Category Archives: brandie's faves

Breathing life into drama: A Streetcar Named Desire

Posted on by under 5-star films, brandie's faves, drama, hays code, lit adaptations

Each September, the life and career of renowned playwright Tennessee Williams is celebrated in his birthplace, Columbus, Mississippi. As I’ve mentioned multiple times on this blog, Carrie, Nikki, and I are proud alumnae of Mississippi University for Women, which is located in Columbus and has an active hand in this event every year. In the wake of that annual celebration (and regrets that I couldn’t be there), Williams has been on my mind somewhat as of late, leading me to revisit some of my favorites from his body of work. For one reason or another, I’ve always felt a bit of a connection with many of Williams’ plays–Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, The Night of the Iguana, and The Glass Menagerie among them. But his 1947 masterpiece A Streetcar Named Desire, which I’ve discussed previously on this blog in the context of the 1951 film version’s challenges to the Production Code, is my favorite Williams play by far.

Streetcar is doubtlessly one of the best American plays ever produced–one of the best plays ever written, period. It is a searing, uncompromising, painfully honest examination of a group of broken, utterly fucked-up people. I mean, there’s really no better way to put it: these characters are less than whole, filled with weakness and depravity in almost equal measure. And yet, at the same time, they are intriguing, and their interactions completely engrossing, because the way in which Williams paints these characters is unerringly lively and vital–ripe for interpretation on stage and screen, as befitting the dramatic genre.

Drama, as a literary form, has appealed to writers practically since the dawn of written language. There is a reason that it has remained an unfailingly popular genre for centuries upon centuries, from the times of the ancient Greeks through the days of Shakespeare and Marlowe, from George Bernard Shaw to Eugene O’Neill to Henrik Ibsen and countless others. And it is summed up pretty succinctly by an African-American playwright, Amiri Baraka, whose work came to prominence in the midst of the Civil Rights Movement. In his 1984 memoir The Autobiography of LeRoi Jones, Baraka, in discussing the genesis of his controversial 1964 play Dutchman–in which a young white woman encounters a young black man on a train and engages him in a flirtatious, heated conversation, only to (spoiler alert!) viciously stab him to death in the end–explains his own initial attraction to the field of drama:

“I can see now that the dramatic form began to interest me because I wanted to go ‘beyond’ poetry. I wanted some kind of action literature, and the most pretentious of all literary forms is drama, because there one has to imitate life, to put characters upon a stage and pretend to actual life.”

In referring to drama as an “action literature,” Baraka makes a solid point about the nature of dramatic characters and storylines. When the words of playwrights are actually performed for an audience (whether that audience sees it live in a theater or projected onto a screen), those lines gain a power and a life that is sometimes inaccessible when merely reading them for oneself. And, I would argue, nowhere is this more evident than in Elia Kazan’s cinematic adaptation of Streetcar, starring Marlon Brando and Vivien Leigh. Brando, one of the most renowned devotees of the Method brand of acting, brings a raw, sexualized energy to the role of Stanley that is described, but not fully embodied, by the words in Williams’ play. Likewise, Leigh, a more classically-trained actress, lends the character of Blanche DuBois a subtle kind of dignity that is only hinted at in the play. Drama, by its very nature, allows readers to act out the lives of characters by placing them squarely in the character’s shoes and letting them vicariously—and temporarily—experience the action for themselves. By fleshing out these two fictional characters and presenting them on the screen, the filmed version of Williams’ play reveals the limitations of other forms of literature–those that are bound to the static page–by demonstrating the unparalleled power of fully-animated interpretation.

Characterization is highly important to the success of drama, particularly as a form of “action literature.” Dynamic characters are vital to move the plot of the play along, and when an equally dynamic actor is matched to an appropriate part, the performance only heightens our enjoyment and our understanding of the character’s actions and motivations. The antagonist of Streetcar, Stanley Kowalski, is a loathsome, cruel character in Williams’ play. But when the character is brought to life through the machinations of Brando, we begin to see new facets to the man. He is still loathsome—no mistake about that.  But certain elements of Brando’s portrayal of the character elicit new interpretations of Stanley’s behavior.

Stanley, Williams tells us, is a brute. His first action in the play, tossing a slab of meat to his adoring wife, Stella (Kim Hunter in the film), gives us the first hint of the primitive, Neanderthal-like nature of his physicality—the hunter has returned home to provide for his family. In fact, most of Stanley’s interactions throughout the play reflect this same primitive mindset: his questioning of Blanche’s story about the loss of the DuBois family home, Belle Reve; his drunken attack on Stella, culminating in a series of primal screams in the street; and, most telling of all, his almost nonchalant raping of his sister-in-law. That Stella endures his abuse says more about her reliance on him than any true remorse on Stanley’s part—for we see a definitive lack of remorse in the way in which he continues to bait and torment Blanche, finally sending her over the edge through his brutish attack. In the play, when he tells her, “We’ve had this date with each other from the beginning,” this adds an even more chilling, sinister twist to his machinations, as it becomes clear that Stanley has been planning his attack for weeks, lying in wait for the perfect opportunity.

When Brando slips into Stanley’s tight-fitting t-shirts, however, he adds an element of slyness and winking humor that is not fully evident within the text. Through Brando’s performance, we see the satisfaction he feels when Blanche fails to convince Stella to leave him. We experience the gleeful derision Stanley heaps upon Blanche, and the sheer joy he takes from reporting his findings about her past, including the affair with the young student: “They kicked her out of that high school before the spring term ended—and I hate to tell you the reason that step was taken! A seventeen-year-old boy—she’d gotten mixed up with.” There is an element of intelligence to this Stanley—he sees things in Blanche that are not evident to us, at least initially, and he knows how to manipulate a situation.

Furthermore, in actually seeing someone fill Stanley’s shoes, we are impressed anew by the sheer presence of the man. When he is in the same room with Stella and Blanche, he overshadows them easily, even when he is not speaking. Leigh underscores this in her performance, as many scenes find her cringing away, putting space between her oppressive brother-in-law and herself. When reading the play, however, these little elements are unclear, and Stanley is not as imposing on the page—his small actions have the effect of making the written character seem equally small in his pettiness.

The physicality of the character in the film is a necessary element to explain to contemporary audiences why the Kowalski marriage continues to thrive. True, Stella and Stanley share a strong sexual bond, and Stella herself tells Blanche that her husband’s brute strength tends to excite her more than frighten her: “Stanley’s always smashed things. Why, on our wedding night—soon as we came in here—he snatched off one of my slippers and rushed about the place smashing light bulbs with it … I was—sort of—thrilled by it.” Still, when Stanley pummels her after a long night of drinking, Stella leaves initially only to come back soon after, forgiving him without question. Such an action may seem impossible to fathom for some readers. Sexualizing Stanley by placing his lines in the mouth of a charismatic Brando, however, makes it clearer why Stella endures a relationship that is so unpredictably reliant on her husband’s moods. When Stanley, filled with remorse after beating the pregnant Stella, bellows her name from the street, collapsing at her feet–shirt torn, muscles bulging, and eyes brimming with torment–it’s such a powerful, erotically-charged moment that it’s easy to see why Stella wraps her arms around him and so readily brings him back to her bed.

The protagonist, Blanche, has come to her sister’s home in New Orleans to escape from the shame of her past. Her faded Southern belle act is convincing enough to fool Mitch (Karl Malden), at least for a while, and to convince her sister that all is well. But Stanley is no fool, and Blanche realizes she is up against a master. Leigh’s portrayal of Blanche illuminates the trapped quality of the character much more so than mere stage directions ever could. Her aversion to light is not only physical but mental; we see her withdrawal occurring by inches, with each expression of wide-eyed disbelief and almost childlike fear.

When the truth of her past comes to light for the audience, it is through Blanche’s interaction with a young newspaper boy with whom she flirts while waiting on a date with the much more age-appropriate Mitch. Leigh’s delivery of the line, “I want to kiss you just once, softly and sweetly on your mouth,” is almost innocent in its wistfulness, making it seem like nothing more than a foolhardy attempt for Blanche to grasp her youth once more. But the next line indicates that there is something much more disturbing at the heart of her flirtation: “Now run along, now, quickly! It would be nice to keep you, but I’ve got to be good–and keep my hands off children.” With this statement, our suspicions are aroused, a sense that is doubled in Leigh’s calculated portrayal, as the predator almost immediately gives way to the simpering Southern belle upon Mitch’s imminent arrival at the apartment.

Just as physicality is vital to the embodiment of Stanley on the screen, so, too, is it important in crafting the character of Blanche.  Although Leigh’s performance may at times elicit thoughts of another infamous Southern belle whom she portrayed on the big screen—the erstwhile Scarlett O’Hara of 1939’s Gone with the Wind—the world-weariness she brings to the role is a fitting interpretation of the character’s continued fall from grace. Her constant need to take baths—attempting to cleanse herself of her past sins—and the resistance she shows to being seen in the full light of day are mentioned in the play, but to actually watch Leigh attempt to dodge any source of potentially unflattering illumination and, very literally, hide from the light of truth, heightens the sense of fear and fragility that clings to Leigh’s portrayal of the character. Stanley approaches and Leigh’s Blanche visibly shrinks, as if trying to blend in with the furniture. Her overt femininity is a stark contrast to his oppressive masculinity, making the demonstration of the disparity between these characters’ physical presence much more viable on screen than in print.

Even though the end product was heavily censored, and some of the most unsavory scenes (such as the potentially graphic rape) were muted or otherwise completely excised from the film at the time of its release, A Streetcar Named Desire still embodies Baraka’s assertion that drama is an “action literature” that more closely imitates reality than any other literary form. Drama by definition reflects society’s values perhaps more so than any other type of literature because it is linked so closely to performance—to living, breathing life. In Kazan’s version of Streetcar, seeing Brando and Leigh spar on the screen underscores the importance of “action” in enhancing our understanding of some of the subtler themes of the play … which is just as it should be. When the lines of a play are performed for an audience, the viewers are subjected to an experience that closely mirrors their own, for drama, at its heart, is nothing less than an all-encompassing human experience.

Celebrating 100 Years of Chuck Jones: From A to Z-Z-Z-Z (1953)

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

Ralph Phillips is bored, bored, bored. While his schoolmates mindlessly chant their math lesson (“Two and two is four. Four and four is eight …”), Ralph stares dreamily out the classroom window, imagining himself as a bird, flipping and flying freely through the sky–until his reverie is rudely interrupted by his teacher. She, for some inexplicable reason, expects Ralph to pay attention to his lessons, but how can he concentrate when there’s a whole new world to be explored through his oh-so-vivid daydreams …?

From A to Z-Z-Z-Z was released in 1953, at the height of Chuck Jones’ career with Warner Bros., and introduces a brand-new character to the studio’s animated roster. Ralph Phillips is an amalgamation of practically every child–male or female–to suffer through an endless school day. More than that, he is a childish take on the Walter Mitty archetype: an inconsequential dreamer who escapes reality through his imagination. In many ways, Ralph’s adventures are reminiscent of the adventures of another imaginative, Mitty-esque Ralph–Ralphie Parker, the child at the center of the seminal holiday classic A Christmas Story (1983): both characters engage in daydreaming to escape their boredom in school; both imagine themselves as brave conquerors of that which troubles them; both of them are in danger of “shooting their eyes out” (one from a series of makeshift, though imaginary, weapons; one, of course, from the infamous Red Ryder BB Gun).

The animation is this cartoon is utterly fantastic, as Ralph moves from scenario to scenario in his imagination. He floats through the sky with an impish grin; his chalk outline does battle with the day’s math lesson; an array of colorful arrows fly at him as he races across the desert to deliver a letter for the “Pony Express”; he single-handedly fights a “saber-toothed tiger shark” and raises a sunken Navy sub back to the surface; he enters the “boxing ring” and takes down a man four times his size with nary a bead of sweat. The backgrounds of the imaginative vignettes are beautifully detailed and appropriately exotic for each new scenario, contrasting with the bland, institutional design of the classroom scenes. The underwater scenes are particularly incredible (and strangely familiar–in some ways, they remind me of the backgrounds of the Nickelodeon cartoon Spongebob Squarepants).

It’s also worth mentioning that the majority of the voice work in this cartoon was not done by Warner Bros. stalwart Mel Blanc: the teacher is voiced by Bea Benaderet (the original voice of Granny before June Foray took over in 1955), and Ralph is voiced by Dick Beals. This was Beals’ first role as a cartoon voice-over artist, and his knack for capturing children’s voices (due in large part to a glandular problem) turned into a lucrative career (he would later go on to voice other memorable characters, including Davey in the Davey and Goliath series in the 1960s). Blanc, for his part, voiced the incidental characters in the cartoon, making the noises for the numbers, the Indians (a part of the cartoon, incidentally, that is still sometimes censored in broadcast airings, due to its perceived insensitivity toward Native Americans as well as the violence involved), and Ralph’s “fellow” Navy men.

This cartoon was always one of my favorites as a child, if only for that scene in which a chalk-outlined Ralph attacks the daunting math problem on the blackboard–literally, it turns out, as the problem-solving turns into a physical jousting match with a very determined number “5.” It’s a gentle yet effective poke at the struggle some of us have with math (it was always my worst subject, anyway), and Ralph’s “victory” over his numerical foes is nothing less than satisfying to watch, especially since he uses letters to ultimately conquer them (writer Michael Maltese was obviously a fellow word nerd. Die, numbers, DIE!).

From A to Z-Z-Z-Z was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film; in fact, it was the first nomination for the Warner Bros. studio in four years, since the Chuck Jones-directed For Scent-imental Reasons won the prize in 1949 (still, it lost to the Walt Disney educational cartoon Toot, Whistle, Plunk, and Boom). Jones and Maltese brought Ralph back once more in the 1957 short Boyhood Daze, in which the character again indulges in multiple flights of fancy after being sent to his room as punishment. Additionally, around the same time as that second childhood appearance, a grown-up Ralph starred in two recruitment films that Jones directed for the Army–90 Day Wondering (1956–voiced by Blanc) and Drafty, Isn’t It? (1957–voiced by Daws Butler, the “Mel Blanc” of Hanna-Barbera). And in 1970, Ralph even had a vocal cameo in Jones’ theatrical adaptation of The Phantom Tollbooth (this time around, however, he was voiced by Foray). While Ralph may not be nearly as memorable a creation as many of his Warner Bros. brethren, From A to Z-Z-Z-Z remains an indelible portrait of the power of a young child’s imagination–and a very entertaining one, at that.

 

 

Today is the last day to enter our drawing for two Looney Tunes compilations on DVD! Leave a comment on this post (or any of our Chuck Jones posts from the past week) to be automatically entered for a chance to win!

Celebrating 100 Years of Chuck Jones: The “Hunting” Trilogy

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

“Oh, I dream about being Bugs Bunny, but when I wake up, I’m Daffy Duck.” –Chuck Jones

In Chuck Jones’ hands, the Daffy Duck of the 1930s and 40s–loopy, zany, whooping loudly, flipping out–went through a bit of a personality overhaul in the 50s. The zaniness was still there, to be sure, but this Daffy was much more calculating and jealous, more prone to fits of rage than crazed lunacy. The change wasn’t completely out of the ether, as there had been indications of this aspect of the character in previous incarnations–for example, in the 1940 black-and-white live-action/animated short You Ought to Be in Pictures, Daffy schemes to get resident star of the time Porky Pig off the studio lot so he can take his place as the headliner for Warner Bros. [Incidentally, this cartoon features a brief on-camera appearance by Chuck Jones, as well as fellow Warner director Bob Clampett and Jones' longtime writing partner Michael Maltese. Definitely a curiosity, definitely worth viewing!] But most animation directors at the studio tended to focus on Daffy’s … well, daffier qualities over his more ambitious traits.

Starting in the late 1940s, Jones took that somewhat repressed ambitious side of Daffy and brought it to the forefront, engaging the character in an outright rivalry with Warner’s tried-and-true superstar, Bugs Bunny. To Jones, though, it wasn’t just about turning Daffy into an adversarial character; as he recounts in Chuck Amuck: The Life and Times of an Animated Cartoonist (1999), he always viewed Daffy more as a “self-preservationist” than a truly selfish character. Jones’ philosophy regarding Daffy was that the character’s avarice and self-absorbed nature are universal traits that everyone who watches his cartoons will recognize–and one that he saw even within himself: “Daffy gallantly and publicly represents all the character traits that the rest of us try to keep subdued. A social amenity to Daffy Duck is simply an unfair block to his desires. To desire, in Daffy’s rationale, is to need–as it was to me at six; to need is to acquire, and acquisition is the essence of living. To achieve his ends, he cheerfully and always rationally chews up moral codes by the yard.” And yet Daffy’s self-important self-service is never off-putting, in part because we, the viewers, are so easily able to relate to him, at least on some level.

It’s a delicate balance to maintain, but Jones and crew adeptly portray their Daffy as both frustrating and endearing, “dethpicable” and lovable all at the same time. Jones’ version of the character really lets loose in three popular and ultimately influential cartoons (all written by Maltese) that are familiarly known as the “Hunting Trilogy”–Rabbit Fire (1951), Rabbit Seasoning (1952), and Duck! Rabbit, Duck! (1953). These shorts feature Bugs and Daffy squaring off with Elmer Fudd, who is determined to shoot one or both of them–if he can only figure out which “hunting season” it really is. Daffy continually tries to throw Bugs into harm’s way–whether to protect himself (because it’s really duck season) or to cause trouble for his rival in the midst of rabbit season. Bugs, for his part, manages to skirt out of that trouble at every turn, usually at Daffy’s expense, while Elmer essentially stands around waiting for his cue to fire. The result of all of this madness is a trio of witty, entertaining cartoons that set up a winning dynamic of co-mingled friendship and rivalry between Bugs and Daffy that remains a vital ingredient of their animated relationship to this day.

[FYI: Videos of the cartoons discussed below are hyperlinked in the title of each section, so you can re-watch each one and enjoy them for yourself!]

Rabbit Fire

The first cartoon of the trio begins as previous Bugs-and-Elmer cartoons have begun: Elmer creeps through the forest with his rifle, pausing to shush the audience with his familiar catchphrase, “Shh! Be vewwy, vewwy quiet. I’m hunting wabbits. Hahahahaha.” There is a brief flash to a shot of Bugs’ feet leaving tracks on the forest floor, which Elmer quickly discovers, and we soon discover that “Bugs” is actually Daffy, wearing a pair of bunny slippers (so to speak) to draw the hunter to Bugs’ hole. Daffy’s reasoning behind his deviousness? “Survival of the fittest,” he snickers, adding with a couple of his trademark hoots, “And besides, it’s fun!” But Daffy’s shenanigans are turned around on him when Bugs catches on to his scheme and neatly turns it around on his feathered nemesis.

Rabbit Fire (like its two successors) is somewhat unique for Warner Bros. in that it relies heavily on the wordplay and dialogue (the infamous “rabbit season”/”duck season” exchanges) between the characters instead of the wild action associated with most of the studio’s shorts. As the first cartoon to feature both Bugs and Daffy in starring roles, it might be expected that one or both characters would be short-changed in some way to make room for the other; instead, they are given equal stature–though to me, at least, Daffy is the true focus of these shorts (if anyone comes off as a third wheel here, it’s Elmer, whose only function is to provide the catalyst for Daffy’s punishment). The formula for the characters’ future encounters is pretty much set: Bugs is the wiseacre winner, and Daffy is the defiant loser.

Indeed, Daffy really can’t win. Even when he tries to flip the script, disguising himself as Bugs, his rival outwits him by dressing as Daffy, and the “real” Daffy takes another bullet to the face. His moral outrage in the wake of that incident is marked by a side-splitting stream of ranting dialogue as Daffy verbally lambasts Bugs:

“Yes, you’re dethpicable! And … and … and picable! And … and … you’re–you’re very definitely dethpicable! How–how a person can get so … so dethpicable in one lifetime is … is beyond me! It isn’t as though I–I haven’t met a lot of people! Goodness knows, it isn’t that! It isn’t that–that! Goodness knows! It isn’t … it’s … dethpicable …”

The scene is marked by a brilliant delivery by voice actor Mel Blanc that fully demonstrates the depth of Daffy’s frustration. This is a duck that is ready to snap (which he does, eventually, by the time the third installment in the series rolls around).

It’s important to note that Bugs and Daffy aren’t entirely antagonistic toward one another in this short; when the opportunity arises to have some fun with Elmer, the two team up as a comely female hunter (because, seriously–does Bugs ever pass up the chance to dress in drag?) and her “naughty bow wow.” But even then, as the plan fails and their disguises fall apart, they immediately slip back into rivalry … until the absolutely perfect denouement, when they team up once more to partake in “Elmer Season.”

[Before I move on, I have to mention one of my favorite moments of this cartoon: when Bugs retrieves a book of recipes from his hole, called "1000 Ways to Cook a Duck," and starts reciting them in an effort to entice Elmer. Not to be outmatched, Daffy reaches into Bugs' home ... and inexplicably pulls out a book called "1000 Ways to Cook a Rabbit." As a kid, I always wondered why Bugs owned a cookbook devoted to cooking rabbits--it really made me wonder about him for just a minute ...!]

Rabbit Seasoning

The second cartoon of the trilogy is my personal favorite (as it appeals to the grammar nerd in me). It opens with a multitude of signs pointing the way to Bugs’ rabbit hole. Daffy appears, once again forging rabbit tracks in the ground to entice Elmer further. His motive this time is similar to the previous cartoon: “Awfully unsporting of me, I know, but what the hay–I gotta have SOME fun! … And besides, it’s REALLY duck season!” Once again, however, Daffy’s grand scheme falls apart as Bugs escapes danger and Daffy endures a series of indignities. The cross-dressing trope reappears–this time without Daffy’s involvement in the charade–and, as in Rabbit Fire, this one has a great ending.

The focus of the cartoon is once more on wordplay, and features a delicious exchange in which Daffy finds himself in a bit of “pronoun trouble”:

Bugs: “It’s true, Doc. I’m a rabbit, alright. Would you like to shoot me now or wait ’til you get home?”
Daffy: “Shoot him now! Shoot him now!”
Bugs: “You keep out of this! He doesn’t have to shoot you now!”
Daffy: “He does so have to shoot me now! [to Elmer] I demand that you shoot me now!”

When Elmer–after a brief, quizzical glance at the audience–acquiesces to Daffy’s demand and shoots him in the head, an infuriated yet strangely calm Daffy returns to Bugs and demands that they repeat the scene, which they do rather matter-of-factly:

Daffy: “Let’s run through that again.”
Bugs: “Okay. Would you like to shoot me now or wait ’til you get home.”
Daffy: “Shoot him now, shoot him now.”
Bugs: “You keep outta this, he doesn’t have to shoot you now.”
Daffy: “Ha! That’s it! Hold it right there! [turns to audience] Pronoun trouble. [turns back to Bugs] It’s not, ‘He doesn’t have to shoot you now.’ It’s, ‘He doesn’t have to shoot me now.’ Well, I say he does have to shoot me now! [turns to Elmer] So shoot me now!”

And bang.

Rabbit Seasoning demonstrates the tenaciousness of Daffy’s 50s persona–even when he knows that he’s in too deep (exclaiming, “Not again!” when he realizes he’s about to be shot once more)–he cannot let it go and move on. He is forever trying to win, and forever losing to someone cleverer than he, and the frustrating cycle just goes on and on with little relief. It’s somewhat reminiscent of the situation with the (non)performing frog in Jones’ masterpiece One Froggy Evening (1955), in that Daffy’s constant striving reflects an inescapable sense of futility from which he cannot extricate himself–and in the end, it’s yet another way in which the character is made more relatable to the audience, because who hasn’t been there? In many ways, it’s the very nature of human existence, encapsulated in a six-and-a-half minute cartoon.

Incidentally, Rabbit Seasoning is the only one of the “Hunting Trilogy” to have been voted onto the list of the 50 Greatest Cartoons–it ranks at number thirty (it’s worth noting, however, that its predecessor was given an honorable mention on the list).

Duck! Rabbit, Duck!

The conclusion of the trilogy changes the scene to the midst of winter, but otherwise follows the same formula as the first two: it’s the middle of duck season, Daffy is “a duck bent on self-preservation-um,” and thus he tries in vain to convince Elmer that it’s actually rabbit season, with old pal Bugs as the target. But this time, when Bugs turns the table on him, both Daffy and Elmer eventually lose their ever-loving minds.

The reliance on wordplay is again intact: for instance, in a winking nod to the “pronoun trouble” in the previous entry of the trilogy, Daffy demonstrates his lack of spelling prowess when asking Bugs to spell “fricasseeing rabbit.” Instead, Bugs spells out “fricasseeing DUCK,” which results in Daffy getting shot once again. But the best gag in the cartoon involves a series of signs designating different hunting “seasons.” Every time Daffy inadvertently likens himself to an animal, Bugs holds up a sign saying it’s that animal’s “season,” and Elmer takes aim on the hapless duck:

Daffy: “You’re a dirty dog.”
Bugs: “And you are a dirty skunk.”
Daffy: “I’m a dirty skunk? I’m a dirty skunk?”

Bugs immediately holds up a sign reading, “Dirty Skunk Season,” and Elmer fires.

The ending of Duck! Rabbit, Duck! employs some seriously dark humor, as the other two characters crack under the pressure of dealing with the unconquerable Bugs. First, Daffy loses his marbles–understandable considering he’s been shot in the head multiple times and lived to tell about it (kids, don’t try this at home)–and demands that Elmer shoot him again and again and again: “Shoot me again! I enjoy it! I love the smell of burnt feathers and gunpowder and cordite!” Soon after Daffy’s breakdown, a frustrated Elmer also succumbs to the madness after three years’ worth of go-rounds with the zany pair. When a disguised Bugs informs Elmer that it’s actually BASEBALL season, something snaps in the hunter, and he sets off chasing a baseball over the snowy hills, shooting it gleefully as he runs. And even after Elmer runs off and Daffy comes back to reality, Bugs still manages to get in one last shot (literally) at Daffy. The rabbit’s victory is nothing short of complete.

Together, the three cartoons that make up Chuck Jones’ “Hunting Trilogy” are undeniable classics of the animation genre. Not only are these shorts absolutely hilarious, but they are intelligently composed, with an attention to dialogue and detail that was far from the norm at a time when action shots and slapstick gags reigned supreme. And while these cartoons feature their fair share of physical humor, it’s the verbal interactions between the characters that really drive the action and make these such memorable entries not only in the career of Jones, but in the history of animation itself.

 

*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!*

Celebrating 100 Years of Chuck Jones: Rabbit of Seville (1950)

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

Seven years before Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd dueled their way through a hilarious take on the music of Wagner in What’s Opera, Doc?, the duo tackled Italian composer Rossini in 1950′s Rabbit of Seville. 

Rabbit of Seville is the brainchild of director Chuck Jones, writer Michael Maltese, and frequent Warner Bros. composer Carl Stalling. Stalling was, on occasion, criticized by some (including Jones) for his habit of quoting modern or popular melodies in his scores, and it is true that his scores featured repeated use of certain musical cues for similar situations from cartoon to cartoon–for instance, the recurrence of Rossini’s William Tell overture in chase scenes (particularly those in Western-themed cartoons), or the use of “We’re in the Money” (from Gold Diggers of 1933) in scenes featuring the sudden acquirement of wealth. Stalling’s penchant for musical puns aside, he was nonetheless an incredibly talented musician, and the Stalling scores are among the most memorable in the Warner Bros. animated canon (for a pitch-perfect example of Stalling’s unparalleled talent, see 1943′s A Corny Concerto, directed by Bob Clampett, which Stalling completed with his eventual successor, Milt Franklyn).

In Seville, Jones takes full advantage of Stalling’s musical abilities, as the composer manages to incorporate a slightly abridged version of the overture to Rossini’s opera The Barber of Seville at an accelerated tempo that still manages to capture the essence of the original tune. Additionally, he works in a bit of the “Wedding March” from German composer Mendelssohn. Maltese composed new lyrics to accompany the sped-up tune, and aside from Bugs’ final line, the song lyrics are the only dialogue to accompany the cartoon–and really, no dialogue is needed when the lyrics include such brilliant lines as, “There, you’re nice and clean … although your face looks like it might have gone through a machine!”

There are little touches throughout this cartoon that heighten the humor: a sign in the opening scene advertises a “Summer Opera” performance of The Barber of Seville starring “Eduardo Selzeri” (producer Eddie Selzer), “Michele Maltese” (writer Maltese), and “Carlo Jonzi” (director Jones); the stage is set for a scene at a barber’s shop, yet in Rossini’s opera, there is no such scene (despite the character Figaro’s titular position); Bugs (naturally) gets the chance to don drag, as Elmer’s alluring “little senorit-er”; Elmer deals with multiple indignities in Bugs’ Sweeney Todd-esque barber chair o’ horrors, not the least of which is having a hair tonic treatment that results in a patch of red flowers sprouting on his otherwise bald noggin; to bring an end to the madness, Bugs proposes marriage, and Elmer zips offstage briefly and reemerges in a white wedding gown; Bugs’ final, mischievous nod to the audience. The result is a sort of insane mash-up of so-called high and low culture, audaciously combining cartoonish antics and high-brow musical accompaniment in a way that, by all logic, should not work … and yet totally and completely does.

Is Rabbit of Seville as effective a cartoony operetta as What’s Opera, Doc? In truth, not quite–though both cartoons have their strengths, the more satirical bent of the latter cartoon trumps the relentlessly slapsticky nature of Seville. Opera functions as both a parody of its musical source material and an incisive comedic homage to it, while Seville concentrates more on just generally garnering laughs. Not to say that there’s anything wrong with that, for Rabbit of Seville is truly hilarious, and undoubtedly its success enabled Jones, Maltese, and crew to embark on the much more ambitious (and much more expensive) Opera in later years. And its influence has not gone unnoticed; Rabbit of Seville is, like its operatic cartoon brother, on the list of the 50 best cartoons of all time, placing at number twelve, and it remains one of the most popular ‘toons to emerge from the Golden Age of animation. Perhaps most importantly, this cartoon is among a number of memorable Warner Bros. shorts that helped introduce new generations to classical music in a fun, engaging way that, if it didn’t exactly foster new fans of the genre, at least created a lingering awareness of the great compositions of those grand old masters.

*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!*

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!*

“That’s the way it crumbles, cookie-wise.”

Posted on by under blogathon, brandie's faves, drama, hahas, summer under the stars

C.C. Baxter (Jack Lemmon) works on the lower rungs of an insurance company in New York City. He’s ambitious, but miserable–miserable because he has agreed to loan his apartment to various executives in the company to conduct extramarital affairs, forcing him to spend his nights waiting for the temporary “tenants” to vacate his premises. One day, the personnel director, Mr. Sheldrake (Fred MacMurray), prevails upon Baxter to use his apartment to “entertain” his own conquest. Baxter agrees and in return is given a promotion and a key to the executive washroom.

Little does Baxter realize, however, that Sheldrake’s “piece on the side” is Miss Fran Kubelik (Shirley MacLaine), the comely elevator operator on whom he has a crush. When Baxter later discovers this at the office Christmas party, he is crushed–as is Fran, when she learns from Sheldrake’s spiteful secretary (Edie Adams) that she is the latest in a long line of Sheldrake’s office flings. Baxter picks up a girl in a bar and takes her back to his apartment, where he finds a distraught Fran has overdosed on sleeping pills.

Baxter nurses Fran back to health with the help of his judgmental neighbor, Dr. Dreyfuss (Jack Kruschen), who believes that Baxter is little more than a wastrel (having witnessed the parade of women entering and leaving Baxter’s apartment over time). In their time together, Baxter falls even more in love with Fran, though she is still hung up on Sheldrake. When Sheldrake’s wife discovers the truth about her husband and kicks him out, Sheldrake reignites his relationship with Fran, leading her to believe that they will someday be together legitimately. For his part, Baxter has finally had enough of the ills of blind ambition, and refuses to be a “bought” man anymore, leading Fran to realize that maybe she has put her faith in the wrong man after all.

The Apartment (1960), director Billy Wilder’s follow-up to his smash hit comedy Some Like It Hot (1959), is a departure from the screwball zaniness of that previous film. While the movie definitely has its moments of laugh-out-loud brilliance, it’s hard to classify The Apartment as an outright comedy; the dramatic elements, marked by an inescapable sense of pathos, belie that kind of catch-all categorization. In making The Apartment, Wilder seems to be taking some cues from predecessors/colleagues such as Ernst Lubitsch (Wilder’s admitted cinematic hero) and Preston Sturges in his attempt to mash up starkly different genres into a unified whole. And remarkably, it works: like those directors’ masterworks The Shop Around the Corner (1940) and Sullivan’s Travels (1941), Wilder’s Apartment seamlessly meshes an entire range of human emotion into a brilliant, singular cinematic statement.

Wilder reportedly based the story of The Apartment on a tangential thought he had while watching David Lean’s Brief Encounter (1945). In that film, married lovers Laura (Celia Johnson) and Alec (Trevor Howard) borrow a friend’s apartment for a tryst. Wilder’s curiosity was piqued. What kind of man, he wondered, would be willing to loan out his home for such a thing? Wilder and co-screenwriter I.A.L. Diamond also drew on Hollywood gossip of the day to flesh out their story—most notably the Joan Bennett-Walter Wanger scandal, in which Wanger shot his wife’s agent, Jennings Lang, in a fit of jealousy over the affair between the two. To conduct their affair in secrecy, Lang had been using an apartment belonging to one of his employees (a detail that Wilder and Diamond eventually used as the crux of their tale). The seedier elements of The Apartment–which had presented issues when Wilder first proposed the idea after seeing Encounter in the 40s–were, if not more acceptable, at least somewhat less controversial by the time the movie was produced in 1960. The gradual breakdown of the Production Code (due in large part to the efforts of envelope-pushing filmmakers like Elia Kazan and Otto Preminger in the 50s) allowed the more risque elements of The Apartment to not only pass the muster of the censors, but to appeal to a broader audience hungry for more realistic, “adult” narratives.

The result was a film that volleys between farce and heartbreak, delicately balancing the lighter and darker elements while utterly reveling in the chance to reveal the seamier side of life. It’s not a happy story; nor it is an entirely sad one. The ending is somewhat anticlimactic, yet fitting. Everything that probably shouldn’t work about The Apartment ends up working beautifully. Wilder worshiped the notion of the “Lubitsch touch” (as did many of his contemporaries), but as this film demonstrates so aptly, the “Wilder touch” was nothing to sneeze at, either.

Take, for instance, one of the first scenes of the film, which establishes the “other” use of Baxter’s apartment. As he walks home down the shadowy city street, he glances up at the brightly-lit window of his apartment, resigning himself to the fact that he’ll have to wait before he can get inside to get warm. He lights a cigarette and smokes nervously. Meanwhile, inside, Sylvia (Joan Shawlee) emerges from the bedroom, humming and dancing, to greet Al Kirkeby (David Lewis). It’s very obvious that the two of them have just finished having sex; there is no question that they have “shattered the Commandments” (to borrow a phrase), but at the same time, the characters make no apologies for what they have done. Their behavior is not secretive or shameful; they are almost nonchalant in their attitudes about adultery (Sylvia: “You mean you bring other girls up here?” Kirkeby: “Certainly not. I’m a happily married man”). Wilder switches between a shot of the careless lovers, cozy in their nest, and the shivering, increasingly frustrated Baxter outside. When the couple finally leaves, Baxter is left to clean up their mess, tossing empty booze bottles in the trash and fielding Kirkeby’s request for vodka, vermouth, and “little cheese crackers.” The juxtaposition here between the couple and Baxter brings up an interesting question: who should feel more guilty–the illicit lovers, or the man who provided their love nest at the cost of his self-respect and personal dignity?

The strength of The Apartment lies in the performance of Jack Lemmon. This marks the second of seven collaborations between the actor and director (the first of which was the year before, in Hot), and it presents what is undoubtedly the best role Wilder ever wrote for Lemmon. As an actor, Lemmon was a type of Everyman, highly relatable and sympathetic in a wide variety of roles, and Wilder instinctively knew how to take full advantage of that quality by crafting Baxter to Lemmon’s strengths. C.C. Baxter is many things: desperate, lonely, ambitious, love-struck, calculating, put-upon … he’s a multifaceted character if there ever was one, and Lemmon brings him to glorious life, juggling Baxter’s constantly-shifting emotions with aplomb and making the audience empathize with him in the process. [If I have only one complaint with Lemmon's performance, it comes from the unforgettable scene in which Baxter strains spaghetti with a tennis racket--and then rinses the pasta. Eek! We good part-Italian girls know you NEVER rinse the noodles!]

The supporting cast is just as strong as their leading man: Shirley MacLaine, here playing one of the original Manic Pixie Dream Girls, is lovely, lost, and conflicted; Fred MacMurray, playing against type as the sleazeball Sheldrake, is a deliciously diabolical cheating bastard; and Edie Adams, as Miss Olsen, Sheldrake’s disillusioned secretary/former mistress, is great in a small but pivotal role. Jack Kruschen turns in an Oscar-nominated performance as Dr. Dreyfuss, Baxter’s nosy, concerned neighbor (“Be a mensch,” he admonishes Baxter). And for those of us who grew up watching Bewitched reruns, how weird is it to see “Larry Tate” (David White) playing a cheating executive at Baxter’s company? (Okay, it’s not so weird–Larry Tate was an asshole, after all.)

The Apartment is the highlight of Wilder’s partnership with Diamond, which spanned a dozen films over two decades. Diamond’s contributions to the latter half of Wilder’s career cannot be discounted; while Wilder brought a more caustic, world-weary sense to their screenplays, Diamond infused them with a great deal of heart. It is safe to assume that, had Diamond not contributed to the script for The Apartment, the sweeter elements of the story, particularly the lovely chemistry between Baxter and Miss Kubelik, would have been dulled, if not lost entirely. Compare The Apartment to 1950′s Sunset Blvd., which Wilder co-wrote with Charles Brackett and D.M. Marshman, Jr.: not a drop of sentimentality to be seen, resulting in a harsher, more unrelentingly bleak tone. And while some might argue that such sentiment in The Apartment blunts the satirical message about ambition and business culture in America, I would in turn argue that the “fuzzier” elements of the story have their merits, as one of this movie’s most important themes is the triumph of hope and integrity over cynicism, embodied by Baxter’s moment of self-realization in the end and Fran’s no-nonsense, downright unsentimental acceptance of Baxter’s declaration of love (“Shut up and deal”).

The Apartment was a hit, both with critics (well, some of them) and at the box office. It won five Academy Awards, including Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Screenplay. Today, it is remembered as one of Wilder’s best, if not the best product of his career, with one of Jack Lemmon’s most iconic performances. If you’ve never seen this movie, you are depriving yourself of a truly wonderful experience. You’ll laugh, you’ll tear up, you’ll cheer, you’ll marvel at the general moral depravity of humanity. What more could you ask for from a single film?

 

This post is an entry in the ongoing “2012 TCM SUTS Blogathon” hosted by Sittin’ on a Backyard Fence and ScribeHard on Film. Share the Lemmon love and check out all of the other “juicy” (sorry, couldn’t resist) entries being posted today.

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!