Harry and the Hendersons

There are certain shows that waft into your memory like the smell of Mum’s Sunday roast or the sound of your favourite TV theme tune. For anyone raised on a diet of imported American telly during the ‘90s, Harry and the Hendersons was one of those curios: part sitcom, part creature feature, and wholly bonkers — in the best way possible.

Spun off from the 1987 film (which starred John Lithgow doing his finest “flustered dad meets beast” routine), the TV series aired from 1991 to 1993, and was that oddball cousin to ALF and Small Wonder, where the central conceit was simple: what if a mythical creature lived in your house and wore flannel?

Taking the reins from Lithgow was Bruce Davison, a dependable screen presence with the sort of trustworthy American dad face you could imagine telling off a raccoon politely. He played George Henderson, the affable patriarch who accidentally hits Bigfoot with his car and, instead of calling the authorities, invites him to live in their suburban home. As you do in American tellyland.

Molly Cheek (of It’s Garry Shandling’s Show fame) stepped in as Nancy, the mum with seemingly infinite patience — especially considering she had to keep a nine-foot tall, hairy cryptid hidden from the neighbours while also raising two children. Their kids, Ernie (played by Zachary Bostrom, later replaced by Noah Blake) and Sarah (Carol-Ann Plante - now Carol-Ann Merrill), served up the usual ‘90s sitcom kid energy: a blend of precociousness, eye-rolling, and endearing loyalty to their unconventional family member.

And then, of course, there’s Harry. Oh, Harry. Played under layers of prosthetics and fur by the ever-committed Kevin Peter Hall, who also starred in the original film but sadly passed away after filming sixteen episodes of the first series to be replaced by Dawan Scott and later Brian Steele — all three unsung heroes who managed to emote through what must have been a sauna-suit of a costume. Harry's vocal effects, such as they were, were provided by Patrick Pinney. Harry never actually spoke, but he didn’t need to. His expressive grunts, tilted head, and puppy-dog eyes conveyed more warmth than most human characters on telly at the time.

The humour? Gently silly. The plotlines? Comfortingly predictable. One week Harry’s spotted by a nosy neighbour, the next he’s learning about birthdays or helping the kids stand up to a school bully. It was never high art, but it had a sincere, good-hearted tone that modern shows often seem too self-aware to attempt.

Looking back now, Harry and the Hendersons feels like a relic from a simpler time — when family TV shows didn’t need sarcasm or special effects that cost more than a modest bungalow in Basingstoke. It was sweet, occasionally clunky, but always well-meaning. And beneath the fur and farce, it quietly taught kids about tolerance, kindness, and the value of keeping an open mind — even if what you’re opening it to is a vegetarian Sasquatch with questionable personal hygiene.

Not every show from that era holds up, but Harry and the Hendersons earns its place in the scrapbook of oddball '90s telly treasures. A gentle, hairy hug from the past.