There’s something oddly tender lurking beneath the surface of Supercar—a show packed with early '60s optimism, crackling adventure, and marionette-stringed heroics. But on rewatch, particularly during those episodes where it’s just Mike Mercury and Dr Beaker out on a mission, I find myself wondering: is there something more going on between these two?
It’s a strange feeling. A soft, unspoken kind of closeness. Not the flashy kind. Not something spelled out. But something secret. Something coded.
Let’s take stock. Mike Mercury is the classic square-jawed hero—confident, daring, with that smooth voice and cocky charm. Dr Beaker, on the other hand, is nervous, intellectual, awkward, always fumbling for the right word but never without a quiet sort of loyalty. Together, they’re opposites, and yet… they work. Really well. Suspiciously well.
And it's when they're alone—no Jimmy Gibson, no Mitch the monkey, no Professor Popkiss—that something subtle starts to shimmer. Mike never rolls his eyes at Beaker’s fumbling explanations. Instead, he listens. He actually listens. And Beaker, for all his quirks and trembles, seems more confident beside Mike—like Mike's presence grounds him. Watch any mission with just the two of them and you'll start to feel it too. A glance held a little longer than usual. A soft “You all right, Beaker?” after an explosion rocks the craft. Beaker’s bashful smile in return.
I don’t think the show meant for us to see it this way. But that’s the thing about these old shows—you start reading between the lines, and suddenly what was meant as simple partnership begins to feel like something richer, more hidden. Something that might’ve existed behind closed doors in the quiet of the Supercar hangar. A warmth that only ever emerges once the engines are humming and the mission is on.
Could it be that Mike Mercury and Dr Beaker are secretly in love?
Not in any big, dramatic way. But in the way quiet men of the '60s might be: respectful, cautious, wrapped in duty. Their love, if it’s there, is made of sideways glances and unsaid understandings. The kind of love that doesn’t demand attention—but is felt all the same.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s why Supercar still has a strange pull. Not just because of the wild missions or the novelty of the puppet tech—but because somewhere deep beneath the action and the heroics is a love story nobody talks about. One that never says a word… but is somehow always there, riding silently in the passenger seat.
Do you feel it too? Or is it just me projecting onto some old marionettes again?
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