Koko and Max Silence the Wise Ones

Max Fleischer’s wonderful little cartoons of the silent era straddled the real and unreal worlds. On one hand, Max and his studio, and even the streets of New York, were seen in all their realistic glory. His Koko the Clown, thanks to the rotoscope, could duplicate human movement. On the other hand, the characters in the cartoon—and occasionally, the “live action” humans—could morph into all kinds of different things. Their marriage of live action and animation not only inspired others during the 1920s, it’s still a real delight to watch today.

Fleischer had been releasing his Koko shorts as part of the Goldwyn Bray Pictograph when, in 1921, he set up his own studio. His operation was expanded in 1924 into a company called Red Seal which distributed his cartoons and a variety of other films. During the same year, Fleischer made the first of the “Song Car-Tunes” where theatre-goers could sing along with the song on the screen, following the bouncing ball. Red Seal only lasted a few years because of financial mismanagement, but Fleischer carried on until Paramount took away his studio in the early ‘40s. Even so, Fleischer’s cartoon are enjoyed by fans today.

Picture and Picturegoer (an English publication, I believe) caught up with Fleischer that same year. The story below appeared in the April 1924 issue.

In & out of the Inkwell
Max Fleischer, creator of one of the most delightful screen characters extant, explains how it’s done.
Have you fallen under the spell of that smallest of screen comedians, that clever and decidedly original “Out of The Inkwell Clown?” If you haven’t there is something materially wrong with you and you should see a doctor at once.
There is no screen character quite like him—one minute, he is nothing, then from a mere spot he becomes a jolly rollicking playmate who thinks of more devilment in a few minutes than the worst school-boy would in a whole holiday time. When the clown first joined the host of screen comedians, there were many Wise People who were certain that a new Charlie Chaplin had come to town and that Max Fleischer, the new artist, was putting something over on the public. “It is impossible for an animated cartoon to do all those stunts,” they said wisely. “All the others that we have seen show decided movements where the pictures change and these are just as smooth as an ordinary film. Something wrong!” Somehow this was repeated to the clever young artist and he settled matters conclusively and silenced all those Wise Ones. How? By simply making the Clown disappear just as he had created him, from a blot, he made a man and from the man he made a blot and then just simply rubbed him out! Marvellous, said everyone, and so it is.

I went to the Out Of The Inkwell offices to find out for myself all about it. I found out a lot and had a mighty nice time, but, between ourselves, I was almost as mystified as when I went in. The whole process looked absurdly simple when I was there, but once outside I marvelled anew at the cleverness of Max Fleischer and his genius in creating a new and delightful screen-character.
Mr. Fleischer is almost as interesting as the Clown, though not so mysterious a personage and his staff of workers is like a big family. Nowhere have I seen the co-operation and the friendly atmosphere that I found in his little office studio. Perhaps the fact that it’s small, may account for some of the homelikeness of the surroundings, but whatever it is, it is most delightful.
Max Fleischer told me all about himself, of his coming to the new country from Austria when he was only a lad, of his struggles for an education, his art lessons taken at night after working hours and finally of the position which he secured on a small newspaper where he made cartoons that soon attracted notice. “But my dream was to make drawings for the screen,” he said. “At that time there were a number being made but none of them were perfected and the changes from one sketch to another were plainly noticeable to the audiences. I made up my mind to perfect a camera that would have the same ease in changing pictures that the regular motion picture ones did and I worked in my spare time perfecting such an invention. The camera must operate more freely to eliminate the difference of movement which was perceptible and often annoying to audiences, who had hard work keeping their minds on the subject before them. My theory was to make the process so smooth that the mechanical side would be forgotten. I gave up my position and as I had no money to waste put all I could spare into the experiment and did away with the problem of office rent by working in my bedroom. After a year and a half I was ready to show the results and the getting of a release was the easiest part of it all. Just as we were ready to go ahead the War came and I was sent to Ft. Sells to do war work. This consisted in making a series of films which were used in the instruction of the soldiers.

“In what way was this done?”
“I made different drawings of different kinds which were destined to shorten the time of training. For instance, military maps, diagrams of cannon and guns which demonstrated themselves most plainly. After I was mustered out I made my first drawing. What to call it was a problem, and I finally decided upon “Out Of The Inkwell.” I think I’m the only artist who makes his figures move exactly like a human being. And from being a mere trailer to a screen magazine, they now occupy an important part of a picture programme.”
I learned that it takes from 2,500 to 3,000 little drawings for one cartoon. I saw them drawn, photographed, put together and “reeled off.” A perfectly marvellous operation, but it left me dazed.
ELIZABETH LONERGAN