Category Archives: classic disney

“If that don’t beat all. I never saw such a dog.”

Posted on by under child stars, classic disney, kiddie faves, lit adaptations, maudlin mondays, sarah's faves

This week, I bring you an animal edition of Maudlin Monday. I can be deeply moved by films about wars or tragic romances, but few things disturb me greater than stories about innocent, loving animals that lose their lives. Animals have brought me so much joy in life, whether I’m running in the yard with my happy-go-lucky dog or cuddling with my affectionate cat. It is my sincere belief that if everyone had an adoring pet in their lives, the world would be a much better place. There have been so many touching films about animals–The Adventures of Milo and Otis (1989), The Fox and the Hound (1981), The Three Lives of Thomasina (1963)–but none demonstrates the loyalty and friendship shared between human and animal quite like Disney’s 1957 film Old Yeller.

old yeller poster

The story begins with a Texas frontier family whose father, Jim (Fess Parker), leaves Travis (Tommy Kirk), his oldest son, in charge of the farm and home as he goes to drive cattle. Travis is a young boy who takes on the responsibility of protecting and caring for his younger brother Arliss (Kevin Corcoran) and their mother, Katie, played by the beautiful and serene Dorothy McGuire. As Jim says his goodbyes to his family, his son reminds him that he wants a horse.

Travis: “Now, Papa, you know I been achin’ all over for a horse to ride. Now I told you time and again.”

Papa: “What you’re needin’ worse than a horse is a good dog.”

Travis: “Yessir, but what I’m wantin’ worse is a horse.”

Papa: “Alright boy, you act a man’s part, and I’ll bring you a man’s horse.”

The father has not even been gone more than a day when Old Yeller shows up on the family farm causing trouble. He frightens Jumper the mule while Travis is plowing the field, which causes the mule to drag Travis and knock down the fence. Old Yeller has unknowingly made himself an enemy. Travis is convinced that the dog will be nothing but trouble: “I know one thing: that old dog better not come around here while I got me a gun in my hands!”

When younger brother Arliss meets the dog, he instantly falls in love with the prospect of a new friend. Mama scolds Travis, explaining to him that his younger brother is lonely without a companion to entertain him. She reminds him that he had a dog when he was Arliss’s age.

Younger brother Arliss and Old Yeller become inseparable. Yeller becomes the boy’s companion, swimming, hunting, and even fishing with him.

old yeller

The faithful dog dives into the pond to catch a fish for Arliss. Arliss thanks the dog, and then proceeds to tell his mother that he was the one who caught the fish in a fantastic tale:

Arliss: “Mama, Mama, look at this fish that I got; ain’t he a whopper?! … I had to dive way down deep under to catch this fish. He was way down deep under … there was this cave and it was real dark and muddy. And there was about a million other fish, and they all tried to eat me! And I had to throw rocks at’ em, and then there was these two big snakes …”

Travis: “Mama, you know them is just big windies Arliss was tellin’.”

Mama: “Now, Travis, let him tell his stories the way he wants to.”

Travis: “But Mama, I just seen that old yellow dog catch this fish.”

Mama: “Arliss is just a little boy with a big imagination. Won’t hurt him to let him use it.”

Travis: “We keep that old yellow dog much longer and it’s going to make Arliss the biggest liar in Texas!”

Travis is not a fan of the dog, believing him to be a bad influence on his younger brother. But Travis finally changes his mind about the dog when Yeller saves Arliss from an angry mother bear. Arliss tempts a young cub with bread, then attempts to capture it. The mother bear hears the cub calling for help and comes charging toward the small boy. Although Travis and the mother come running to Arliss’s aid, it doesn’t seem like it would have gone well for the child had his courageous dog not intervened and fought off the mother bear.

old_yeller

Once Travis realized the dog’s bravery in defending Arliss, he allows the dog to begin sleeping in bed with him and his brother. Unfortunately, it isn’t long after the event that Travis learns from a neighbor, Elizabeth Searcy, that Yeller is indeed the thief that he originally believed him to be. She explains that she has seen Yeller stealing food from her family, but she promises not to tell on him.

Elizabeth: “I didn’t want to tell you at the house … but it was him what done it …what stole all the eggs and bread and meat and stuff … I seen him swipe a pan of grandma’s cornbread, too. But I ain’t gonna tell.”

Travis: “I bet you do.”

Elizabeth: “No, I won’t. Wasn’t goin’ to, even before I knowed it was your dog.”

Travis: “How come?”

Elizabeth: “Because Miss Priss is gonna have pups, and your dog will be their papa, and I wouldn’t want him to get shot for stealin’.”

Elizabeth Searcy isn’t the only person who has heard of Old Yeller’s thievery. At one point, the dog’s former owner comes to claim him. He tells the family that although the dog robs everyone blind, he’s great help to him. Arliss refuses to allow the stranger to take Old Yeller back, throwing rocks at him and demanding that he leave the dog. Luckily for the family, the man is kind and allows Arliss to keep Old Yeller, trading him a toad and a warm meal.

The kind Mr. Sanderson warns Travis that he has seen multiple cases of hydrophobia (rabies)  in the region. He instructs Travis that he will have to act quickly in killing any animal that he suspects is infected.

One day, Travis and Old Yeller go on a mission to mark the Coates family hogs. Old Yeller does a fantastic job herding the hogs for Travis, but when Travis falls from a tree, he is viciously attacked by one of the hogs. The hog rips his leg to the bone, but Old Yeller comes running to save him. Travis is able to get away, but poor Old Yeller is injured even worse. The family nurses the pair back to health, and Old Yeller has once again successfully saved a member of the Coates family.

old yeller

It isn’t long before Old Yeller has saved every single member of the Coates family. While Mama and Elizabeth are standing next to a fire, burning the carcass of the rabies-infected family cow, they are jumped by a rabid wolf. Luckily for the women, Old Yeller comes to their defense. Travis is able to shoot the wolf, but not before it has bitten and scratched Old Yeller repeatedly. Mama believes that no healthy, sane wolf would have attacked them, and therefore she fears that they will have to kill Old Yeller, as he is likely to have been infected as well.

Mama: “I’ll shoot him if you can’t, but either way we’ve got it to do.”

Travis: “Mama, listen, Old Yeller just saved your life, and Elizabeth too, and he saved mine and Arliss’s. We can’t; we don’t know for certain. I’ll pen him up where he can’t get out, and then we’ll wait. We can’t just shoot him like he was nothin’! Don’t you understand?”

Mama: “Alright, son, if you think there’s a chance.”

After two weeks of keeping Old Yeller penned up, he shows no signs of the suspected infection. The family is hopeful that he is not suck. But a few days from when the family plans to release him from his dog prison, Travis brings Yeller some food, only to discover the dog growling maliciously. Travis tries to deny to himself and his family that the dog is ill, but when young Arliss sneaks out at night to try to set the dog free, the family is forced to confront the heartbreaking situation. Mama gets the gun, knowing what painful but necessary event must unfold.

Travis: “No, Mama.”

Mama: “There’s no hope for him now, Travis. He’s sufferin’. You know we’ve got to do it.”

Travis: “I know, Mama, but he was my dog. I’ll do it.”

With a single blow from the shotgun, Old Yeller is gone, and a young boy is devastated.

old yeller

Following the heart-wrenching scene is a happy reunion, as Mr. Coates returns to his family bearing gifts and affection. His wife relates the story of Old Yeller’s impact on their family, and the father attempts to comfort his grieving son with a speech about loss:

“That was rough, son … but I’m mighty proud of how my boy stood up to it. Couldn’t ask no more of a grown man … Life’s like that sometimes. Now and then, for no good reason a man can figure out, life will just haul off and knock him flat, slamming him in the ground so hard it seems like all his insides are busted. But it’s not all like that. A lot of it’s mighty fine, and you can’t afford to waste the good part frettin’ about the bad. That makes it all bad. You understand what I’m tryin’ to get at? … When you start lookin’ around for somethin’ good to take the place of the bad, as a general rule, you can find it.”

Old Yeller is as maudlin as they come, demanding tears from all viewers, young or old. This was one of my favorite films as a child, and it is no less moving to me today than it was all those years ago. It teaches children about the importance of responsibility, about losing those we love, and about loyalty. It’s one of the saddest movies ever produced, but definitely one of the most important, in my humble opinion.

maudlin tear rating 5Old Yeller earns a big fat maximum of five (heaving, sobbing) teardrops on the Maudlin Meter.

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.

“Queering” Disney.

Posted on by under animation, blogathon, classic disney, we're here we're queer, yet another list post

Lord knows, I love me some Disney. I feel the need to state this upfront just to underscore how much I enjoy the Disney animated canon. I grew up with those films, watching them over and over again, singing the songs, pretending to be a princess (or one of the dancing ostriches from 1940′s Fantasia–I loved them, and still do). Disney has had a presence in my life for as far back as I can remember.

But as I have gotten older, and watched these movies from the perspective of a (somewhat) jaded adult, I’ve realized that there are some messages embedded in these films that are not exactly what you might call “progressive.” Especially in the older films in the canon, there are issues of insensitivity, bordering on racism, that makes modern-day viewers squirm uncomfortably–issues that have, to this day, prevented the home video release of 1946′s Song of the South here in the United States. Added to that is the great deal of stereotyping in the development of many of the classic Disney characters–most particularly in the characterization of the females, an issue particularly reserved for the simpering, helpless, sometimes bodily useless princess figures. And while these issues bother me quite a bit (with that last one in particular being the crux of an epic post I have been working on for the past two weeks regarding 1991′s Beauty and the Beast, a lovely film with some not-so-lovely implications about gender roles), these are subjects for another day.

No, today we’re going to talk about the gays. Well, not the outright gays–because homosexuality is about as welcome in a Disney film as a bear to a honey party (unless that bear is Winnie the Pooh, of course)–but the way in which some familiar characters are drawn to appear “othered” in comparison to so-called sexual “norms.” Let’s start with a look at some supporting male characters whose behavior and dialogue are strongly indicative of “queerness,” characters whose prescribed and cliched “femininity” makes them appear weak, useless, and unworthy of anything but ridicule at the hands of the more “manly” figures whom they generally serve.

LeFou, Beauty and the Beast 

LeFou is Gaston’s right-hand man, and as such, he has many roles in the film: ego stroker, punching bag, errand boy … LeFou is short and fat as opposed to Gaston’s virile manliness (which LeFou lauds in one of the funniest songs in the Disney songbook. I dare you not to laugh when Gaston brags that he is “especially good at EXPECTORATING!” After all, the ability to spit is the ultimate sign of a man’s man). LeFou is abused and serves as the butt of the jokes–and takes on the brunt of Gaston’s anger. He never takes initiative to step outside of that role, seeming content to be a lackey and soak up whatever leftover adoration he can get from Gaston’s many admirers. Essentially, what the characterization of LeFou tells us is that the less “masculine” you are, the more of a bumbling imbecile you may be. And you will certainly never get the girl—in fact, the girls will laugh at you while fawning over your ripped (and equally idiotic) friend.

Wiggins, Pocahontas (1995)

He makes gift baskets for the Natives and acts as a glorified hairdresser to Percy the dog. The manservant to the evil Governor Ratcliffe (who is himself depicted as being immoderately fey), Wiggins is shown to be little more than a weak, skinny beanpole, practically frightened of his own shadow and looked at by the other men as being of absolutely no use in the brewing conflict between the Natives and the Englishmen. He is undeniably one of the more overly effeminate characters, down to his vocalizations (“Ooh, gift baskets!”) and his hip-shaking movements across the screen.

Smee, Peter Pan (1951)

It’s hard to determine why, exactly, Smee remains so loyal to his boss, Captain Hook (who, again, is painted with own innately foppish, feminine-edged qualities). In comparison to Hook, Smee is kind and gentle, concerned about others, and loyal to a fault. He helps Hook in his evil deeds, but there’s always a sense of reluctance. He’s weak physically and weak-willed, in many ways, allowing Hook to push him around, but at the same time, the relationship between the two is painted almost like a marriage, with Smee in the subservient “wifely” role.

This “othering” of the male characters is not limited to the ones in supporting roles, however–there are a number of main villains that fit the trope, though in these cases, they exert much more power than the more effeminate sidekicks, either through deviousness or sheer intimidation born from slyness.

Ratigan, The Great Mouse Detective (1986)

The extremely theatrical Ratigan’s love for champagne, caviar, and the finest in designer rat threads already mark him as “different” from the other rats (or mice, as it were, as Ratigan tends to lose his shit whenever anyone calls him a “rat”), showing that he is of an entirely separate rank, at least in light of the caste system of the rodent underground. But it’s his desire to take over for Queen Mousetoria–to essentially “become” the Queen–that truly marks him as an “other”–especially if you take that goal somewhat literally.

Scar, The Lion King (1994)

At the beginning of the film, Simba calls his plotting uncle “weird,” to which Scar replies, “You have no idea,” with a drollness that can be construed in multiple ways. Is he “weird” because he is planning to kill his brother and his nephew in order to claim the throne (“weird” being a–shall we say–inadequate word to describe those plans)? Is he “weird” because he prefers the company of the hyenas, who don’t view him as one of the other lions, but instead think of him as one of their own? Or is he “weird” because his “otherness” is defined in terms of sexuality? Recall that Scar has no mate, nor does he seem to take one after he assumes control of the Pridelands. The subsequent “death” of the kingdom could therefore be symbolic of Scar’s inability–and unwillingness–to mate with a lioness in order to produce an heir (though the sequel to the film does show that he essentially adopted one before being killed).

Prince John, Robin Hood (1970)

He has “mommy issues,” and throughout much of the film, he’s shown sucking his thumb while tugging on his ear. Need I say more?

There is another side to the coin, too–the “butch” female, found most abundantly among the female villains of these films–for instance, Ursula in The Little Mermaid (1989), whose lust for Ariel’s voice could be construed as a deeply-ingrained lust for the mermaid herself; and Maleficent in Sleeping Beauty (1959), who spends the entire film trying to put another woman to “sleep.” It’s even evident in some of the heroines, perhaps most notably in Mulan (1998), in which the title character disguises herself as a boy and tries to force herself to act masculine by puffing out her chest, adopting a low tone of voice, and punching the male characters. And there are so many more I could name on BOTH sides of the gender line … but then, I’d be here all night.

Still, by and large, it is the male characters who are painted in such broad, stereotypically “gay” tropes. And in the end, what these characters indicate to us–and to the children who watch these films and become so invested in these characters–is that being “fey” is a bad thing. It is presented to us as a choice between being weak and ineffectual, or being irredeemably evil. Now, true, these are the extremes, and there are some in-between figures here; for example, Genie from 1992′s Aladdin, who is at times an updated gender-ambiguous Bugs Bunny-esque type, or Bambi’s (1942) Flower, the “pretty” boy skunk with the dainty name who lives and breathes the concept of “shy and retiring.” These characters fall safely in the middle ground, and so escape the deadly consequences of villainy and/or the ridicule doled out to the femme sidekicks. But the fact remains that, with a few exceptions, the “others” in these films are generally meant to be read as dangerous because they are different.

Disney is far from the first production studio to resort to stereotype in order to question the virility of its male characters; as far back as the days of silent film, actors portraying gay figures played up effeminate gestures, “swishing” across the screen and swinging their hips in wild exaggeration. These are tropes that have been present in films for one hundred years, and are still presented in modern-day movies as a way of telegraphing a character’s sexual persuasion without having to outright state it. At its heart, it’s not only horrifyingly judgmental and biased, but it’s also a mark of lazy filmmaking and a lack of desire to characterize gay figures as something deserving of respect. And Disney perpetuates this idea with these characters–it’s the “sissy myth,” reproduced for your child’s viewing pleasure, to be reinforced with every repeat viewing for years to come.

[Note: That last part sounds much more ominous than I intended it to be. Look, I don't think Disney is (entirely) the "evil corporation" people sometimes make them out to be. I can't look at them that way--that company has given me more personal joy over the years than I could possibly quantify. And they have admittedly come a long way down the road to acceptance, considering some of the anecdotes from Walt's tenure at the head of the company. But it's silly to ignore the fact that some of the themes in certain Disney flicks are ill-conceived at best, and downright offensive at worst. In writing this post, I'm not trying to insinuate that Disney is trying to turn children into homophobes. But it is important to recognize these underlying tropes, acknowledge them, and ensure that they are not perpetuated in real life. In other words--parents, teach your children about these issues. Don't rely on these movies to do it for you. And that's my totally unwarranted, unnecessary, unsolicited PSA for the day.]

 

This post is a final, last-minute contribution to this week’s Queer Blogathon, hosted by Garbo Laughs and Pussy Goes Grrr. Check out the other wonderful entries and marvel at the fantastic submissions from throughout the past week!

A special Fantasia birthday at Radio City Music Hall.

Posted on by under classic disney, movie memories

by Dorian Tenore-Bartilucci

My very first moviegoing experience turned out to be simply a warm-up, a dry run: I was about five years old, and I went to the Interboro Theater in the Bronx, where our family lived at the time, to see The Sound of Music (1965). It would have been great, except that I was still afraid of the dark back then, and I cried my eyes out until my dad came to pick me up during the intermission! Luckily, that was only a dry run.

Five years later, I’d conquered my fear of the dark, and now I was a worldly lass of ten who’d discovered the joys of Walt Disney movies. I’d lived in New York City for most of my life, mostly moving back and forth between Manhattan and the Bronx over the years. That changed when my husband Vinnie and I got married, and our daughter Siobhan was born in 1996, and we eventually moved to Northeastern Pennsylvania to follow the job Vinnie had at the time. When we lived in NYC, it was easy to see then-new, now-classic films for the first time in great movie theaters like the Coronet, the Baronet, the Criterion, our beloved Ziegfeld Theatre, and many revival movie houses, even if some of them ended up chopped into multiplexes later on. Still, what a treat it was to have those kind of movies and theaters readily accessible!

My mom was a savvy city girl herself, and she knew my tenth birthday called for something special. We decided to put together a small but meaningful guest list, with a nice mix of my favorite friends and cousins, six of them in all. Mom took us to New York City for a very special treat: a matinee of Walt Disney’s Fantasia (1940) at Radio City Music Hall (RCMH), with the Rockettes dancing and everything! Fair Warning: Much to my consternation, I can’t find the photos of us girls for love or money (no doubt they’ll turn up the minute I no longer need them—oy!), so I’m afraid you’ll just have to bear with me and take my word for it. But at least we have pictures of RCMH and the Horn & Hardart (more about that momentarily)!

Since I was a candy fiend at the time, normally my attention would have been focused on the candy counter, but as we all entered RCMH’s beautiful mammoth theater, the elegance of the place had all of us happily gobsmacked. Even the restrooms were gorgeous! Not that we didn’t get a sensible amount of soda and candy, but Mom reminded us we’d be having lunch afterward, so she wouldn’t let us go overboard with the goodies. With its stunning Art Deco design, RCMH was like a cathedral for movie lovers. Soon the movie began, accompanied by our host/commentator Deems Taylor’s droll but friendly introductions to the music of Tchaikovsky. (Vinnie and I were delighted when our daughter Siobhan fell in love with the Nutcracker Suite in first grade, and still loves it today!)

It was the first visit to RCMH for some of us girls. One of my young friends, Jennifer from New Rochelle, was so amazed to be there, she felt like she’d beamed in from a whole different planet, but in a good way. It was certainly the first time a couple of the girls had ever seen Fantasia, or heard any classical music, for that matter. Just watching the moving colors along with the beautiful classical music selections was a treat in itself, especially with the accompaniment of classic Disney animation. I think it might well have been the first time I’d heard Fantasia’s take on Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite (love those adorable scurrying mushrooms!), or Toccata and Fugue in D Minor by Joann Sebastian Bach, with its graceful, playful fairy imagery.

With The Sorceror’s Apprentice, we were laughing out loud over Mickey Mouse falling asleep at the switch while the magical brooms went forth and multiplied, making us increasingly nervous when Mickey’s broken broom morphed into countless brooms and enough pails of water to drown a mouse! We couldn’t resist the frolicking yet tasteful young centaurs and centaurettes in Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony, doing kind of a classical, clean-cut Bacchanal (complete with a good-naturedly inebriated Baccus!), doing kind of a mythological spring break. The dinosaurs in Rite of Spring were a hit with a group of Boy Scouts sitting farther down the aisle, with all the cool prehistoric beasties. The boys also enjoyed Mussorgsky’s dramatic, majestic Night on Bald Mountain, with (we later learned) a rotoscoped Bela Lugosi as the demon Chernabog, though Mom was quite moved by Ave Maria. I’ll admit the favorite of us girls was Ponchielli’s Dance of the Hours with hippo, ostriches, and alligators turning the whole thing into a delightful farce worthy of The Marx Brothers!

But the fun didn’t stop there. We had lunch in the Horn & Hardart Automat. Mom had been used to it from working in Manhattan herself, so to her it was no big deal, but when she saw we girls were getting a kick out of the little glass cases with sandwiches, salads, and tasty slices of cake waiting to be devoured, she got into the spirit of the thing. We even got candles to put on our slices of vanilla and chocolate cake! Now that’s what I call a cool New York birthday! (Granted, I’ve always been notoriously easy to please!)

 

Dorian Tenore-Bartilucci, who writes fiction as “Dorian Tenore” to give the world’s typesetters a break, has served as Communications Director for the sales/leadership coaching firm Performance Based Results. She was a researcher for renowned author David Hajdu’s books Positively 4th Street and The Ten-Cent Plague (2008). A native New Yorker who has been living in Northeastern Pennsylvania since 2001, Dorian has a fifteen-year-old daughter, Siobhan, and she’s happily married to fellow blogger Vinnie Bartilucci (Is That Really Desirable? and The Forty-Year-Old Fanboy). She is currently polishing two of her comedy-thriller novels with ghost editor Nicole Bokat, and she writes about suspense movies and fiction on her blog Tales of the Easily Distracted.

RIP Robert Sherman

Posted on by under classic disney, nikki's faves, remembering

I was very saddened a few weeks ago to hear that Robert Sherman, one half of one of the greatest movie music-writing teams, was gone.  The Sherman Brothers are responsible for giving the world the music of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (1968), The Aristocats (1970), Charlotte’s Web (1973), The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh (1977), and probably their most famous work, Mary Poppins (1964), which earned them Oscars for Best Song and Best Score. The folks over at Mental Floss put together a great list of the most beloved Sherman Brothers songs but I have a few I’d like to add to the mix:

“Sister Suffragette” from Mary Poppins – Anytime that the women’s rights movement, especially suffrage, comes up, this song always comes to mind for me. And since March is Women’s History Month, I thought this video was double appropriate.

“Let’s Go Fly a Kite” from Mary Poppins - When those first warming, windy days of spring come, I find myself humming this wonderful song and wishing I could out and enjoy the fantastic weather while it lasts.

“Pink of Perfection” from Summer Magic (1963) – Summer Magic is not as well-known among the Disney live-action films of the 50s and 60s, but it does feature a great cast including Hayley Mills and Burl Ives.  I don’t really have a reason why I love this song but I do along with “Femininity,” “The Ugly Bug Ball,” and “Flitterin’.”

“The Gnome-Mobile” from The Gnome-Mobile (1967) – This one is for my stepdad who, while not much of a Disney film watcher, loves this film and its star, Walter Brennan.  The video is the reprise at the end of the film.

“Little Black Rain Cloud” from Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree (1966) – Winnie the Pooh is just awesome and this song leads into one of my favorite quotes to use in conversation: “Tut-tut. It looks like rain.”

I’m not sure what else to say here except for the word to use when you don’t know anything else to say: Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

Bobby Driscoll: The boy who never grew up.

Posted on by under blogathon, child stars, classic disney, saturday morning cartoons

It’s become a somewhat tragic cliché in the past few decades–the young, hopeful Hollywood star, making a big splash on screens big and small before the pains of growing up on camera manifest themselves in drug addiction and wasted talent. The list seems endless, from Danny Bonaduce to the Coreys (both Feldman and Haim) to Brad Renfro, from Tatum O’Neal to Dana Plato to Demi Lovato to the ongoing human train wreck that was once Lindsay Lohan.

But years before all of these young stars succumbed to the allures of drugs and alcohol and self-abuse, there was the sad story of Bobby Driscoll.

Driscoll’s Hollywood career started at the age of five with a bit part opposite fellow child star Margaret O’Brien in the 1943 film Lost Angel (incidentally, the film also featured a brief appearance by Robert “Bobby” Blake, who would grow up to face troubles of his own). This led to small roles as precocious youngsters in several films over the next two years before Driscoll was “discovered” by Walt Disney in 1946.

Disney put Driscoll under a long-term contract–the first actor given this status by the studio–and cast him as Johnny, the young boy whose becomes entranced by Uncle Remus’ tales in the 1946 film Song of the South (based on the stories by Joel Chandler Harris). The relationship between Uncle Remus (James Baskett) and Johnny is the centerpiece of the film, and there is an easy camaraderie between the two that makes their budding friendship that much more believable on the screen. Baskett is the twinkling, appealing star of the film, to be sure, but Driscoll more than holds his own, and rather admirably, too, for a nine-year-old.

In the wake of that film, Driscoll’s popularity exploded. Along with South co-star Luana Patten, Disney built up Driscoll as a fresh new star, throwing the two of them together twice more: first, in a brief cameo during the Pecos Bill segment of the package film Melody Time (1948), followed by the animated/live-action combo film So Dear to My Heart later that year.

In between projects for Disney, Driscoll appeared in The Window, a minor 1949 noir based on a story by Cornell Woolrich (whose work was adapted into numerous films over the years, perhaps most notably the similarly-named Alfred Hitchcock classic Rear Window in 1954). Driscoll’s work in The Window demonstrates the breadth of the young actor’s talent; outside of the strictures of the wholesome Disneyfied persona that had been crafted for him, Driscoll proves himself to be a capable, intriguing dramatic presence–in fact, in its review of the film upon its release, the New York Times labeled Driscoll’s performance as “brilliant,” his character’s reactions “projected with remarkable verisimilitude.” His performance in The Window, combined with his appearance in So Dear, led to his winning a special “Juvenile” Oscar in 1950.

That year, Driscoll returned to the Disney fold for the live-action adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic adventure story Treasure Island, playing Jim Hawkins opposite Robert Newton’s memorable Long John Silver. The film was one of the biggest successes at the year’s box office, and marked a pinnacle in Driscoll’s career.

The young actor soon moved into voice acting for his home studio, providing the vocals for Goofy’s son, Goofy Jr., in a couple of shorts in the early 1950s. But his greatest voice-over performance came with his lead role in Disney’s 1953 adaptation of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan. His playful take on the character, infused by turns with bravado and charm, results in a fantastic vocal performance opposite fellow Disney favorite Kathryn Beaumont (Wendy). In addition to voicing Peter, Driscoll also served as the model for the character, and he ended up performing some of Peter’s scenes on an empty soundstage so as to give the animators reference points for their work.

As Driscoll moved into puberty, his value to the Disney studio began to wane, and after the release of Peter Pan, his long-term contract was canceled, more than two years early. Reportedly, Driscoll was fired because he developed severe acne, and the studio claimed it would be difficult, if not impossible, to cover the offending marks with makeup. In the wake of leaving the studio, Driscoll found it hard to escape his Disneyfied past, and he moved from film to television acting, appearing in a number of anthologized series throughout the 1950s.

But by then, he had discovered drugs–heroin being his narcotic of choice–and he spent the next few years in a downward spiral. Attempts to revitalize his career, both in Hollywood and on Broadway, failed, and Driscoll eventually moved into the art world, becoming a regular presence at The Factory, Andy Warhol’s infamous art/film/writing/music studio in Manhattan.

Driscoll’s time as a “member” of The Factory didn’t last. After two years of immersing himself in his art, he disappeared from the scene. A couple of weeks after his thirty-first birthday, Driscoll’s body was discovered in an abandoned tenement in New York. But he was unidentified at the time, and he was buried in an unmarked grave in Potter’s Field. It wasn’t until his mother went looking for him, almost two years later, that the truth of his death was discovered. And even then, the details were not revealed to the public for another three years, until Song of the South was re-released in theaters in the early 1970s.

Bobby Driscoll died way too young and, sadly, so ignominiously that he was never fully given the chance for cinematic redemption. It’s heartbreaking to realize that his life, once marked by endearing performances and a breathtaking talent, has become over time a cautionary tale (though one not nearly as well-known as some of his unfortunate successors). One can only hope that current stars like Lovato and Lohan, who showed such early promise in their respective runs as products of the Disney machine, are able to meet with a much different fate in the end.

This post is my contribution to the “Gone Too Soon” blogathon hosted by Comet Over Hollywood. Check out the list of participating blogs to see more heartfelt tributes to the stars who died well before their time.

Hey, Pluto!

Posted on by under blogathon, classic cartoons, classic disney, saturday morning cartoons

By 1930, Mickey Mouse had become a bona fide animated star. Since his creation two years earlier at the hands of Walt Disney and Ub Iwerks, he had starred in almost two dozen black-and-white shorts, ranging from his ever-popular debut in Steamboat Willie to Mickey’s Follies (1929), which introduced “Minnie’s Yoo Hoo,” the song that would remain Mickey’s theme for several years. These early cartoons became immensely popular, but after a few years, Disney’s writers and animators began having trouble crafting new, interesting material for the company’s flagship character. It didn’t help that the character of Mickey had begun to evolve (likely at Walt’s behest) from a sly schemer (a la his predecessor, Oswald the Lucky Rabbit) into a paragon of “good” behavior (albeit with some killer dance moves).

The development of a strong supporting cast of characters solved this problem, as figures such as the temperamental Donald Duck, the appropriately-named Goofy, and the rascally chipmunks Chip ‘n’ Dale allowed the animators to indulge in more varied storylines, with new gags that were sometimes silly, sometimes mean-spirited. Donald could be the bully, Goofy could do the crazy stunts, and Chip ‘n’ Dale could provide the mischievousness that Mickey’s sometimes bland portrayal lacked.

But those characters didn’t emerge until later (Goofy in 1932, Donald in 1934, the chipmunks in 1943). The earliest supporting characters in the Mickey shorts–figures such as Clarabelle Cow and Horace Horsecollar–would not prove to be as lasting a presence in the Mickey cartoons throughout the years. Though Mickey’s recurring early nemesis, Pete (who had originally debuted as a villain in the “Alice Comedies” and the Oswald shorts), would remain a go-to “bad guy” figure over the years, Clarabelle and Horace–and their barnyard friends–were not nearly as popular. By the late 1930s, the pair only appeared in a handful of shorts, and by the mid-1940s, they were essentially forgotten.

But in 1930, one of Mickey’s most popular and longest-lasting supporting characters was introduced, when he was given what every young, anthropomorphized mouse needs: a canine companion.

Pluto (or, as he was initially known, Pluto the Pup) didn’t start out as Mickey’s dog, however. In his first appearance, in 1930′s The Picnic, he was actually Minnie’s dog, and his name was Rover. But even before that cartoon, a precursor of Pluto popped up in The Chain Gang, which was released a month before The Picnic in 1930. In that short, Mickey escapes from jail and Pete is sent after him, trailing a pair of vaguely familiar-looking bloodhounds.

The design of these dogs was adapted and refined for The Picnic. In the cartoon, Minnie insists on bringing her “little Rover” along on the trip, and in a scene that likely enrages PETA advocates everywhere, Mickey ties the dog to the back of the car before driving off and dragging him behind. But when Pluto spots a pair of dancing (and honking) rabbits, the dog ends up dragging the car–and the hapless Mickey and Minnie–behind himself as he sets out on the chase.

Pluto debuted as Mickey’s companion almost seven months later, in the 1931 short The Moose Hunt. It is in this cartoon in which the character is first referred to as “Pluto.” The origins of the character’s name, however, have long been in dispute. More than a year earlier, in 1930, the current-dwarf-planet-formerly-known-as-a-”planet”-planet Pluto was discovered. It has long been believed that Disney subsequently named the dog after the planet (as opposed to the original source of the name–the Roman god of the underworld), but Disney never officially indicated why the name was ultimately given to the character. Still, it can’t be a coincidence that the name “Pluto” was in the news quite a bit while the dog was being created …

Over the years, Pluto has arguably become the most lovable Disney creation. And in many ways, this is due to his non-anthropomorphized nature. Unlike most of the other animal characters in the Disney universe, Pluto does not walk upright, nor does he speak, though he does occasionally snicker in addition to typical canine communication such as whining, barking, and growling. His movements and behavior are that of a dog–an uncommonly versatile dog, true, but a pet nonetheless.

In many ways, Pluto hearkens back to Winsor McCay’s Gertie the Dinosaur, the seminal animated short that inspired a generation of artists including Walt Disney himself. Gertie’s appeal as an animated creature that could communicate through sheer will of personality alone is revisited in Pluto’s antics. But Pluto also has the benefits of an overly expressive face, which can convey everything from joy to anger to utter befuddlement. Who needs words when the entire audience can tell what a character’s thinking with one quizzical glance or bared grimace?

This reliance on physicality is exemplified in Playful Pluto (1934), which is Pluto’s first significant role in a cartoon. It’s not the best Pluto cartoon–in essence, it’s little more than a series of funny vignettes in which Pluto’s titular playfulness interrupts Mickey’s attempts to get some work done around the house. But the scene that steals the show–and ultimately makes this cartoon an important one in the annals of animation–is a carefully-crafted sequence in which the dog has an uncomfortably close encounter with a sticky flystrip.

This scene has become famous over the years, and with good reason. Animated by Norm Ferguson, who had worked on developing the character from its earliest days, the “flypaper sequence” has been lauded by animators and historians for its realistic depiction of a “thinking” character. According to storied Disney animators Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnston, authors of The Illusion of Life (considered the veritable bible of animation by many in the field), this single minute-long scene was a groundbreaking moment in the development of animated characters whose thoughts could be telegraphed solely through their movements on the screen, as opposed to relying on dialogue to express their feelings.

As animation scholar Michael Barrier states in Hollywood Cartoons: American Animation in its Golden Age (2003):

“Throughout the sequence, Pluto’s state of mind is always visible, in his expressive face and body. The gags are well-constructed–everything that happens to Pluto seems possible, in a physical sense, with none of the gags forced–but it is the trajectory of the dog’s emotions that makes this sequence so vivid.”

Indeed, Pluto’s reactions to his predicament flow naturally from one impediment to the next. You can almost see the wheels turning in Pluto’s mind as he tries to extricate himself from the flypaper, his emotional responses running the gamut from startled to confused to determined to angry to purely frustrated. In an era when cartoon characters relied on witty dialogue and music to get their full intentions across to the audience, Pluto’s bout with the flypaper is truly a marvel.

Over the years, Pluto starred in a number of shorts, some with Mickey, some with Minnie,  and some on his own. He’s been paired with Donald Duck and Chip ‘n’ Dale in several cartoons. He has a particularly antagonistic relationship with the last two, as evidenced by shorts such as 1943′s Private Pluto (the chipmunks’ first appearance), the Oscar-nominated Squatters’ Rights (1947), and 1952′s Pluto’s Christmas Tree (which has always been one of my particular favorites).

And any time Mickey welcomed another pet into the house, Pluto had something to say (bark?) about it, whether it be Figaro, the mischievous cat from the 1940 film Pinocchio (see Pluto’s Sweater, 1949) or a fun-loving seal, as in the Academy Award-nominated cartoon posted above, 1948′s Mickey and the Seal.

In the early 1950s, Disney ceased production on Pluto-starring cartoons while continuing to produce toons featuring other characters such as the ever-popular Donald. But the lovable pooch is still a welcome presence in Disney shows and other modern media, including the early-2000s series House of Mouse, the current computer-animated Disney Junior series Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and the Kingdom Hearts video games. Still, for me, his appeal will always lie in those early cartoons, because Pluto’s two-decade run of shorts produced some seriously hilarious and aww-inducing bits of animated genius.

Like Mickey, I just can’t be mad at’cha, Pluto, old boy.

***

Some more fun facts about the precocious pup:

  • For most of the first thirty years of his existence, Pluto’s barks and grunts were voiced by Pinto Colvig, who was also the original voice of Goofy (though he did not record Goofy’s infamous yodeling “holler”). Among numerous other roles, Colvig also played both Sleepy and Grumpy in 1937′s Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
  • Playful Pluto is the cartoon shown to the convicts near the end of Sullivan’s Travels (1941), which prompts Sullivan (Joel McCrea) to realize the importance of humor in helping people get through their daily lives.
  • Though Pluto is known for being a non-speaking character, he actually does speak briefly in The Moose Hunt. When Mickey believes he has (accidentally) shot Pluto, he weeps and begs the dog to “speak to me–say something!” At that, Pluto sits up and says, “Kiss me!” while batting his eyelashes.
  • Pluto appeared in two entries in the Silly Symphonies series, both without Mickey: 1932′s Just Dogs, and 1936′s Mother Pluto.
  • In two different cartoons, Pluto is seen as having a family: in Pluto’s Quin-puplets (1937), he has a wife (Fifi the Pekinese) and five children, but in 1942′s Pluto Junior, he has a single son.
  • The Pluto-starring 1941 short Lend a Paw (a remake of the 1933 black-and-white cartoon Mickey’s Pal Pluto) won an Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film, beating out an unprecedented NINE other nominees, including another Disney cartoon, Truant Officer Donald.
  • When Mickey’s Christmas Carol, the first theatrical Mickey Mouse cartoon in thirty years, was released in 1983, Pluto was the only Disney stock character not to be featured (even though the long-forgotten Clarabelle Cow and Horace Horsecollar were!).

This post is our (long-winded) contribution to the Classic Movie Dogathon hosted by the Classic Film & TV Cafe. Make sure to check out the other wonderful entries that will posted between now and Wednesday, February 22nd!

Pioneers of Animation: Ub Iwerks (The Later Years)

Posted on by under classic cartoons, classic disney, pioneers of animation, saturday morning cartoons

After leaving Disney Brothers, Ub Iwerks’ own self-named animation venture, the Iwerks Studio, opened in 1930. Backed by Celebrity Pictures, with a distribution deal from major studio MGM, Iwerks was in an enviable position right out of the gate, making more money than he had ever made working with Walt Disney. He hired a group of fresh animators to work with him (a group that briefly included a young Chuck Jones). His first creation under his own banner was an anthropomorphic musical frog named Flip, who debuted in the six-minute short Fiddlesticks.

Fiddlesticks is noteworthy for being the first synchronized-sound two-strip Technicolor cartoon (it’s interesting to note that, when the three-strip color process was perfected a couple of years later, Disney produced the first cartoon in that mode, 1932′s Flowers and Trees–which would go on to win the first Academy Award for Animated Short Subject). Fiddlesticks also appears to feature a thumb to the nose of Disney, as one of Flip’s animal co-stars is a violin-playing mouse who strongly resembles the early concept sketches of Mickey Mouse.

After the success of Fiddlesticks, most of Flip’s future adventures were shot in black-and-white as opposed to the costly, time-consuming Technicolor process. And over time, at the behest of MGM, Flip’s design changed from amphibious to a more obviously human-like characterization, all in an effort to challenge the notably more human-like qualities of Mickey Mouse and crew. In all, Flip the Frog cavorted his way through just over three dozen shorts in the period between 1930 and 1933. When the public (and MGM) grew tired of the character, Iwerks retired Flip and debuted a new creation, Willie Whopper.

As his name implies, young Willie is a big fat liar, spinning tall tales for anyone who will listen. In his first appearance, 1933′s The Air Race, Willie tells his schoolyard chums the story of “the time I won the National Air Race.” The short even features a brief animated cameo by aviatrix Amelia Earhart, who crowns Willie the winner at the end. However, The Air Race was never released in public because MGM did not care for the final version. The story was reworked as Spite Flight, which would become the second Willie Whopper short distributed to theaters.

As with his predecessor, Flip, Willie Whopper went through several design changes over the course of the production of the shorts. Whereas in The Air Race Willie is a relatively thin young boy, in later cartoons he is drawn as much more rotund. Still, the changes did not result in longevity for Willie Whopper: while the character enjoyed a brief moment of popularity, ultimately only fourteen shorts were produced between 1933 and 1934.

Iwerks’ next endeavor was a series of shorts called ComiColor Cartoons, which his studio produced between 1933 and 1936. The ComiColor series ultimately represented the best of the Iwerks Studio’s output in the 1930s. The shorts were based on fairy tales and classic stories from literature ranging from Jack and the Beanstalk (the first ComiColor produced in 1933) to Don Quixote to the controversial Little Black Sambo cartoon (which was eventually banned). One particular short, 1935′s Balloon Land, gained a new audience in the 1980s after being featured on the popular children’s show Pee Wee’s Playhouse.

The ComiColor series was created using the Cinecolor process. Throughout most of the 1930s, Walt Disney held an exclusive contract with Technicolor, and no other studio could use that (infinitely better) process to make their own cartoon shorts. Cinecolor was the next best option, and was widely utilized by the lower-budget Hollywood studios. Many of the shorts were filmed by Iwerks himself using a multi-plane camera he had built from random parts of an old Chevrolet. The use of this camera allowed Iwerks to implement a sort of three-dimensional effect in some of the ComiColor cartoons–an impressive technique for the time (and one that would soon be replicated by Disney for the production of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs).

As innovative as some of the ComiColor shorts were, they marked the end of the Iwerks Studio. After MGM declined to continue distributing Iwerks’ products in 1934, distribution of the shorts fell to Celebrity Pictures. The arrangement would only last until 1936, and Iwerks was forced to close the studio that bore his name. For the next couple of years, Iwerks was a sort of freelance animator, producing several Looney Tunes shorts at Warner Bros. and working briefly for Columbia Pictures’ animation division.

It’s doubtful that the loss of the studio was particularly heartbreaking for Iwerks. Despite the initial success of the Iwerks Studio, the animator was never particularly happy in his new venture. By the end of the decade, he had to acknowledge to himself that his interests lay not in crafting new characters and stories, but in experimentation with the technology of the time, trying new, heretofore unseen tricks with the camera to better enhance the illusion at play. In 1940, Iwerks once again joined the Disney studio, albeit in a new capacity: as a special effects wizard.

Iwerks was more than up to the challenge. Within the first decade of his return to Disney, he invented a multi-head optical printer, a device which allowed for the realistic-looking combination of live-action and animation in 1940s package films such as The Three Caballeros and Song of the South. Never satisfied, Iwerks continued to tinker with his printer, improving its capabilities exponentially (and eventually winning the first of two technical Academy Awards for his efforts). Iwerks also conceived the idea of color traveling matte composite photography, the technology that made possible such sophisticated live-action/animation scenes as the penguin dance in 1964′s Mary Poppins.

Another innovation used in Mary Poppins that Iwerks helped to develop was the use of yellowscreen technology, in which actors were filmed in front of a white screen while being lit with sodium vapor lights. This process allowed for matte shots to be inserted into live-action shots, permitting live-action elements and animated scenes to blend together almost seamlessly. When Iwerks worked on the production of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds in 1963, he used the yellowscreen technology to compose the shots of the attacking birds (for his efforts, Iwerks was nominated once more for the Oscar for Special Effects, though he ultimately lost to Cleopatra, for some reason unbeknownst to yours truly).

Iwerks also took the existing technology of xerography and adapted it to the field of animation. He tinkered with a Xerox camera and eventually was able to design a device that would transfer animators’ drawings directly onto the animation cels as opposed to having each one individually hand-inked. This process was first used for the production of One Hundred and One Dalmatians, and it reportedly saved the Disney studios quite a bit of money that would have been spent trying to animate all of those multi-spotted dogs!

Not all of Iwerks’ time was spent working on films, however. In the 1960s, he joined what would later become the Disney Imagineering department, working on Disney theme park attractions such as “Pirates of the Caribbean” and “It’s a Small World.”

From animator to studio head to technical wizard, Ub Iwerks had a long, productive, and innovative career. By the time he passed away in 1971, at the age of seventy, he had secured his position as one of the true pioneers of modern animation. In recent years, his contributions have become even more well-known, and his role in elevating the House of Mouse to its storied heights has been recognized by the Disney company itself, which inducted Iwerks into its “Legends” hall of fame in 1989. Ub’s son, Don Iwerks, followed in his footsteps as a technical wizard in his own right, working for Disney for more than thirty-five years (and becoming a Legend himself in 2009).

The young innovators, Disney and Iwerks

Even though Walt and Ub’s friendship never recovered from Ub’s move towards independence in 1930, the two men truly comprised a partnership that was made in cinematic heaven. Each respected the other for what he could do, and each allowed the other to aspire to greatness. Though Iwerks was content to remain in the background in his later years, leaving the showmanship to Disney, his contributions were nonetheless vitally important to the development of the Walt Disney Company as a force to be reckoned with.