New York City in the late eighties was a different beast entirely. It was grittier. Shadows felt longer. And for some reason, CBS decided that the perfect setting for a high-concept romantic fantasy was the literal sewers beneath Manhattan. If you grew up then, you remember. Beauty and the Beast 87 wasn't just another TV show; it was a total mood that fundamentally changed how we think about the "monster" archetype.
Ron Perlman. Linda Hamilton. Those names mean something now. But back then? Perlman was under three hours of prosthetic makeup, and Hamilton was playing Catherine Chandler, a savvy Assistant District Attorney who gets brutally attacked and then—stay with me here—rescued by a lion-man living in a secret subterranean society. It sounds ridiculous. It sounds like a premise that should have died after the pilot. Instead, it became a cultural touchstone that still has a massive, dedicated following decades later.
Honestly, the chemistry was the whole thing. You've got this incredible, poetic dialogue written by people like George R.R. Martin. Yeah, that George R.R. Martin. Before he was killing off your favorite Starks, he was writing soulful, longing monologues for a beast named Vincent.
The Secret World of Beauty and the Beast 87
What most people get wrong about this show is thinking it was just a procedural with a gimmick. It wasn't. The world-building was insane. Below the subway lines, there was "The World Below." It was this utopian, candle-lit community of outcasts, thinkers, and people who just didn't fit into the Reagan-era surface world.
Vincent wasn't a werewolf. He wasn't a cursed prince. He was just... Vincent. A biological mystery. He spent his nights reading Shakespeare and Dickens, which is why the show felt so literate. It didn't talk down to the audience. When Catherine goes back to her life as a lawyer, she brings that sense of justice with her, but she’s forever changed by the man—or creature—who saved her.
The contrast was the point. You had the cold, neon, violent streets of 1987 New York clashing against the warm, golden, velvet-draped tunnels of Vincent’s home. It was basically a dreamscape.
Why the Makeup Still Holds Up
Rick Baker didn’t do the makeup, but the legendary Rick Baker designed it. That’s why Vincent looks so hauntingly real even in high definition today. They used foam latex appliances that allowed Ron Perlman’s actual expressions to come through. You could see the sorrow in his eyes. You could see the subtle twitch of a lip.
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In a pre-CGI era, this was groundbreaking.
Think about it. Most "monsters" on TV back then looked like people in cheap rubber masks. Vincent was tactile. He had hair that looked like a lion's mane and hands that were terrifying but capable of incredible gentleness. Perlman’s performance is a masterclass in physical acting. He had to convey deep, soul-crushing empathy while wearing pounds of glue and paint. He did it so well that he actually won a Golden Globe for the role in 1989.
The George R.R. Martin Connection
It’s hard to talk about Beauty and the Beast 87 without mentioning the "Thrones" connection. Martin was a writer and producer on the show for all three seasons. You can see his fingerprints everywhere if you look closely enough.
- The focus on "broken things" and outcasts.
- The complex power dynamics between the surface and the tunnels.
- A willingness to take massive, heartbreaking risks with the plot.
- Deep, lore-heavy world-building.
Martin often speaks about his time on the show as a period where he learned how to balance "the intimate and the epic." Without the "tunnels" of New York, we might never have gotten the tunnels of the Red Keep.
That Controversial Third Season
We have to talk about it. The elephant in the room. Or rather, the baby in the room.
When Linda Hamilton decided to leave the show at the start of Season 3 to pursue other things (and eventually become a massive action star in Terminator 2), the writers were in a corner. They did something bold. They did something that, frankly, many fans still haven't forgiven them for. They killed Catherine.
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It was dark. Brutal. Catherine gives birth to Vincent’s son and then dies, leaving Vincent to navigate a world of grief and revenge. A new character, Diana Bennett (played by Jo Anderson), was brought in to help Vincent track down the people responsible.
Some people loved the shift into a darker, more "noir" detective vibe. Most hated it. The romantic core—the "Beauty" part of the title—was gone. The ratings cratered. CBS pulled the plug shortly after. But even in that messy final season, there was a raw emotional honesty that you just don't see on network television anymore. It was a tragedy in the truest sense of the word.
The Fandom That Never Quit
The "Beasties." That’s what the fans called themselves. Long before "Sherlockians" or "Whovians" dominated the internet, the Beauty and the Beast 87 fandom was a powerhouse. They published fanzines. They held conventions. They wrote thousands of pages of fan fiction to "fix" the ending of Season 3.
This show was one of the first to prove that a "cult" audience could be just as valuable as a mainstream one. It paved the way for shows like The X-Files and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It proved that adult audiences were hungry for urban fantasy—a genre that barely existed on TV before 1987.
Lessons from the Tunnels
So, what can we actually take away from this thirty-plus years later?
First, atmosphere is everything. If you’re a creator, look at how the lighting and production design of those sets told the story before a single word was spoken. The "World Below" felt like a place you could actually smell—dust, old paper, and beeswax.
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Second, don't be afraid of "purple prose." We live in an era of snappy, sarcastic Marvel-style dialogue. Beauty and the Beast 87 was unapologetically earnest. It was romantic. It was flowery. And it worked because the actors committed to it 100%. Sometimes, being "cringe" is just being brave enough to be sincere.
How to Revisit the Series Today
If you're looking to dive back in or see it for the first time, here is the best way to handle it.
Don't just binge it in the background while you're scrolling on your phone. This isn't "background noise" TV. It’s too slow for that. You have to let the mood sink in.
- Watch the Pilot First: It’s one of the best-constructed pilots in television history. It sets up the stakes perfectly.
- Focus on Season 1 and 2: This is the peak of the "classic" romance. Episodes like "A Happy Life" and "Orphans" show the heart of the series.
- Appreciate the Guest Stars: You’ll see everyone from a young Chris Rock to Terrence McNally. It’s a time capsule of 80s talent.
- Listen to the Soundtrack: Lee Holdridge’s score is genuinely beautiful. It’s lush and orchestral, which was rare for a weekly drama back then.
The 2012 CW reboot tried to capture the magic, but it lacked the grit. It was too "pretty." The 1987 version understood that for a fairy tale to work in a modern city, it needs to be a little bit dirty. It needs to feel dangerous.
Vincent and Catherine’s story wasn't about a makeover. It wasn't about the Beast turning into a handsome prince at the end. It was about two people from different worlds finding a middle ground where they could simply be. In a world that feels increasingly divided, that’s a message that still resonates.
If you want to understand the history of genre TV, you have to start in the tunnels. Check out the remastered DVD sets or find the episodes on streaming services like Paramount+ or Pluto TV. It’s a trip back to a version of New York that only exists in our collective memory, led by a man with the face of a lion and the heart of a poet.
Actionable Insight: For those looking to study the evolution of the "Urban Fantasy" genre, compare the first three episodes of the 1987 series with George R.R. Martin’s later work in A Song of Ice and Fire. Pay specific attention to how he utilizes "The Father" figure (played by Roy Dotrice) as a moral compass, a trope he would later subvert and expand upon in his novels. Examining the transition from Season 2 to Season 3 also provides a stark lesson in how changing a show's core "hook" can alienate a core demographic, a case study still taught in media writing courses today.