Category Archives: animation

Celebrating 100 Years of Chuck Jones: Feed the Kitty (1952)

Posted on by under animated shorts, animation, brandie's faves, classic cartoons, hahas, kiddie faves

The 1950s were arguably the most prolific decade, artistically speaking, of animator/director Chuck Jones’ career. It was the decade that saw Jones take the stock Warner Bros. characters to new heights: he took Daffy Duck and made him an open antagonist to Bugs Bunny (and vice versa, at least in the uproarious Duck Amuck); he directed Bugs to the pinnacle of his success with a pair of duels with longtime foe Elmer Fudd, Rabbit of Seville and What’s Opera, Doc?; he presented the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote repeatedly matching wits in an endless series of painful, Acme-enabled gags. But one of the best Jones-helmed cartoons to come out of that decade featured two original characters–an ageless and deceptively simple cat-and-dog pair–that were not of the typical Warner milieu. They didn’t crack wise and trade insults, nor did they chase one another around a la the typical cat-dog dynamic. Instead, through beautifully expressive animation and an endearing storyline that stops just short of sentimentality, Marc Anthony and Pussyfoot, the stars of 1952′s Feed the Kitty, carved a place for themselves among the best of the best that the Golden Age of animation had to offer.

Feed the Kitty was the result of the longtime collaboration between Jones and screenwriter Michael Maltese. Maltese created the stories for some of the most memorable cartoons to emerge from the Warner Bros. studio, among them the aforementioned What’s Opera, Doc?, Duck Amuck, and Rabbit of Seville, as well as Duck Dodgers, Rabbit Seasoning, Rabbit Fire, From A to Z-Z-Z-Z, and many, many more. Maltese’s stories tend to share common elements of cheeky humor, biting dialogue, a “slapsticky” physicality, and a touch of sheer irreverence. And while, at first glance, something like Feed the Kitty, with its relatively simple premise, may seem somewhat pedestrian compared to those other cartoon masterpieces, there is an interesting, slightly subversive element at play here.

It’s found in the relationship between Marc Anthony and Pussyfoot (who was not named in the original cartoon). He’s a dog–a big dog; she’s a cat–a very tiny cat. Put them together, and it’s a dynamic filled with absurdities; after all, if “history” has taught us anything, it’s that cats and dogs just flat-out loathe one another (obviously, you people have never met MY cat, who thinks he IS a dog). Initially, the relationship between these two characters is a parental one, with Marc Anthony taking on a maternal-type role and essentially “adopting” the kitten as his own. He laughs indulgently and cannot bring himself to punish or chastise her (she’s just too cute for words, you know). He does everything he can to protect her; having been told not to bring “another thing” into the house, he hides the little kitten in increasingly creative and frantic ways. When the situation is finally revealed to his owner and he’s told he can keep his new friend, the joy is palpable–even when the dog realizes just how much responsibility he’s taken on (like any horrified, exhausted new parent).

But there’s another level to the relationship between these two that is far from parental. Marc Anthony is the prototypical tough guy bowled over by sheer cuteness, who willingly emasculates himself in the interests of his adorable little foundling. The relationship is not entirely “motherly” on his part; as Jones himself once reportedly said, the interaction between the dog and cat in this cartoon is like an encapsulated version of an entire male-female (human) relationship: the early infatuation, the “settling down” period, the little irritations and troubles that crop up, and the (hopefully) happy denouement. In other words, the dog falls in love with the kitten, and acts not only out of a “motherly” instinct, but a romantic one (shades of Daddy Long Legs …?). And what’s more subversive than inter-species love, I ask you?

Like One Froggy Evening, which would debut three years later, Feed the Kitty largely relies on pantomime to tell the story. There is a speaking character (Marc Anthony’s owner), but this cartoon works much like some of the MGM Tom and Jerry shorts, in that the human characters are the only ones who speak. The stars of the cartoon are, with the exception of occasional purrs, groans, and dismayed noises, virtually silent, conveying everything we need to know through facial expression and movement. This short shows just how far animation had come in two short decades, ever since Disney animators first revealed the potential for animated expression with the character Pluto’s battle with some flypaper in 1934 (for more details about that, see our detailed post on Pluto from earlier this year).

The most expressive moments belong to Marc Anthony. His facial expressions are over-exaggerated; his movements unrestrained by logic or reason. He walks on his hind legs, dancing across the floor waving the kitten as a powder puff to distract his owner. He nails the wide-eyed innocent look. When he thinks Pussyfoot is being baked into cookies, he peers through the window and, in a series of pantomimes worthy of a silent-film comedian, rolls his eyes skyward and slides into a dead faint, not once, but three times. When he believes the kitten has been placed in the oven, he rolls onto his back, grabs his hind legs, and rocks back and forth, howling in a display of pure, unadulterated grief.

All of this results in the absolutely brilliant moment when his owner hands Marc Anthony a kitten-shaped cookie and, tears still welling in his bloodshot eyes, he gently places the cookie on his back and walks away. It’s utterly ridiculous and hilarious all at the same time–a difficult balance to maintain, to the say the least, but it works beautifully here. Because we know Pussyfoot is fine, we can laugh at the otherwise disturbing implications behind this scene. This brief moment of black humor is a perfect example of how sophisticated Jones’ cartoons really were under the surface.

Marc Anthony and Pussyfoot only appeared in five cartoons together, and are not well-remembered today (although Pussyfoot has had a resurgence as a marketing tool in recent years). But there’s no denying that Feed the Kitty is an influential piece of short animation. It’s been recognized as such by Jones’ peers in the animation field: this cartoon was one of ten Jones shorts voted onto the list of the fifty greatest cartoons (it placed thirty-sixth). And if you need further proof of its influence, just check out the hilarious homage to Feed the Kitty in the 2001 Pixar film Monsters, Inc., in which the character Sulley believes his little human friend, Boo, has been processed in the garbage compactor. Sulley’s facial expressions (especially the trembling lips) and theatrical fainting fits perfectly mirror Marc Anthony’s horror at Pussyfoot’s “demise by cookie” in the earlier cartoon. If anything, this moment is a fitting tribute to a cartoon that shares the movie’s theme of an unconventional and ultimately fulfilling relationship.

After all (to borrow a phrase I’ve borrowed before): if a dog and a kitten can find love in this crazy, mixed-up world, there’s just that much hope for the rest of us, right?

 

*Want to enter our contest to win two Looney Tunes compilations on DVD? Leave a comment on this post to be automatically entered into the drawing at the end of the week!*

Hello! ma baby, hello! my honey …

Posted on by under animated shorts, animation, announcements, blogathon, brandie's faves, classic cartoons, contributed post, hahas, kiddie faves, pioneers of animation

The ongoing Comedy Countdown at Wonders in the Dark is in full swing, and my second contribution to the event is now up on the site!

By sheer coincidence, number 69 on the countdown is the 1955 animated short One Froggy Evening, directed by none other than the subject of our week-long animation celebration, Chuck Jones!

Head on over to Wonders in the Dark to check out my thoughts on this classic cartoon! The comments section over there can get quite animated (see what I did there?), so please feel free to add your two cents to the conversation!

*Want to enter our drawing for two Looney Tunes compilations on DVD? Leave a comment on this post!*

Chuck Jones: An Animated Life

Posted on by under animated shorts, animation, classic cartoons, pioneers of animation

It’s been said that artists, like all creative people, draw from what they know in creating their artistic visions. This is particularly true for animator Charles “Chuck” M. Jones, who parlayed his experiences growing up with a quixotic father and an indulgent, supportive mother into a career that is virtually unparalleled for its influence and noteworthy output.

Like many animators who emerged during the “Golden Age” of Hollywood animation, Jones was influenced by the work of pioneering cartoonist Winsor McCay. When McCay’s groundbreaking effort Gertie the Dinosaur premiered, Jones was two years old, soon to move from Washington to Los Angeles with his family as his father sought better business opportunities. As recounted in the documentary Chuck Jones: Memories of Childhood (2009), Jones’ father founded–and lost–several businesses during Jones’ childhood, and with each closure, the Jones children were given massive amounts of company letterhead and pencils to use as they pleased. The children drew hundreds upon thousands of pictures over the years, an exercise that greatly prepared Jones for his later career. In the documentary, Jones also gives much credit for his creative development to his mother, a creative woman in her own right whom he says “would never criticize a drawing” and was endlessly encouraging of his abilities.

Jones eventually attended and graduated from Chouinard Art Institute–a school that also saw such notable students as Mary Blair, Ollie Johnston, Bill Melendez, and Hollywood costume designer Edith Head (among many, many others) pass through its doors over the years. His ascent through the ranks of the animation elite started slowly, as he worked his way up from the bottom, one job at a time. After a brief stint as a commercial artist, Jones’ first “real” animation job, in 1931, was as a cel washer for recent Disney escapee Ub Iwerks, and he soon became the assistant animator for Grim Natwick (best known as the creator of Betty Boop for the Fleischer studio).

In 1933, Jones moved on to Leon Schlesinger Productions, which produced cartoons under the Warner Bros. banner. It was the most important step he would take toward cementing his status as an animation pioneer in his own right. In 1935, a brash new arrival to the studio, Frederick “Tex” Avery, convinced Schlesinger to give him a shot as a director. Avery did not have all that much experience, and he was a bit of a renegade, but Schlesinger believed that this was the man who would finally help his studio compete with the big boys (i.e. Disney). He “gave” Avery some animators–Jones, Bob Clampett, Virgil Ross, and Sid Sutherland–and assigned the group to a small, bug-infested building on the Warner Bros. backlot, which the crew affectionately nicknamed “Termite Terrace.”

The Termite Terrace crew in 1935 (from left): Ross, Sutherland, Avery, Jones, Clampett.

Soon, this small band of eager young animators began producing a popular series of shorts for the Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies imprints, and in the process, redefined the rules of animation. Avery did not ascribe to the belief that animation should strictly reflect reality; instead, he believed in the zany promises of freedom that animation offered. Though Jones would never fully give himself over to the anarchy that reigned in much of Avery’s work–Jones was a proponent of believability with his animation, if not strict “realism”–he was nonetheless greatly influenced by Avery’s insistence upon the limitless possibilities allowed by the form. As Hugh Kenner explains in Chuck Jones: A Flurry of Drawings (1994): ”What Tex Avery did establish–though for Chuck Jones the lesson took time to stick–was simply the autonomy of the Director’s created world. The world of the transcendent Jones cartoons–think One Froggy Evening or What’s Opera, Doc?–has no firm connections with any world outside itself … It doesn’t seem too much to say that Tex Avery’s presence … underlaid the great period when Warner cartoons … paced the cartoon industry, and also fostered Chuck Jones. Jones needed Avery’s example.”

It’s true that Jones’ best work took time to develop. His cartoons throughout the remainder of the 1930s and the early 40s are not particularly memorable, and not particularly funny. What could be called the Chuck Jones “ethos”–a mixture of energetic action, brilliant animation, and unexpected humor–first emerged in 1942′s The Dover Boys at Pimento University, a rowdy, satirical take on the popular Rover Boys series of children’s books. The unique animation style of this short–which is so vastly different from the typical Warner Bros. output that it reportedly almost got Jones fired–would later influence the artists behind the heavily stylized UPA cartoons (among them Mr. Magoo and Gerald McBoing-Boing) produced in the 1950s and beyond.

The 1940s brought an important collaboration for Jones, when he teamed up with children’s author Dr. Seuss for a series of animated cartoons featuring a character named Private Snafu (the character itself was dreamed up by Hollywood director Frank Capra). These cartoons were created exclusively for the United States Army, which had quickly discovered that straightforward, live-action educational films were not very adept at holding the soldiers’ attention. The Private Snafu shorts were thereby devised as a way to engage soldiers and humorously educate them about the rules and regulations of service. The partnership between Seuss and Jones would be a prolific one; Jones eventually produced and directed the perennial holiday special How the Grinch Stole Christmas, based on Seuss’ popular book, in 1966.

By the end of the 1940s, Jones had found his footing as an animator and director. Starting with 1948′s Scaredy Cat, featuring Sylvester and Porky, Jones produced an almost unbroken string of hit cartoons, featuring some of the most beloved shorts ever created. His 1949 Pepe Le Pew feature For Scent-imental Reasons was Jones’ first ‘toon to win the Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film. That same year, he introduced a newer take on the Daffy Duck character in The Scarlet Pumpernickel; Jones’ Daffy was less loopy and zany, and more fame-hungry, jealous, strident, and insistent, eventually forming a rivalry with the perpetually-popular Bugs Bunny that saw a hilarious trio of hunting-themed cartoons opposite Elmer Fudd in the 1950s (Rabbit Fire, Rabbit Seasoning, and Duck! Rabbit, Duck!).

1949 also saw the debut of one of animation’s most enduring cartoon pairings: that of the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote, in Fast and Furry-ous. The cartoon also featured the debut of one of the most legendary cartoon tropes–the Acme Corporation, which provides all of the gadgets that never seem to work quite right for the constantly-frustrated coyote. In Memories of Childhood, Jones explains that he named the infamous “Acme” company somewhat ironically after a childhood habit: “Whenever we played a game or we had a grocery store or something, we called it the ‘Acme Corporation.’ Why? Because, in the Yellow Pages, if you looked, say, under ‘drug stores,’ you’d find the first one would be Acme Drugs. Why? Because A-C was about as high as you could go. It means the best, the superlative.” In creating the dynamic between the carnivorous coyote and his would-be prey, Jones went so far as to craft a series of inviolate rules to maintain consistency with the characters–a list that included such tenets as preventing the Road Runner from actively harming the coyote and maintaining the setting of the Southwestern deserts.

The 1950s were arguably the most successful decade of Jones’ career, as he directed almost two dozen cartoons during that period. Eight of these cartoons would eventually be voted to the 50 Greatest Cartoons list in 1994; four of them–What’s Opera, Doc; Duck Amuck; Duck Dodgers in the 24 1/2 Century; and One Froggy Evening–appear in the top five of that list. Jones is the most-represented animator on the list–with ten total entries, his work comprises a full TWENTY PERCENT of what is considered the “best” animation of all time. No other artist comes close.

Jones was undoubtedly the biggest asset to the Warner Bros. animation empire, and he was locked into an exclusive contract with the studio. But in the early 1960s, Jones collaborated with animators from UPA to produce the feature Gay Purr-ee, which he co-wrote with his wife, Dorothy. Ironically, Warner Bros. won the distribution rights for the film; when Jones’ role in its production was discovered, his now-violated contract with the studio was terminated in 1962. The Warner Bros. animation department was shut down the following year.

Jones subsequently formed his own animation studio, Sib Tower 12 Productions, and rehired his old unit from Warner Bros. (which has been disbanded after Jones was fired). The studio was contracted to create new cartoons for the Tom and Jerry series for MGM; two years later, Jones’ studio was purchased outright by MGM and renamed MGM Animation/Visual Arts. Jones produced nearly three dozen Tom and Jerry shorts throughout the 1960s, and also created the Oscar-winning short The Dot and the Line: A Romance in Lower Mathematics in 1965 as well as MGM’s final animated short, 1967′s The Bear That Wasn’t, and the studio’s final animated feature, the 1970 adaptation of Norton Juster’s classic children’s book The Phantom Tollbooth (which mixed animation with live-action). The MGM animation studio was closed soon after that film’s release.

Again, Jones went the independent studio route; he formed his own company, Chuck Jones Productions, and continued to produce cartoons for television and film, including the 1979 compilation film The Bugs Bunny/Road Runner Movie, a couple of Raggedy Ann and Andy specials, and several animated adaptations of Rudyard Kipling’s work, including a memorable version of Rikki-Tikki-Tavi narrated by legendary actor Orson Welles. He even delved into comic strip work, creating and maintaining the comic Crawford for two years in the 70s.

Jones was still animating and directing up until his death in 2002; his final project was the self-titled The Chuck Jones Show (2001-2002) for Cartoon Network. He never seemed to tire of creating; quite simply, he loved his job. In Chuck Jones: Conversations, author Maureen Furniss perhaps puts it best: “A dominant narrative heard in … interviews [with Jones] is that, lacking sufficient pay or even a boss that recognized his value as an artist, self-fulfillment and his love of drawing kept him at work. This scenario is a familiar story of the ‘American way’ that only strengthens our admiration for Jones as a cultural icon.”

And an icon he remains: Jones is, without a doubt, the most celebrated animator of all time, outshining even the master of self-promotion, Walt Disney himself (who, let’s face it, wasn’t exactly known for his personal prowess with pen and ink). His influence is virtually unmatched, his talent unparalleled as both a creator and a director. Jones was the ultimate cultural ambassador for animation, promoting the work of talented, young animators and continually educating people about the importance of animation as not only a field of entertainment, but an art form. Over the years, his work was nominated for eight Oscars (three of his cartoons won the award, and he personally won one–for producing The Dot and the Line–as well as an Honorary Award in 1996); he also won the prestigious Winsor McCay Award for lifetime achievement in the animation field in 1974 (along with former boss Avery, fellow Warner Bros. stalwart Friz Freleng, and Disney animator Art Babbitt). All things considered, though, the prizes didn’t matter to Jones; in Memories of Childhood, he even jokes that all it means is that “during that year, you were considered by your peers to be the best of that particular year. But it may be a very bad year. You still accept it!” Still, he adds, though he was “glad” to receive recognition, “The road is better than the end.”

Chuck Jones’ road was one any person would love to travel, and through his cartoons, we get a little glimpse of what that journey must have been like for him. When Jones died ten years ago, he left behind a legacy of laughter and beauty, inventiveness and inspiration, that continues to touch us and, most importantly, to move us to gales of chuckles. And it will always be this way, because thankfully, there will never be a day when a Chuck Jones cartoon is anything less than thoroughly enjoyable.

 

*Want to enter our drawing for two Looney Tunes collections on DVD? Don’t forget to leave a comment on this post!*

“Looney” happenings this week …

Posted on by under animated shorts, animation, announcements, classic cartoons, pioneers of animation

Friday, September 21st marks the 100th birthday of animation pioneer Chuck Jones, and in honor of this memorable natal day, True Classics is dedicating the next week’s worth of posts to the life and career of this cartoon genius.

Several events marking the occasion have been scheduled in California for the upcoming week, but seeing as how we’re clear across the country, we decided to stage our own little celebration of the man here in our humble corner of the blogosphere. So, starting tomorrow, we will delve into Jones’ oeuvre, highlighting some of the most well-known and beloved products of his time at Warner Bros., as well as other career milestones. It’s going to be a lot of fun to revisit these ‘toons, and we hope you’ll join us throughout the week and share memories of your favorite Chuck Jones productions!

But enough about all that … who wants to win a PRIZE???

This week, one lucky reader will win the Looney Tunes Spotlight Collection, Volumes 1 and 2, on DVD! Together, these compilations feature 58 of the best and most entertaining shorts to come out of animation’s Golden Age, starring such popular characters as Bugs, Daffy, Porky, Pepe Le Pew, Sylvester and Tweety, and many more! The sets include a number of Chuck Jones-helmed cartoons–including what many consider the best animated short ever produced, 1957′s What’s Opera, Doc?–among many more memorable classics. These discs are a great way to start or supplement your personal animation library (and I can tell you, my sets get broken out for frequent viewings around here!).

All you have to do to be entered into the drawing for these DVDs is to leave a comment on any of the Chuck Jones pieces that will be posted here at True Classics between tomorrow (Monday, September 17th) and Saturday (September 22nd). And yes, you can increase your odds to win by commenting on multiple entries. The winner will be notified on Sunday, September 23rd, and will have forty-eight hours to respond before another winner is drawn. Note: this contest is for residents of the United States and Canada only (apologies, international readers!).

For now … that’s all, folks!

Animated Naughty Bits, or: This Ain’t Your Kids’ Cartoon

Posted on by under animated shorts, animation, pioneers of animation, rated xxx, saturday morning cartoons

Just a warning: this post is brought to you by the letter “X” and his two friends who are–funnily enough–also named “X.”

(This is my roundabout way of telling you that there may be what we will politely term “delicate content” in this post, and if you are easily offended by pornography, you may want to skip this particular entry. In deference to those who might take offense, the rest of this post can be found behind the cut.)

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Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

Posted on by under animated shorts, animation, classic cartoons, classic disney, saturday morning cartoons

Mary Pickford (as “Alice”) and Mickey Mouse

 

As recounted in Stefan Kanfer’s fantastic history of animation, Serious Business (1997), early in 1933, Walt Disney gave a personal tour of the Disney animation studio to movie star Mary Pickford. Disney was considering making a live-action version of Alice in Wonderland with Pickford in the title role, and in fact shot some test footage of the actress in costume in Technicolor (this footage is now considered to be lost, though a couple of stills remain).

A big fan of Pickford’s, Walt sought to impress her with something new, so in the middle of the tour, he prevailed upon composer Frank Churchill to play the “pig thing” for Mary. Churchill obligingly sat down at the piano and launched into a rendition of his newest song, which he had written for the studio’s in-production adaptation of the classic fairy tale about three little pigs–a production that Walt had been considering shutting down before completion. Accompanied by story department head Ted Sears and voice actor Pinto Colvig (who would later stumble into immortality voicing Goofy), Churchill sang “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” and, at the end, all of the men waited anxiously for Pickford’s reaction.

“If you don’t make this cartoon about the pigs, I’ll never speak to you again,” she replied.

That was all it took–production resumed in earnest, and the cartoon was released in May at Radio City Music Hall in New York.

 

Three Little Pigs is a relatively simple fable about the importance of hard work in keeping the “big bad wolf” away from your door. Fifer Pig and Fiddler Pig would rather build their houses hastily so they can continue to play their instruments (the flute and the fiddle, respectively) all day long. But the Big Bad Wolf has other plans–he blows down Fifer’s straw house, and does the same to Fiddler’s house of sticks. The two seek refuge in the solid brick home of their brother, Practical Pig, whom they had earlier made fun of for spending his day building the house, and the Wolf, unable to blow down the sturdy structure, is ultimately stymied in his attempt to have pork chops for dinner.

Produced in glorious three-strip Technicolor (Disney had a temporary monopoly on the process, which prevented other animation studios from using the full potential of color in their own cartoons), the film was released under the banner of Disney’s Silly Symphony series. Indeed, the success of the film owes a great deal to its musical score; Three Little Pigs became a smash hit in large part due to Churchill’s theme song. “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?”–with some encouragement from United States President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who called the cartoon his “favorite” film–became the unofficial anthem of the Great Depression, a way for people to thumb their noses at the dire state of the economy. When the sheet music for the song was produced, “Big Bad Wolf” became the top-selling song of the year. And as the United States entered World War II in the next decade, “Big Bad Wolf” found new life as a musical “screw you” to Nazi Germany.

Notice the photograph of dear old dad, in his (presumably) final form as a string of sausage links.

 

The importance of Three Little Pigs to the history of animation is in its characterization of the four figures in the cartoon. Though “personality animation” had its roots in Winsor McCay’s Gertie, who had taken her first bow almost two decades before, Pigs had four individual characters with different personalities, interacting together in a way that had yet to be seen in animated features. As legendary animator Chuck Jones later put it: ”Until [Pigs], animated films followed the form of the silent comedies. Small creature, good guy. Big creature, villain. Cute was enough to get you by. Personality animation–characters who may look alike, but who react and move very differently from each other–begins with this little movie.” Whether the Disney animators intended to break new ground or not, Pigs nonetheless set the standard for future cartoons, as strong storytelling and believable, engaging characters became ever more vital to the genre’s success. Beyond the animation of the characters, Pigs also demonstrates the importance of voice casting in bringing the characters to life. Colvig voices Practical Pig as sturdy and no-nonsense, like his beloved brick house, while Practical’s more fanciful brothers are given higher-pitched voices by Mary Moder and Dorothy Compton. And Billy Bletcher’s gruff, booming baritone (used so effectively in crafting the character of Mickey’s nemesis, Pete) is a perfect fit for the blustering Wolf.

“Acceptable” stereotyping … for 1933

 

Popular as it was (and still is), Pigs is not without its controversy, which has led to latter-day censorship of one particularly insensitive sequence. Walt Disney’s notoriously ingrained antisemitism (yes, the man was antisemitic, whether you want to believe it or not–there are multiple instances of his having made horrible comments about the “Jew studios” in Hollywood over the years) was reflected in a scene in the original cartoon in which the Wolf disguises himself as a stereotypical Jewish peddler, complete with a long beard, bulbous nose, and exaggerated Yiddish accent. The film has undergone several edits over the years to alter this: initially, it was reanimated to portray the Wolf as a Fuller Brush salesman (though the original vocals nonsensically remained), and later the soundtrack was re-dubbed to remove the accent altogether.

The phenomenal success of Three Little Pigs ultimately surprised everyone, especially Walt Disney himself. In the wake of the pigs’ popularity, Disney commissioned three sequels: The Big Bad Wolf (1934), Three Little Wolves (1936), and The Practical Pig (1939). A fourth, unofficial sequel, The Thrifty Pig, was produced in 1941 by the National Film Board of Canada as propaganda for the war effort–it is little more than a shortened re-figuring of the original intended to encourage the purchase of war bonds. None of the sequels matched Three Little Pigs in popularity, and Walt finally retired the trio of oinkers, philosophically concluding, “You can’t top pigs with pigs.” Still, the original remains one of the most well-regarded cartoon shorts of all time: it won the Academy Award for Best Short Subject in 1934 and placed at #11 on the storied list of the 50 Greatest Cartoons. Five years ago, the National Film Registry added Pigs to its preservation roster. Even today, the Pigs and the Wolf haven’t lost their luster: they remain popular Disney characters, popping up around the theme parks and in various films and television shows produced by the company.

The Silent-Puff Girls

Posted on by under animation, brandie's faves, saturday morning cartoons, silence = golden

One of the most entertaining cartoons to come out of the 1990s features a trio of sweet little girls named Blossom, Bubbles, and Buttercup … and despite their cutesy names, they just happen to be some seriously ass-whoopin’ superheroes. Those girls–originally called The Whoopass Girls before being renamed as the more family-friendly Powerpuff Girls–were created by Craig McCracken, a familiar presence behind-the-scenes at Cartoon Network in the 90s as an animator for shows like 2 Stupid Dogs and Dexter’s Laboratory. The show was produced by Cartoon Network (after a brief stint under the Hanna-Barbera banner) and was a monster hit almost immediately out of the gate, spanning seven years, seventy-eight episodes, and a 2002 feature film. The cartoon is much in the same vein as the 90s Dreamworks cartoon Animaniacs in that its humor appeals not only to its target “kid” audience, but also to adults (witness, for instance, the third-season episode “Meet the Beat-Alls,” which is a hilarious tribute to The Beatles featuring dozens of puns centered around Beatles’ song titles–and even a simian character based on Yoko Ono).

PPG has long been a favorite of mine (seriously–my 21st birthday cake was Powerpuff-themed), and because Boomerang shows two episodes back-to-back every evening, I get to catch up on some of the best episodes every now and again. And last night featured one of my very favorites … so what better time than now to shine the spotlight on the girls for our Saturday Morning Cartoons series?

The episode is called “Silent Treatment,” and the bulk of this cartoon is a fond parody of silent films. While the other children in the city of Townsville attend the latest Hollywood movie at the giganto multiplex, the girls are forced to see a silent picture at a rundown theater across the street with Professor Utonium (their guardian/creator), who wants to teach them about the origins of film. The Professor leaves for a moment, and the girls loudly poke fun at the film, complaining about the lack of color and sound, and protesting the speed of the title cards. The film’s villain and star, Max Von Nitrate (of course), can hear their “commentary” and grows increasingly frustrated. He reveals that he has kidnapped the Professor and intends to steal his melodious voice for his own! The girls must enter the movie and get their Professor back before he finds himself (dun dun DUN) … VOICELESS!

Naturally, inserting the superheroes into the film leads to all sorts of complications–and some delightful cameos from figures representing silent movie stalwarts such as Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd (dangling from a clock a la the great 1923 comedy Safety Last!), and some Keystone-esque coppers. The “silent film” sections of the cartoon are beautifully done–the zany spirit of early comedy shorts is captured pretty well, and the scratches and dings added to the black-and-white film are a nice touch. All in all, “Silent Treatment” really is a delightful short, one that classic movie fans will likely find particularly appealing.

Can the girls save the day and escape the silent film? Will they ever learn to appreciate old movies? To find out, you’ll just have to watch the cartoon for yourself!

Winsor McCay’s animated propaganda: The Sinking of the Lusitania

Posted on by under animation, pioneers of animation, propaganda, saturday morning cartoons

(This post was originally published on the sadly now-defunct site The Cinementals.)

After the phenomenal success of Gertie the Dinosaur (1914), cartoonist Winsor McCay realized that he had found his passion in animation, and he was eager to create even more films. But his animated output was limited at the demand of his employer, publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst. A man known more for his love of the all-American dollar more so than any real respect for artistry, Hearst felt that McCay’s “childish” animated work detracted from the more important business of crafting political cartoons for his newspaper, the New York American.

For McCay, his dealings with the boss left a bitter taste. McCay had left his previous paper, the New York Herald, in a bid for more creative and personal freedom, and instead had become subject to the even stronger iron fist of Hearst Publishing. He reluctantly turned his focus back to drawing editorial cartoons, but his heart was not in the work. And just to twist the knife a bit further, Hearst exerted his influence to try to prevent theater owners from booking McCay’s showings of his animated films like Gertie andHow a Mosquito Operates (1912) in order to keep his prized artist focused on producing print cartoons.

It took a tragedy to bring McCay’s two creative worlds together once again. On May 7, 1915, the British ocean liner RMS Lusitania was torpedoed by a German U-boat and sank into the waters off the southern coast of Ireland. The ship went down quickly–within eighteen minutes–and 1,198 people were killed. The event set off a firestorm of rage around the world and prompted immediate condemnation from the British and from Americans (128 of the dead passengers were US citizens). The British assumed that the sinking would incite the United States to declare war on Germany and enter the fray (World War I itself had been going on for nine months by this point); public opinion in America, however, did not immediately support the idea of joining the conflict.

In the aftermath of the sinking, the Lusitania became a symbol of the war effort–a polarizing rallying cry along the lines of “Remember the Maine!” It was an example of the horrors Germany had inflicted and could still cast upon the world, and Lusitania-related propaganda abounded on both sides, painting the sinking as either a triumph or a travestry. And McCay put in his two cents in 1916, when he began work on another animated film–his first since the release of Gertie.

The Sinking of the Lusitania recreates the final voyage of the doomed vessel in a revolutionary hybrid form of animation and documentary, and as one might imagine, it was a painstaking process. McCay hired an assistant, an artist named John Fitzsimmons, to help him with the daunting task of producing 25,000 drawings for the film. It was McCay’s first experience using “cel” animation, a method that had only been patented the year before. It involved sketching movement on transparent sheets of celluloid (which was highly flammable), which were then laid on top of immovable background scenes, making the process easier–if no less time-consuming.

The film opens with live-action scenes detailing the making of the film, which highlight the research that McCay undertook to recreate the ship’s destruction as faithfully as possible (though in recent years, the claim that a second torpedo struck the boat has been called into debate). This quickly segues into the animated sequence of events, interspersed with title cards explaining the action onscreen. The cards use deliberately inflammatory language, calling the actions of the German U-boat “cowardly.” Photographs of some of the more notable victims of the sinking such as philosopher Elbert Hubbard, playwright Charles Klein, and millionaire Alfred G. Vanderbilt are inserted in between shots of the damaged ship, billowing smoke and sinking slowly into the water. As the ship slides backward into the ocean, people are showing jumping from the decks, tumbling into the water below.

The final moments–in which the ship disappears from view, leaving dozens of people helplessly bobbing up and down in the water–effectively demonstrate the terror of the sinking. Its concluding scene, a brief shot of a young mother and her baby sinking helplessly beneath the waves, is a particularly haunting image with which to leave the audience. It is an emotional moment, and combined with the accompanying title card spewing outrage at the “Hun” for causing the disaster, it underscores the heartrending horrors of war. It’s remarkable that, in just the final twenty seconds of this film, McCay can elicit such feelings of righteous fury in the viewer. Ultimately, while The Sinking of the Lusitania may be merely an exercise in using propaganda to manipulate and enhance anti-war sentiment, it is a damn successful one. Even now, almost one hundred years later, watching this film brings a chill and an edge of anger at the indefensible actions of wartime Germany.

The short was finally completed and released in 1918–more than a year after the United States entered the war. But its impact was not lessened by its late arrival in theaters; in fact, it helped keep anti-German sentiment strong on the home front as the war entered its final months. Interestingly enough, McCay’s cinematic vilifying of the ship’s sinking and his virtual call to arms against Germany were in almost direct opposition to the anti-war (and sometimes pro-German) viewpoints of his boss; at one point in 1915, Hearst even signed his name to an editorial that essentially stated that Germany was well within its rights to engage in submarine warfare and claimed that the sinking of the Lusitania was thereby justified.

In 1924, McCay declined renewing his contract with Hearst and returned to the Herald, where he restarted his weekly Little Nemo comic, but the new incarnation of the strip only lasted for a couple of years. He also continued to dabble in producing short animated films, but the results never truly matched the joyful beauty and power of his earlier work. Though he was revered by a new generation of animators who were inspired by his work, McCay became embittered by the growing commercialization of animated cartoons, feeling as though the art form he had long championed was quickly becoming just another way to make money. Still, though there is certainly some element of truth to McCay’s fears about the evils of commercialization, modern animation studios like Disney, Pixar, and Dreamworks show that it is possible to produce lyrical, moving, and beautiful animated art, thus keeping the spirit of McCay’s hopes for the medium alive and thriving. His name may not be well-remembered today, but his legacy is undeniable. McCay’s work showed the world that animation could be a viable form of entertainment–that not only could it make us smile and laugh, but it could also make us think, and even inspire us to action. He remains, in the truest sense, the very definition of a pioneer.