandson. She gambled a little at the casinos and posed for photos with a ceremonial giant key to her new home. She told the press she was still trying to process her good fortune.

That December, with the adrenaline of defying the odds having worn off, Howard came to a decision. She didn’t want the house after all.

“She took the cash,” Gonzalez recalls of the sweepstakes outcome. “You had the choice of either the house or a cash prize, but the cash was substantially less than the value of the house.”

Howard accepted $75,000, which some observers found curious. Why ignore the property value? Why not keep it open for tours? The reasons were simple. Howard lived on an ostrich and tobacco (not tomacco) farm in Kentucky with her husband, was perfectly comfortable there, and had no motivation to relocate. Opening it for tourism was more or less prohibited; the homeowner’s association wanted the orange and yellow exterior repainted as soon as possible. She did briefly broach the possibility of having Kaufman and Broad move the house to her property, but the logistics of that made it implausible.

“I don’t think she was as blown away by it as her daughters were,” Gonzalez says. “I think she felt a little overwhelmed. There were all these photographers and writers. She was just a simple country homemaker.”

 
 

That left the fate of the house to Kaufman and Broad. Having sold over 100 homes in the development—which was eventually renamed Spring Valley Ranch from Springfield Spring Valley Ranch—the property had already served its purpose in marketing exactly as the Au Printemps roof house had two decades prior. “We were the fun home builder instead of the production home builder,” Gonzalez says.

Groening floated the idea of blowing the house up on live television, which seemed unlikely given its residential location. It was repainted in muted colors to appease the homeowner's association. As it sat vacant, Kaufman assigned 24-hour security so no one would ransack its contents. But by the second year, the guards' attention had waned, and people had managed to sneak in and swipe several of the design elements. Glue traces marked where Simpson family “photos” had been pried off the wall. Snowball II’s cat food dish was no more.

Kaufman and Broad considered tearing the house down or retrofitting it to conform to the neighborhood and attract conventional buyers. But the most cost-effective way was to simply sell it, even if it was below market value.

A look inside Bart Simpson's bedroom
Courtesy of FOX

One day in 2001, Danielle—the secretary who had previously shrugged at taking a tour—was browsing their inventory when she came across the address. At first, she didn’t associate it with the cartoon house she drove past four years prior. But the price was right, and she was in the market for a larger home.

“I asked how much, they told me, and so I bought it,” she says. “As is.”

With her husband and two boys, Danielle became the first—and only—occupant of the Simpson house. While the outside had been repainted, the interior was a dizzying palette of primary colors.

“They had put in flooring, but the paint was original, so no two touching walls were the same color,” she says. “The master bedroom had a lavender ceiling, pink moulding, and four different-colored walls. It was like being in a Crayola box.”

Someone had even stolen a tree from the backyard. Several doors that looked like pantry storage opened into a wall. “That was the state it was in,” she says. “People have said, ‘Oh, I would have just left it how it was.’ It would have made me nuts.”

Danielle—who prefers not to use her last name for reasons that will shortly become clear—repainted walls and repaired missing chunks of drywall where looters had pried off portraits. She replaced carpeting, exposing the red floor underneath that her sons wanted to keep exposed. (She declined.) She has to repeatedly remind the tax assessor that the house doesn't really have a fireplace.

Giving the home a makeover hasn’t deterred Simpsons fans from taking a pilgrimage there. Once, a group of drunken college kids were banging on the door, yelling to be let in. Danielle’s sons started chatting with them from the upstairs bedroom window. People will check to see if the door is unlocked. Many snap photos or video, then upload their pilgrimage. Few of them seem to stop and consider the intrusive nature of their sightseeing.

“We’ll be sitting watching a movie and someone will be yanking on the door,” she says. “We’re vigilant about keeping the doors locked.”

A look inside Marge and Homer Simpson's bedroom
Courtesy of FOX

After getting divorced, Danielle refinanced the home and bought out her ex-husband’s equity, leading some internet sleuths to determine the property had somehow sold for $14,000. (It didn’t.) When Danielle remarried in 2014, she told her new husband that kind of scrutiny around the property would be par for the course. “I kind of signed up for it," she says. "It’s not really a big deal. Most people are cool.” Because the family has Ring, the camera-equipped smart doorbell, she sees people come and go. One man came with a giant stuffed animal and sat down with it in front of the house. “That was a weird thing.”

The house also gets mail addressed to the Simpson family, a likely consequence of fans having some harmless fun. “I once got a letter addressed to Homer from the Salvation Army,” she says. “There have been shampoo samples for Marge and a flyer from PetSmart for Santa’s Little Helper.”

 
 

Even though it's gotten a facelift, the home doesn’t often get attention from potential buyers. “I’ve never really had an offer on it,” Danielle says. “People look for certain features, and they see a lack of closet space, no first-floor bathroom … it’s a fun idea but it doesn’t get far.”

The house’s legacy seems to have persisted beyond the giveaway. Kaufman and Broad briefly considered doing a house based on The Grinch Who Stole Christmas; Woodley, who was not a regular viewer of the series, continues to be surprised by the attention The Simpsons receives. “I didn’t realize how big a thing it is for some people. I looked at it as a design challenge. I didn’t think of it in terms of the grandness of it. When people today hear I designed The Simpsons house, it’s like, ‘Really, oh, my God.’”

A look at Maggie Simpson's nursery
Courtesy of FOX

For now, Danielle says she’s very happy in the neighborhood and only occasionally bothered by curious fans. (It’s better if you don’t stare into her windows.) And though she’s still not a huge fan of the show, she does acknowledge the looming yellow shadow she’s elected to live in. “My neighbor’s dad is actually a pastor,” she says. “It’s too easy to go there with a Flanders joke.”

Josh Trank Wouldn't Mind Erasing Fantastic Four From Film History

Ben Rothstein, Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation
Ben Rothstein, Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

It’s not every day that you hear a director talking about wanting to completely erase one of their projects from film history. But when the topic of the 2015 box office bomb Fantastic Four comes up, director Josh Trank isn't mincing words. The director tweeted that he would “gladly” donate to a GoFundMe page to have his failed adaptation erased from the cinematic history books.

It's no secret that Fantastic Four is a sore subject for Trank. The production was plagued with rumors that there was a bit of friction on set, particularly between the director and star Miles Teller. Even once the film had wrapped, reports about the troubled production plagued Trank, and eventually led to him parting ways with Disney, for whom he was supposedly developing a standalone Boba Fett movie. (It didn't help that Fantastic Four tanked at the box office and even won a Razzie for Worst Picture).

The topic of starting a GoFundMe page for the film started after Trank responded to fans rallying for a page to get the rat at the end of Martin Scorsese's The Departed digitally erased. When asked if he would support a page to get rid of Fantastic Four, Trank seemed to oblige (though he has since deleted the tweet).


It’s no secret the previous Fantastic Four movies have had little success, but now that Disney and Fox are joining forces, the series could be entering into the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Maybe now these superheroes will finally get the movie they deserve.

Hollywood's Brief Love Affair With Young Einstein Star Yahoo Serious

Warner Bros.
Warner Bros.

The theater owners and exhibitors attending the ShoWest convention in February 1989 had a lot to look forward to. In an attempt to stir their interest in upcoming studio releases, major distributors were showing off stars and footage: Paramount led with Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, and Columbia had Ghostbusters II. But it was Warner Bros. that caused the biggest stir.

In addition to Lethal Weapon 2, the studio had Tim Burton’s Batman, a straight-faced adaptation of the comic, and Michael Keaton—who slipped into a screening of some early footage—was no longer being derided as a poor casting choice. Then, in the midst of all this star power, the studio brought out a 35-year-old actor-writer-director with a shock of orange hair and an Australian accent.

The man had never appeared in a feature film before, much less starred in one, but Warner was gambling that his forthcoming comedy about a Tasmanian Albert Einstein who invents rock music and runs into Thomas Edison would be a hit. It had already become the sixth highest-grossing film in Australia's history, besting both E.T. and Rambo: First Blood Part II.

The man’s real name was Greg Pead, but Warner Bros. introduced him as Yahoo Serious, Hollywood’s next big comedy attraction.

 

To understand Warner’s appetite for an unproven commodity like Yahoo Serious, it helps to recall the peculiar preoccupation American popular culture had with Australians in the 1980s. Energizer had created a hit ad campaign with Mark “Jacko” Jackson, a pro football player who aggressively promoted their batteries in a series of ads; meanwhile, Paul Hogan parlayed his fish-out-of-water comedy, Crocodile Dundee, into the second highest-grossing film of 1986. (Serious would later bristle at comparisons to Hogan, whom he referred to as a “marketing guy” who sold cigarettes on Australian television.)

Born in Cardiff, Australia on July 27, 1953, Serious grew up in rural bush country and mounted car tires at a garage in order to pay his way through the National Art School. When he was expelled for illustrating the school's facade with satirical jokes that the faculty didn’t find particularly funny, Serious moved on to direct Coaltown, a documentary about the coal mining industry, and pursued painting.

Serious would later recall that the desire for a larger audience led him away from art and into feature filmmaking. ''It hit me like a ton of bricks one day,” Serious told The New York Times in 1989. “I remember having a cup of coffee and I went, 'Well, look, there is a giant canvas in every little town everywhere around the world. And on this giant canvas there are 24 frames of image on that screen every second and it's the most wonderful living art form.'” It was around this same time, in 1980, that Serious changed his name.

To get a feel for the language of film, Serious sat through repeated viewings of Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove; he aspired to have the kind of total autonomy over his movies that directors like Woody Allen and Charlie Chaplin enjoyed.

In 1983, Serious was traveling along the Amazon River when he spotted someone wearing a T-shirt depicting Albert Einstein sticking his tongue out. The image is now pervasive, appearing on posters and other merchandise, but it seemed unique to the performer, who was struck by the idea that Einstein was once young and never took himself too seriously. And the concept for Young Einstein was born.

 

Serious's idea, which transplanted Einstein to Tasmania and imagined encounters with Sigmund Freud, Thomas Edison, and the atomic bomb, took years to assemble. He borrowed camera equipment and sold his car to help finance the film; he shot an eight-minute trailer that convinced investors he was capable of making a feature. His mother even cooked meals for the crew on set.

In order to maintain creative control, Serious gave up profit participation in Young Einstein, which he starred in, co-produced, co-wrote, and directed. When the film was released in Australia in 1988, it made an impressive $1.6 million at the box office and drew the attention of Warner Bros., which likely had visions of a Crocodile Dundee-esque hit. American press had a field day with Serious, who appeared on the cover of TIME and was given airtime on MTV.

Critics and audiences weren’t quite as enamored. The Orlando Sentinel suggested that "Tedious Oddball" would be a more appropriate name for the film's creator. In his one-star review, Roger Ebert wrote that, "Young Einstein is a one-joke movie, and I didn't laugh much the first time." In the U.S., Young Einstein grossed just over $11 million, a fairly weak showing for a summer comedy. It was bested in its opening weekend by both Ron Howard’s Parenthood and the Sylvester Stallone action-grunter Lock Up.

 

Although American distributors quickly cooled on Serious, Australia's enthusiasm for the filmmaker didn’t dampen. When Serious released 1993’s Reckless Kelly, a fictionalized account of outlaw Ned Kelly, it made $5.4 million in Australia—three times as much as Young Einstein. Serious took a seven-year sabbatical, then returned with 2000’s Mr. Accident, a slapstick comedy about an injury-prone man who tries to thwart a scheme to inject nicotine into eggs. Meeting a tepid critical and financial reception, it would be his third and (likely) final film.

At roughly the same time Mr. Accident was released, Serious took issue with upstart search engine Yahoo!, alleging the site was piggybacking on his popularity. He filed a lawsuit, which was quickly dropped when he failed to prove the URL had damaged him in any way.

Yahoo Serious attends an event
Paul McConnell, Getty Images

The amused headlines stemming from that incident were the last examples of Serious capturing attention in America. Having completed just three films, no other projects have come to fruition; Serious launched a website detailing some of his background and to air some of his Yahoo!-related grievances.

Now 65, Serious currently serves as founding director of the Kokoda Track Foundation, an Australian aid organization dedicated to improving the living conditions of Papua New Guineans. The board’s website lists him as Yahoo Serious, which is the name he claims that all of his family and friends have called him since he changed it in 1980.

“You can choose every aspect of your life,” Serious once said. “Why not your name?”

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