Must an animated character die or is there a secret to eternal life? It is a pressing question as we enter the era of the post-human. After all, if we want our Second Life avatars to outlive us, or the Coca-Cola polar bears to outlive the actual species itself, we'd better figure this shit out fast. In the 100 years since French director Émile Cohl first put character to film and the 80 years since Mickey whistled his way into the collective consciousness to synchronized sound and picture, there haven't been more than a handful of characters that have been able to outlive either their creators or the actors that gave them voices.

But there have been no lack of attempts. In fact, we continue to birth new characters at an alarming rate. We seem to be littering the planet with new animated life and abandoning them just as fast.

The transition began in earnest at the turn of this century as we started to see the incredible proliferation of new animated characters heralded by a generation raised on mutating Pokemons. Authoritative aesthetic credibility arrived with the Pictoplasma series of books and videos, and their presence in pop street culture blossomed as Kidrobot's vinyl creations and countless ads began to feature the latest in an endless string of disposable characters. As if we'd struck some geyser of new life, these critters sprang forth into the world, ushered in by countless international designers jostling for your attention, each one mining some unique graphic sensibility, some quirky foreign aesthetic, some fantastic color or pattern, and leveraged by a brand, a product, a band or a line of plush or plastic merchandise dreams.

It wasn't always this way. Or was it? A look back at the spokes characters of yore - more than 80 years of iconic American advertising characters - reveals a perpetual rollercoaster of successes and failures: The McGregor Sock Face, anyone? Cliffy the Sugar Smacks Clown? How about Smaxey the Sugar Smacks Seal? The Smackin' Brothers? The universally loved King Vitamin of the same named cereal? All dead.

To the dustbin of history have gone countless failures, characters with no conceptual angle, no visual appeal, no competitive advantage and not a shred of personality. Most of all, they all had no connection to their brand, no purpose and therefore no storied tapestries to weave. Why is it we all remember Cap'n Crunch but not the Heinz Tomato Head Man? Simple. The Cap'n secured a treasure chest full of sugar-coated puffed corn, and he'd be damned if anyone was gonna take his loot away. To kids, that was gold. Plus, he had a distinctive voice to boot. Often we forget the tremendous identity and depth a brilliant voice actor like Daws Butler (Yogi Bear, Snap of Snap, Crackle and Pop) can bring to the soul of a character.

So is it voice that gives life? Did Kermit stop being Kermit once Jim Henson's brother took over? Maybe. Is Bugs Bunny a close enough approximation of who he was under Mel Blanc or a total fraud? And what the hell was he doing in Space Jam, that feature-length Nike Air Jordan cross promotion? Why did he lend what's left of his spirit to the new Loonatics Unleashed series:

a horrendous hybrid animé-styled space-action adventure? The people who commissioned this series show us what disdain they have for the character and viewer. Their attempt at "reviving" these characters is plotted in the most cynical manner and their market calculations are transparent.

Despite the veracity of their original renditions, and the best efforts of brand managers, imitative artists and voice actors, many characters like Bugs eventually become nothing more than logos. The voice long since dead, the designs now over drawn and the character's raison d'etre lost for good, they wander around written into any ad, restyled in the trend du jour, and fully whored out to whatever stories will have them. So now, rather than push the limits, Bugs zips around on screen mugging for us, a shell of his former self, alive on paper perhaps, but long dead to his adoring fans. Another retired zombie - much like the masses of new ad characters populating commercials and films.

Take Coca-Cola "Happiness Factory". As visually compelling as it was, who remembers a single character from that spot? Factory indeed. Crowds of mass-produced critters scurrying about with sound and fury signify not much more than a trite brand message: that tremendous effort apparently goes into each bottle. Great. But try to take that concept further and what do you have? Nada. Who cares? Will any of our new characters ever hold a candle to Mr. Clean, the everywoman's secret, gay pirate housecleaner? Or the Doughboy, the button-cute ticklish ball of giggling uncooked bread? What about Tony the Tiger? Despite surviving the mindless athletic humanization of his once-great character design, will he be able to survive the passing of his distinctive voice actor Thurl Ravenscroft? There are certainly many hurdles between character perfection and immortality but for the moment, despite voice changes and continuation at the hands of dozens of artists, it appears Mickey Mouse still holds the mantle for longevity. Softer and squishier than the original wire rodent in Steamboat Willie, he still manages to press on while legions of challengers fail, vying for his crown.

These are the times that try the souls of noble characters. So what do we do with our armies of new character zombies continuously stillborn into existence? Is there any hope for these soulless wanderers as they continue to populate our entertainment with their cute, clichéd antics? Will the dark irony of reviving long-dead and long-forgotten characters like "The Marvelous Magical Burger King" into hilarious, creepy, silent death mascots help us carry on the true spirit of the timeless spokescharacter? Hey. He's the King. Ronald is a clown. It's a start.

As for the others? I say we kill 'em all. It's time to renew our commitment to story, sustainable purpose and long, healthy, prosperous lives.

Frank Falcone is CD and character shepherd at guru studio in Toronto.