Swat the Dog

Foghorn Leghorn swats the barnyard dog in “All Fowled Up” (released 1955). These are consecutive drawings; the second, fourth, fifth and sixth drawings make up a cycle afterward.



Bob McKimson directed this with two B-list animators from the Chuck Jones unit, Dick Thompson and Keith Darling, joining Phil De Lara on this short, which was made just before the studio shut down for about six months beginning June 15, 1953.

Lapaki Lowdown

I first saw “Magical Maestro” in a theatre. It’s even better there than on TV or a computer screen because of visual perspective is different.

A great example of that is the scene where Spike begins a Hawaiian war dance and is suddenly joined by the magician’s two rabbits. The rabbits enter the cartoon from the sides of the frame. On a big screen, it looks like they’re coming out of nowhere. It’s a real surprise, which makes it even funnier. The audience I was with—at least those who weren’t gabbing to themselves in the seats behind me—roared with laughter.

It takes the rabbits a quarter of a second (six frames) to jump in and dance. Here are the drawings.



Mike Lah, Grant Simmons and Walt Clinton are the animators in one of my favourite Tex Avery cartoons.

Bartholomew Puppetoon

“The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins” (1943) brought George Pal an Oscar nomination (it lost to MGM’s “Yankee Doodle Mouse”) and lots of praise. In 1946, the Film Daily was still touting it as the best of the Puppetoons. It still has a great deal of charm

The short was based on the 1938 short story by Dr. Seuss. The characters and sets don’t have a Seussian look but they’re nonetheless extremely attractive (in the book, Bartholomew kept removing the same style hat; in Pal’s version, each hat is different). Unfortunately, Pal and Seuss were the only people to get credit on the film so who was responsible for their design and for the layout of the picture isn’t known. But here are some of the sets, a few of which have some of the stop-motion characters blocking a full view.



Billy Bletcher is the king and the executioner and Robert C. Bruce is the narrator. As for Bartholomew, it might be Dix Davis, one of the top juvenile radio actors on the West Coast at the time.

Radio is Boresome, Florid and Inane

Some time ago, I spotted several references to a column by Robert Ruark during the Golden Days of Radio, quoting a line that completely dismissed most programming as a waste of anyone’s time. None republished the full column or even gave a date of when it was printed.

I’ve managed to find it and pass it on without comment. It appeared in newspapers beginning September 23, 1946.

Radio Only Business In Which Riches Come To Its Detractors
By ROBERT C. RUARK
NEW YORK.—-There must be something deeply and seriously wrong with radio—something which does not afflict the daily press nor the magazine business nor even the movies. And lord knows the movies take a kicking from everybody.
I write this sorrowfully, because there are some facets of this weird, unseen business which are at least as beneficial as a bus trip to Philadelphia. Charlie McCarthy is less painful than tropical yaws and if you have broken your watch, there is a reason a reasonable assurance that radio will tell you what time on the hour, the half hour, and the quarter hour. Mary Margaret McBride, you might say, is preferable to a hole in the head.
What puzzles me is that much of the best entertainment in radio is built around a sarcastic treatment of the things radio holds most dear—and certainly the things from which the industry derives its wealth. And the better radio columnists have built their prestige by the steady application of the hammer. Knock, knock, who’s there?
Vipers in Bosom

These vipers in the bosom of the audible hucksters almost daily bite their victim. Then sneer at a lot of it, condemn some of it, laugh at the rest. When they are occasionally in the mood for a tiny piece of praise, they reveal an expression of startled surprise, like a man looking at an income tax refund.
For my money, the most listenable programs on the air are Fred Allen’s and a recent thing confected by a wild and ribald wit named Henry Morgan. A practicing iconoclast, Mr. Morgan devastates sponsors, soap operas, news commentators, political pundits, give away refrigerator-and-mink-coat shows, ponderous public service shows, mood music—he tears them to bits and leaves them naked and bleeding. So, less cruelly, does Allen, a man with a sharp eye for the unprotected vitals in this harum-scarum racket of peddling corn flakes and liver pills to involuntary victims.
Boon to Comedians
Never, in the history of humorous entertainment, has such a great boon to the comedian come about. The serious, every-day mechanics of radio, from the rhymed jingle to the awful importance of the Hooper rating, are funnier than the prattfall, more ludicrous than a blow on the skull with a bladder. Nearly everything in it is either corny, strident, boresome, florid, inane, repetitive, irritating, offensive, moronic, adolescent or nauseating—and, in the case of the transcribed commercial, generally a combination of all those faults.
We make mistakes, and many of them, in the newspaper business. The fevered attempt to package hurried news, overnight opinion, swift pictures, can never be less than a boobytrap for the careless and a dark pit fill of margin for error. We have a fondness for leg art and an overdeveloped sense of human interest when it pertains to stranded cats, forlorn dogs and rich people with marital ills.
Need for Fresh Air
Preachers don’t tolerate religion, lawyers rarely sneer at jurisprudence, and I know of no reporter, columnist or photographer who can make a rich living by sneering at his trade. We got a lot of freaks in our business, but the reformed saloon-keepers and actors-turned-essayists usually collapse after their first fund of reminiscence withers on their ghost’s typewriter. But even the freaks can't find enough kiddable material to fill their daily space with acid comments on the moron content of the press.
Walk up to the average man today and mention commercial, soap opera, or the average advertising plug, and he will make signs of acute nausea. Listen to the quiz shows and the cheap and sordid impositions on ignorance, like that Anthony program, and, you will feel a pressing need for fresh air.
Bad Habit
Stone chucking at other people’s panes is a fascinating pastime these days, and practically everything from religion to stamp collecting comes in for its share of censure. But somewhere, somehow, there is something grievously wrong with a business whose outstanding successes are most appealing when they are knocking their profession on the head.
The success of radio would evidently mean that either we are a race of artistic cretins with a fondness for the singing commercial, on that radio has become a habit, like biting your nails, which does not constitute an endorsement of its value in our daily lives.

Horton the Indian Elephant

Dr. Seuss was more than a children’s author who didn’t talk down to children. During World War Two, he was a political cartoonist for the New York-based newspaper PM.

Here’s one I came across from April 2, 1942 with a fairly familiar character.



If you’re unfamiliar with the incident depicted in the cartoon, check out this little summary.

Incidentally, PM has been scanned and put on line by the wonderful Tom Tryniski in Fulton, New York. Unfortunately, Tom’s tremendous, free collection of old newspapers isn’t searchable by individual paper (unless I’m too dense to figure it out). A general text search is easy enough, though. Click on HERE. It’s where many of the reprinted columns about old TV and radio (John Crosby columns being one of the exceptions) have been found as of late. Learn about Tom below. He’s a hero.

I'm Here to Help Ya, Son

Sureshot the exterminator shows up to help Porky Pig with the termite problem in “The Pest That Came to Dinner.”

The animation of the smiling Sureshot is lots of fun all through the cartoon. There are lots of multiples and brush strokes when he flings open Porky’s front door, grabs the phone next the supine pig’s and tells him “I’m here to help ya, son.” I suspect it’s all Don Williams’ work.



These drawings are consecutive. They’re each shot on two frames.



Multiple eyes.



These drawings are also consecutive on twos.



There are lots of great gestures, like Sureshot supporting his body in mid-air with the plunger, and reactions by Porky that you can really appreciate viewing this part of the cartoon frame-by-frame.

Bill Melendez, John Carey and Basil Davidovich get animation credits besides Williams in another fine cartoon from the Art Davis unit (though the final scene strikes me as superfluous).

Bubble Diggity Gum Ziggity

You wouldn’t think of having a beer with Perry Como, let alone a double scotch. Maybe a chocolate malted. He was the most easy-going, non-threatening man on television. His records were like a Sunday drive in the country, or feeding ducks in a pond in the local park while kids played on nearby swings. Relaxed, pleasant, innocuous. He was the nice guy down the street that might stop to help weed your lawn for a bit. Somehow, through it all, he never came across as hokey.

Perry Como would have been 102 today.

Perhaps instead of a malted, you might have had a soft drink with him. We know which one he preferred—for a fee, of course. This ad was one of a series in Sponsor magazine in 1946.



And here are a couple more ads, one featuring another laid-back singer. Both perhaps are a little infamous for reports of how they reared their children.