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?”

A Tasty History of Edible Underwear

Liia Galimzianova/iStock via Getty Images
Liia Galimzianova/iStock via Getty Images

One night in the early 1970s, while consuming wine and smoking marijuana, David Sanderson came up with an idea. He remembered that his older brother had an expression for when David was annoying him: “Eat my shorts.”

What if, Sanderson wondered, people really could eat their own shorts?

He related the idea to his partner, Lee Brady. As a possible result of that same marijuana consumption, Brady believed it was a fantastic idea. And while many people would have been content to let it rest once sobriety settled in, Sanderson and Brady were convinced that an edible undergarment was a concept worth pursuing. They even had the perfect name for their invention: Candypants.

The novelty gift item briefly took the country by storm. Bowled over by the concept of edible underwear, consumers bought Candypants with such fervor that the factory had trouble keeping up with demand. The business grossed $150,000 a month. Sanderson and Brady appeared on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson. Everyone, it seemed, had a cheeky comment to make about Candypants.

While its inventors profited from the craze, they had to navigate some popular misconceptions. Originally, edible underwear was never intended to be sold in adult novelty stores. They really weren’t meant to be worn, either. Nor were they supposed to be eaten. Candypants were a risqué gag item that cracked a conservative market by presenting as an innocuous novelty. But some powerful figures involved in the darker corners of the adult entertainment industry had other plans for Sanderson and Brady's novel invention.

 

Sanderson and Brady were a couple in their early 20s living in Chicago when the idea for Candypants blossomed. The two had an entrepreneurial bent, importing Tibetan artwork and even organizing a theater troop, the Puck Players, to perform in Chicago-area elementary schools. These earnest performances were met with some measure of revolt, as Sanderson recalled in a 2015 interview with KCRW. The students, he said, were fond of replacing the P on their truck with an F.

The Candypants venture began with the men inviting friends over to their apartment and using garbage bags to take measurements for underwear sizes. (Presumably, it was easier to cut a pattern into the bags than it would have been a bolt of fabric.) Once they had sizing for both men's and women's options, the two pondered how to make the product something that could actually be consumed. While visiting a baking factory on a scouting trip, they noticed that the company had a bag of yeast that could be thrown in a vat. The bag was biodegradable and edible. Maybe, they thought, this was the answer.

An ad for Candypants edible underwear depicts two models wearing the novelty item
An original advertisement for Candypants circa the 1970s.

To find the right kind of edible material, Sanderson and Brady teamed up with Derek McManus, an analytical chemist originally from England. Over a period of months, the three settled on a recipe that consisted of modified food starch, glycerin, inverted sugar, mannitol, lecithin, artificial color, and artificial flavor. All of the ingredients were approved by the Food and Drug Administration.

The brief itself would be processed in a sheet, then cut to garment specifications. To bind the sides, they used licorice strips. The partners named their company Cosmorotics, Inc.

Cosmorotics had one immediate problem: When they applied for a patent at the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, their design was rejected because the words candy and pants were mutually exclusive. The office had no idea how to conceive of an edible article of clothing. This was successfully appealed, but it paled in comparison to a bigger problem. How could they let people know that Candypants existed?

Fortunately, the pair had a friend who ran a bath and boutique shop and agreed to put Candypants on display. Because the store was close to the University of Indiana, several students picked up a pair on a whim. One of those students happened to be a reporter for the school newspaper who decided to write a story about this peculiar retail item, and the story got picked up by the Associated Press. Virtually overnight, word spread about Candypants.

When the orders began piling up, Cosmorotics opened a factory in Chicago, where a giant machine squeezed out the edible material in two different flavors: wild cherry and banana split. (A third option, hot chocolate, had a foul taste and was said to be brown in color, an unfortunate choice for simulation underwear. It was quickly discontinued.) The underwear, which retailed for $4.95, was packaged in cellophane with a written caution to unwrap it only when it was ready for use. “Candypants may dry out,” the warning read.

 

By early 1976, Cosmorotics was having trouble keeping up with the demand. With Valentine’s Day looming, lingerie shops, pharmacies, and even motorcycle shops were selling through their inventory. Curiously, Candypants could also be found in major retail chains like Bloomingdale’s and Montgomery Ward—a fact that Sanderson attributed to their conscious attempts to keep Candypants firmly in the territory of a novelty gift item and not presented as a kinky sex accessory in adult bookstores.

“We’re trying for a universal market,” Sanderson told the Los Angeles Times in 1976.

The package to a pair of Candypants edible underwear is pictured
The packaging for Candypants.
Amazon

By 1976, Sanderson, Brady, and McManus were selling $150,000 in Candypants every month. Store owners would get calls for high-volume orders. Nunneries bought them in bulk to give away at bingo games. They went to nursing homes and bridal showers.

But as the volume of orders increased, Sanderson and Brady began having trouble sourcing some of the edible ingredients. They would order 9000 pounds of flavoring, and receive just nine pounds.

As it turned out, people in the business of adult novelties had taken notice of Candypants. And they wanted to take a bite out of them.

Sanderson and Brady discovered that the people behind adult bookstores—which, in the 1970s, was a business often connected with organized crime—were irate that Candypants were not being stocked on their shelves. They intended to produce knock-off versions that would compete with Candypants for material and satisfy the demand at sex shops.

 

Struggling to keep up with orders in the face of competition, Cosmorotics turned to an unlikely ally: Iva Toguri D’Aquino, also known as “Tokyo Rose,” a woman who had once been convicted of treason for broadcasting Japanese propaganda during World War II. (She was pardoned by Gerald Ford after serving three years of a 10-year sentence.)

D’Aquino owned a mercantile exchange in Chicago. She told Sanderson and Brady to connect with a factory in Japan that made rice paper wrappers for candy and medication. The rice paper was edible—and better yet, it was not under the thumb of the mafia. With a new source, Cosmorotics was able to continue churning out Candypants for hungry consumers around the country.

Iva Ikuko Toguri D’Aquino; originally a mug shot, taken at Sugamo Prison on March 7, 1946
Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons

Sanderson and Brady enjoyed their modest fame and literal fortune, buying a mansion in Chicago and installing a disco that played host to parties. They befriended David Bowie, who knew the photographer who had shot ads for Candypants. They expanded the line to include mint and passion fruit flavors, as well as an edible bra they dubbed Teacups. They also released Notables, a stationery package consisting of edible notepad paper and a pen that was caramel-flavored. (The envelopes were not meant for consumption.)

Eventually, the knock-offs began to overshadow the brand identity of Candypants. In the 1980s, the men accepted an offer to purchase the company—made, they said, by a man who paid them in a briefcase full of cash. Sanderson and Brady moved to Florida and eventually married in 2015. They currently have no affiliation with Candypants, which are still being sold on Amazon (in even more flavors).

From one simple night of accidental brainstorming, the men had cultivated an empire. It wasn’t a bad outcome for a product that seemed ill-suited for either of its intended purposes. A 1976 test taste declared Candypants tasted like a rain slicker. Wearing them was not practical, either.

But Sanderson knew it was the package, not the contents, that was the real attraction. In a survey, Cosmorotics found that 85 percent of Candypants buyers never even opened the box.

The One Where Jennifer Aniston's 'Rachel' Haircut on Friends Became a Phenomenon

NBC Television/Getty Images
NBC Television/Getty Images

The legacy of NBC's Friends isn't one of ratings records or piles of awards—it's about the way the show managed to impact popular culture by showing life at its most mundane. This is a series that turned sipping coffee into an art form, still prompts philosophical debates over the morality of being "on a break," and made it impossible not to shout pivot! when moving furniture. But Friends reached its cultural zenith when it managed to transform a simple hairstyle into a global talking point, as untold millions of women in the ‘90s flocked to salons all wanting one thing: “The Rachel.”

“The Rachel” hairstyle, which was the creation of stylist Chris McMillan, was first worn by Jennifer Aniston’s Friends character Rachel Green in the April 1995 episode “The One With the Evil Orthodontist." It has its roots as a shag cut, layered and highlighted to TV perfection. It may have been a bit too Hollywood-looking for a twenty-something working for tips, but it fit in the world of Friends, where spacious Manhattan apartments could easily be afforded by waitresses and struggling actors.

The Birth of "The Rachel"


Aniston in 1996, during the height of the style.
NBC Universal/Getty Images

The style itself wasn’t designed to grab headlines; McMillan simply gave Aniston this new look to be “a bit different,” as he later told The Telegraph. In hindsight, the ingredients for a style trend were all there: The cut was seen on the show’s breakout star as the series hit its ratings peak; an average of more than 25 million viewers tuned in each week during Friends's first three seasons. You can’t have that many eyeballs on you without fans wanting to get closer to you, and the easiest way to do that is to copy your style.

During the show’s second and third seasons in the mid-1990s, stories began to appear in newspapers and magazines about salons from Los Angeles to New York City and (literally) everywhere in-between being inundated with requests for Aniston's haircut. Some women would come in with their copy of TV Guide in hand for reference; others would record an episode of the show and play it at the salon to ensure accuracy. For these stylists, a good hair day for Rachel on a Thursday night meant big business over the weekend.

"That show has made us a bunch of money," Lisa Pressley, an Alabama hairstylist, said back in 1996. Pressley was giving around four "Rachels" per week to women ages 13 to 30, and she was touching up even more than that. Another hairdresser estimated that, during that time, 40 percent of her business from female clients came from the "Rachel." During the early days of the trend, McMillan even had people flying to his Los Angeles salon to get the hairdo from the man himself—a service that he charged a modest $60 for at the time.

A Finicky 'Do

What many clients learned, though, was that unless you had a trained stylist at your side, “The Rachel” required some real maintenance.

"People don't realize the style is set by her hairdresser," stylist Trevor Tobin told The Kansas City Star in 1995. “She doesn't just wake up, blow it dry, and it just turns out like that."

That was a warning Aniston knew all too well. In recent years, she has expressed her frustration at not being able to do the style on her own; to get it just right, she needed McMillan on hand to go through painstaking styling before shoots. In addition to being impossible to maintain, in a 2011 Allure interview, Aniston called it the “ugliest haircut I've ever seen." In 2015, the actress told Glamour that she found the look itself “cringey."

Though Aniston had grown to loathe the look, it was soon the 1990s' go-to style for other stars like Meg Ryan and Tyra Banks and later adopted by actresses and musicians like Kelly Clarkson and Jessica Alba. Debra Messing had an ill-fated run-in with it when she was told to mimic the style for her role on Will & Grace. They soon realized that trying it without McMillan was a fool’s errand.

“[It] was a whole debacle when we tried to do it on the show,” Messing recalled. “They literally tried for three hours to straighten my hair like [Aniston's]. It was so full and poofy that it looked like a mushroom.”

A Style That Sticks Around

A picture of Jennifer Aniston from 1999.
Aniston sporting her post-"Rachel" hair during the show's sixth season.
NBC Universal/Getty Images

Aniston’s personal preference for longer hair soon made its way on-screen, replacing the shorter, choppier “Rachel” by season 4. The once-iconic look was officially ditched, the last remnants of which were washed away in a flowing sea of ever-growing locks doused in blonde, pin-straight highlights. And once a haircut’s namesake turns their back on the style, it’s likely only a matter of time before the rest of the world moves on, too, right?

Wrong. “The Rachel” endured.

Unlike Farrah Fawcett’s showstopping feathered hair from the ‘70s, celebrities, news anchors, and the average salon-goer were still wearing the hairstyle well into the 2000s. Even now, fashion websites will run the occasional “Is ‘The Rachel’ Making a Comeback?” article, complete with the latest Hollywood star to sport the familiar shag.

It’s a testament to McMillan’s skill, Aniston’s charm, and Friends’s cultural sway over audiences that people are still discussing, and donning, the hairstyle some 25 years later. And in a lot of ways, the haircut's success mimicked the show's: it spawned plenty of imitators, but no one could outdo the original.

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