Bimbo Can't Escape

Swing You Sinners is filled with almost non-stop nightmarish imagery and is one of my favourite Fleischer cartoons.

Bimbo finds himself in a graveyard, with ghosts and gravestones singing accusations against him before escaping to a warped farmyard and being chased by all kinds of creatures.

In one scene, the grass opens up and a huge mouth comes out, while headstones advance toward him and form a square around him.



Bimbo jumps to escape. Cut to him grasping and then climbing to the top of a tall pole. “Oh, no!” wails Bimbo. A tombstone grows, develops a face and responds, “Oh, yes.” Bimbo drops to the ground.



And it’s on to the next scene.

Ted Sears and William Bowsky are the credited animators.

Shamus Culhane remembered the cartoon very well. He wrote almost two pages about it in Talking Animals and Other People, saying he, Al Eugster, George Cannata, Seymour Kneitel and William Henning (as well as Bowsky) were suddenly promoted to animators and this was their first cartoon. Culhane felt Grim Natwick should have received a credit for all the work he did on it.

It was released Sept. 24, 1930.

The Actor Who Was Munster, Not Monster

Frankenstein’s monster isn’t scary.

Not when it’s a look-alike version played by Fred Gwynne.

The Munsters was a sitcom where the characters were inspired by old horror movie characters. They didn’t behave like them, they just looked like them, and acted normally. That was the comedy.

Gwynne, Yvonne De Carlo and the others squeezed two seasons and a feature film for fans only out of the idea in the mid-1960s. That was enough for reruns in those days, and they ensured Gwynne would be associated with the role until the wire services wrote his obituary. And, as Gwynne noted to newspaper columnist Holly Hill in 1974, “it’s putting the kids through school.”

Herman Munster’s appearance wasn’t Gwynne’s first stereotype role. While a member at Harvard’s Hasty Pudding Club in May 1949, he played Pablo, a shoeless, lazy Latin American. In July the next year, he was a member of the Brattle Theatre Company, where he appeared with John Carradine in a production of “Julius Caesar” (as a soothsayer). Two weeks later, the company mounted a comedy starring Zero Mostel. “Fred Gwynne got a flurry of applause for his playing of an almost simpering idiot,” reported the Boston Globe.

His Munster role overshadowed his first starring on television opposite the New York-shot Car 54, Where Are You?. Reported columnist Erskine Johnson in 1965: “Gwynne says he was eager to play something different from Sgt. Muldoon. He jumped at the Munster role. ‘After all,’ he says, ‘television doesn’t offer much variety—doctors, lawyers, private eyes. I figured the show would be a hit’.”

An excellent summary of his career to date came from the typewriter of Ben Gross, the Daily News TV reporter in his Sunday feature column of January 10, 1965:

He’s a Lovable, Grotesque Munster
Fred Gwynne, Harvard Man and Former Funny Cop, Talks of TV, Art & Money
By BEN GROSS
Lovable, Fred Gwynne is a living contradiction. A posh Groton and Harvard man, he won fame as a funny dumb cop in Car 54, Where Are You? And this season he is starring as the lovable, grotesque Herman Munster in CBS-TV's off-beat comedy series, The Munsters (Thursdays, 7:30 P.M.).
A highly cultivated, at times morose, fellow with a marked strain of mysticism and a mordant wit, he can discuss art, drama and poetry with the assurance and knowledge of an expert. Yet on television this tall and analytical actor has made his reputation in roles which, to put it mildly, are not exactly intellectual.
Dining with him at Jack LaRue's restaurant in Southern California's Studio City, I found him at first to be in an uncommunicative mood. A bit grumpy, in fact.
However, after I had asked him why he, an actor who once had played a great deal of Shakespeare, was now appearing in the new but by no-means subtle situation comedy, the dam of silence cracked and a stream of talk poured forth.
What's Art?
"The explanation is simple," he said. "You see, I don't make the mistake of confusing art and business. Being in a TV series is fine and ours is a very good one. But art . . . well that is something else again."
"Okay," I came back. "What is art?"
"It's when you take something that God has put on this earth and heighten it. You find art in the cave drawings, in ancient Egyptian civilization and the Chinese brush painters. "Of course, if you're going to apply the highest standards, many famous painters of today would fail to qualify," he continued. "Take Picasso. He's the world greatest idea man, Madison Avenue-wise, but he certainly is no great artist."
"But coming back to TV," I remarked, "why the sudden vogue this season for monster shows yours and ABC's The Addams Family."
Not at all surprisingly, Fred commented that he thinks The Munsters is by far the best of the two. "It's the only monster series with already identifiable characters: mine, a Frankenstein sort of fellow and Al Lewis' kindly Dracula-like creation.
"But answering your question as to why such shows have come on this season . . . I suppose it's because no one really thought of doing them before."
The Right Answer
Incidentally, appearing as the friendly monstrous character is no easy job. To put on his make-up requires two-and-a-half hours every day.
"How do your children react to seeing their father in this guise?" I asked.
"I have two, you know, a boy and a girl, 10 and 11," Fred said. "My daughter has the right answer. She tells her friends: 'My father earns money that way and that is why I can go to the fine school I do.”
Fred Gwynne, the son of a stockbroker, is a native of New York, but spent a goodly portion of his youth in South Carolina, Florida and Colorado. After attending Groton, one of the swankiest of prep schools, he served as a radioman on a subchaser in the South Pacific during World War II.
Before that, he had made his debut in Shakespeare's "Henry V” and studied with the famous portrait painter, R. S. Merryman. Then after his discharge from the Navy he enrolled in New York's Phoenix School of Design. However, before completing his course, Fred decided to finish his education at Harvard.
"While there I joined the repertory company at the Brattle Theatre of Cambridge, and after graduation in 1951, I stayed with them for two years," he told me.
Fred made such a hit as Bottom in Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream" that he decided to try his fortunes on Broadway. There he appeared in numerous successful plays and later also in Elia Kazan's movie, "On the Waterfront."
Joined Ad Agency
"During a lull in engagements, I joined an advertising agency, J. Walter Thompson, and among the things I worked on were the Ford commercials," he recalled. "But what I wanted to do, above all, was to act, and on the day I quit the agency, I got a call to appear in the Broadway musical, 'Irma La Douce.’ Then, of course, came TV with Car 54."
A versatile actor and painter, Fred has also written and illustrated two books, "What's a Nude?" and "Best in Show," the latter for children.
"Although you still paint, you are now primarily an actor," I pointed out. "Why did you choose that as a career?"
He Was Discouraged
"Oh, I intended to become a full-time painter," he said. "But in art school I was discouraged. And, as a matter of fact, I was also discouraged when I tried to attend a school for acting, the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York.
"I tried to audition, but the teacher who passed on applicants told me, 'You are too tall for the theatre.’ I, however, insisted on an audition and finally got one. After that he said to me, 'Okay, I'll take you, but I still say you're too tall for the theatre.’ Then he smiled. 'But then I also once told Ezra Stone that he was too short. And look what a success he made!”
Holywood's [sic] a Machine
"Anyway, I didn't go to the Academy. Instead I went to Harvard on the GI Bill."
"As a New Yorker have you become accustomed to working in Hollywood?" I asked.
"Yes, though eventually I intend to return to New York," Fred said. "As for Hollywood, it's just a gigantic machine, but I like it as much as Mt. Kiscoe or the Bronx."
"Can TV ever replace the theatre for an actor?" I queried.
"It depends on how old he is. If he's over 30, no; if he's under 30, yes.”
Good Tunes
"As a man who used to be a copy-writer in an ad agency, what do you think of those singing commercials?" I wanted to know.
"Well, I can tell you this: Considering the state of popular music today, you can hear some of the best tunes in TV on those commercials."
"You're also a writer. So tell me why is it that so many famous authors when they come to Hollywood seem to lose their ability to write good stuff? Even the late F. Scott Fitzgerald and William Faulkner couldn't do it while out here."
He pondered for a moment. "It's because they confused art with business. When you do business, you do it for money. When you do art, money doesn't matter," said Fred Gwynne.

Gwynne wore blue-green make-up as Herman, which was a challenge because the series was shot in black and white. Karl Silvera was his make-up man, and told the Tulsa World in 1964 Herman’s head was built with rubber stuck on with a special cement, with castor oil partly responsible for the colour. “This color makes the face look dead and pasty in black and white,” said Silvera. “That’s what we’re shooting for.” World columnist Chuck Wheat observed: “Green skin almost makes the most healthy eyeballs in the world look like fugitives from the liver cartoon. That plus purple lipstick make for rather startling appearances.”

Like others known for their regular TV performance as a stand-out character, Gwynne had some troubles afterward. “Producers look at me as Herman and that don’t bode me too good,” Gwynne told the Hartford Courant in 1975. But the American Shakespeare Theatre ignored that and he appeared on stage as Big Daddy in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night and then as the Stage Manager in Our Town authored by Thornton Wilder, who was teaching at Harvard when Gwynne attended.

He was only 66 when he died in 1993. His Associated Press obituary concluded with an admission from a 1982 interview: “And I might as well tell you the truth. I love old Herman Munster,” he said. “Much as I try not to, I can’t stop liking that fellow.”

Shadows and Silhouettes

Creating a spooky or scary mood in a cartoon can be done through voice or music. But since we are talking about an animated cartoon, another way to accomplish it is through the artwork.

In Claws For Alarm, layout artist Maurice Noble and background painter Phil De Guard employ shadows and silhouettes to create a discomfiting atmosphere. Some examples:



Writer Mike Maltese and director Chuck Jones elect to let the audience know who will be trying to kill Porky—sadistic mice.



A keyhold-shaped shadow. Very imaginative.



Sylvester bashes Porky with the butt of a rifle to knock him into woozy-land, then shoves the pig in their car and zooms away to escape the would-be killers.

Or did they? Cut to the final shot of the car’s speedometer.



A perfect science-fiction-style ending by Maltese.

This is the second cartoon in the Jones Porky/Sylvester horror trilogy. The first was Scaredy Cat (1948) and the third was the outer-space-themed Jumpin’ Jupiter (1955).

Jones has a full contingent of animators on this one—Ken Harris, Abe Levitow, Ben Washam, Lloyd Vaughan and Dick Thompson. Though the film was released in May 22, 1954, it was formally copyrighted on June 6, 1955, despite a 1953 date on the opening titles.

A Horse is a Horse...Of Course?

Flip the Frog escapes from one of Ub Iwerks’ murderous skeletons in Spooks (1932), crashing through them while riding the underside of an operating table.



Flip rides off on his horse to safety. Or does he?



He jumps off the skeletonized horse and runs into the distance to end the cartoon.



Iwerks indulges in his skeleton fetish that began at Disney with The Skeleton Dance (1929). Everything except Flip is a skeleton in this cartoon—skeleton food, skeleton dog, skeleton fleas.

There are no credits on this short except to Iwerks.

Mercury Reaches Benny

Here’s an example of becoming part of the popular language.

In 1956, the San Angelo Standard reported on a cold snap hitting Texas. The headline read: “Mercury Reaches Benny.”

If you’re a fan of Jack Benny, you know exactly what that means, even though he died half a century ago. People in 1956 knew about it. Ordinary people well past the age joked they were now 39 or “Jack Benny’s age.” The joke continued for years.

People could identify with a man who refused to admit he was getting any older. Benny instinctively knew 39 was a funny and appropriate number (against his better judgment, he celebrated a 40th birthday on TV and immediately went back to being 39).

Interestingly, publicity agents picked up on the “mercury” line. It was a different way of telling the 39 joke. This is from the Springfield Repubican, March 31, 1957. I presume this came from CBS.

Benny's Toupee Turns Out to Be Myth
Jack Benny, whose, "'The Jack Benny Program" of last Sunday (CBS-TV, 7.30-8 WHYN-TV) was a filmed presentation from Paris with Maurice Chevalier as guest, has chalked up another “first” in a long series of "firsts" in this four-episode series made in Europe.
Jack is the first American actor to film a television comedy show in Europe for viewing in America. In fact, he filmed four of them there last sumner.
Among his "firsts," Jack is the first comedian to make famous a toupee he doesn't wear. While full head of hair, he is regarded as one of the best has friends the hair-piece industry has.
He is also the first comedian who, despite the fact he constantly and publicly “murders" the violin, has played violin concerts in New York's Carnegie Hall and the Philadelphia Academy of Music. He has another such concert scheduled April 23 at the Los Angeles Philharmonic Auditorium.
His was the feature first network program to feature a singing commercial. A happy first for both Jack and The Sportsmen's Quartet, who have gone on to fame and fortune as a result of their singing Benny commercials.
Jack is also the first to use the integrated gag-type commercial. This type of commercial, now a famous Benny trademark, gently chides the sponsor. Jack was also the first to write his announcer, Don Wilson, into the body of his show so successfully that now Don, is better known as a regular member of the Benny cast than he is as a veteran broadcaster.
Jack, back in the 1930s was the first to use trick sound effects to get laughs. Everyone has heard the sound from his mythical Maxwell; and the weird noises that come from bank vault, complete with dragging chains, have been responsible for some very hearty laughs.
Without doubt, Benny is the first comedian to enhance his reputation as a master by not saying a word, just looking—looking as only Jack Benny can look, with his timing.
Finally, of course, Jack was the first to make the number 39 this famous. The public acceptance of joke concerning Jack's alleged age is borne out by a headline on a weather story in a small town Texas newspaper. The headline read, “Mercury reaches Benny," meaning that the temperature for the day had been 39.

Here’s another from the Hartford Courant of Dec. 22, 1957. Again, I suspect this came from CBS.

Waukegan's Gift To TV Isn't Even Slowing Up
Who is regarded as the best friend the false hair industry ever had, although he has a full head of hair himself? Who is the worst violinist who has ever played at Carnegie Hall, the Philadelphia Academy of Music and the Los Angeles Philharmonic Auditorium? Who has been 39 years old for the past 13 years and looks younger every year? Who is so tight-fisted that he keeps all his worldly possessions tightly locked in an underground vault and installs vending machines in his living room? The answer to these questions, of course, is Jack Benny . . . a phenomenon if there ever was one.
Cracks about Benny's toupee, such as Rochester's famous one: "Mr. Benny has hair at home he hasn't even used yet!" have become part of the American language. Even though Jack has publicly murdered the violin for many years, (actually Jack is a fine violinist) every concert he has appeared in has been a howling success. One well-known critic commented, Benny is a very funny man and he makes very funny music."
As for the magic number "39," Jack Benny has made it so famous that an out of season cold snap brought forth the headline "Mercury Reaches Benny."
Many of Jack Benny's greatest admirers think he is funniest when he is not saying anything . . . just looking. Jack Benny is now in his eighth year on the CBS Television Network (this is his 20th on the air). His "regulars," Rochester and Don Wilson, have been with him the major portion of his broadcast career.
Benny has survived longer than his ancient Maxwell and every serious critic of comedy expects the Waukegan wit to continue to provide the American public with his fine brand of humor, for many more years. The Jack Benny Show is seen on Channel 18 on alternate Sundays at 7:30 p.m.

Actually, Jack wore a toupee in some of his films (photo above from The Horn Blows At Midnight) and in one radio promotional photo where it’s really, really silly. No wonder he made fun of the idea.

I’m pretty sure Ed Wynn was exchanging retorts with announcer Graham McNamee before Benny started his radio show, though maybe by only a few weeks.

As for “39,” that didn’t come along until 1948. It made so big an impression that old radio fans may not know he was any age but that. While in later years, Jack told reporters he was deliberately playing down the fake age because it didn’t work any more, it followed him to the grave. At least one newspaper, in a story on his death, reported “Jack Benny was 39.”

Who Would Have, I SAY! Who Would Have Thought

Cartoons are not exclusively for kids. That’s why you non-kids reading this blog enjoy good animated cartoons.

Over on the Yowp blog, we’ve written about how patrons of bars would stop everything to watch The Huckleberry Hound Show. Huck, Yogi, Jinksie and the meeces (and, in three cartoons, the lovable dog Yowp), weren’t the only animated characters attracting bar-flies.

Here’s a cute story from Florida, where a pub halted its activities so people could watch Foghorn Leghorn in relative peace.

Foggy was likely the most successful character that came out of the Bob McKimson unit. No doubt being Southern appealed to Floridians, though he wasn’t likely from that far south. In his early cartoons, he flapped his arms and gestured wildly. Once McKimson “calmed” his animators (McKimson’s preference seems to have been for subtle acting), Foghorn’s dialogue and penchant for far-fetched analogies drove the humour. That was one of the characteristics he borrowed from Kenny Delmar’s Senator Claghorn on the Fred Allen radio show, though his origins lay elsewhere. Get the facts from Keith Scott’s fine research on this.

Enough of me. Let’s get to the article from the Tampa Tribune, March 27, 1980. I admire the industry of the reporter, managing to turn his trips to the local bar (knowing news people and bars, I am certain it is “trips,” plural) in a story. One presumes the pub owner thanked him for the free publicity in an accustomed manner.

Foghorn Leghorn
Ardent Fans Crow Fowl, I Say Fowl, When Feathered Friend Fails To Appear
By TOM WUCKOVICH
Tribune Staff Writer
TEMPLE TERRACE—It usually starts promptly at 10 a.m. and continues unabated until 4 p.m.
The "it" is the exotic sound coming from Everybody's Pub, which adjoins the Tribune Northside office in Temple Terrace.
Seldom does a day go by that the pin-ball machine, with its outer space program, isn't piping sounds through the paper-thin walls and the strains of the Eagles singing "There's Gonna Be A Heartache Tonight" has the staff unconsciously tapping its feet.
But, as if by some mystical touch, the noise stops promptly at 4 p.m. and stays that way until 5 p.m. Why?
It certainly deserved looking into. So, seeing our duty, we ventured into the pub unobserved, and observed the following:
Grown men and women, of all sizes and descriptions, were huddled around the bar gazing intently at the color television set perched atop the wooden circle. What was this hearty group watching? Cartoons!
Not just any cartoons, we later found out, but "Bugs, Woody and Friends," which is aired by WTOG-TV Monday through Friday from 4 to 5 p.m.
This group is not just cartoon watchers, it's a group of cartoon addicts. And the object of their affection was, and is, none other than Foghorn Leghorn, that boisterous, I say boisterous, egotistical and repetitious rooster with the deep Southern voice.
Boy, I say boy, listen up. This group is so devoted to its fine feathered friend that when he isn't shown at least once during the program, public outcry results.
Well, WTOG committed a grievous sin not long ago when Foghorn was left out of the program for an entire week. Everybody at Everybody's was upset.
So distrubed [sic] were they that Joe Mooney, a "regular" at the bar, took matters into his own hands and penned the following letter to the TV station. It speaks for itself and Mooney, who does Foghorn as well as Foghorn, also received a reply from the beleaguered station.
Here is his letter, and WTOG's response:
"We the undersigned, have a grievance with a program of your network. To wit, 'Bugs, Woody and Friends' cartoons that are aired weekdays, Monday through Friday from 4 to 5 p.m.
"We are a group of people who watch your program religiously every afternoon at a local pub here in Temple Terrace that shall remain nameless because it is Everybody's Pub — everybody comes here — everybody drinks here — and everybody complains here about your program.
"We are such ardent fans of this show that the Management has enforced hard and strict rules while your program is viewed.
"1. The plug for the jukebox shall be pulled from the wall socket.
"2. The kitchen will be closed from 4 till 5.
"3. All beer, wine, soft drinks, chips, Slim Jims, will be served only during commercials.
"4. No quarter change made.
"5. All racks, balls, cue sticks and chalk will be placed in the men's room.
"6. The men's room will be locked.
"We are what we consider a cross section of the American viewer; therefore, we feel that we know what the Public wants to see. This could be of great value to you as a Broadcaster. However, due to the fact that kids are watching at this hour, we won't suggest showing pornography at this time of day.
"Our group consists of Butchers and Bakers — a couple of Beer Can Makers — Carpenters and Plumbers — Two Hookers (they're bummers) — Pool Sharks and Hustlers — some upstate Cow Rustlers — a Lawyer, a Surgeon — a gal who's a Virgin — some Nurses — some Teachers — and a couple of Preachers — a Pusher — A Legal Defender — Two girls that call themselves Bar-Persons. Not to mention Elleen — Ginny — Mike — Tom — Chris and Lee, Gene — Ken — Joe — Jack — Clyde and Me.
"So you see there are quite a few viewers at stake here. Now we love Bugs, Woody, Porky Pig, Felix the Cat, Tweety Bird and all the rest. What we want is, I say, is more Foghorn Leghorn. You have no idea how his fans sit patiently waiting for Foghorn Leghorn to appear on the screen.
"They chew their nails — they mumble to themselves — they ponder if they forgot to punch out when they left work or if they locked the shop — set the burglar alarm, etc. — not to mention refusing overtime just to watch the cartoon. But to no avail, no Foghorn Leghorn cartoon today, nor yesterday. In fact, it has been a week since you featured Foghorn.
"So we suggest you speak to your Program Director — Say, I say, pay attention Son, we want at least one, I say one, Foghorn Leghorn cartoon a day. Now if you don't air more Foghorn Leghorn we will plug in the jukebox. I say, we will plug in the jukebox, serve beer, play pool, open the kitchen and the men's room, and if that doesn't work, I say, if that doesn't work — we'll switch to Merv."
The letter was signed by Mooney and 19 other fans.
Channel 44 was not to be outdone. Promotion manager Barry, I say Barry Stinson, answered the letter under the name of Foghorn Leghorn himself.
"A tear, I say, a tear trickled down my beak when I read your wonderful letter. Never before have I received such glowing compliments from my legion of fans, and it gave me a warm feeling from my comb all the way down to my drumsticks.
"But, please, I say, please don't get your feathers ruffled over my infrequent appearances on Ch. 44. When I signed my contract with Warner Bros., they had no idea that I would be so popular at your watering hole. Therefore, I only made a limited number of films for them. Little did they know that I have the potential to be a superstar, like Cluck Gable or Chicken Heston. I could have been a great comedian like Rhode Island Red Skelton, Henny Youngman or Pullet Lynde.
"Also, I could have been a rock music superstar. I turned down offers to go on tour with The Eagles, Paul McCartney and Wings. A similar offer came from the Vienna Capons Choir, but it involved a delicate operation, so I passed on that, too.
"You see, I'm keeping a low profile because Colonel Sanders has put a contract out on me. I don't know why, I certainly haven't done anything to egg him into such drastic action. So I've gone underground. I'm presently operating with a tough bird named Robin Hood, and I've taken on the alias of Fryer Tuck.
"So, please don't cry ‘Fowl’ if you don't see me on Ch. 44."
Stinson also enclosed a picture of the group's hero.
Whether the gang will take this "laying" down is still in question. It's obvious the station is ripe for a "Coop d'etat."

Locking the bathroom for an hour? That’ll cause, I SAY, that’ll cause more hopping around than a mouse at a burlesque show. To paraphrase a famous rooster.

Foggy starred in 28 cartoons, beginning with Oscar nominee Walky Talky Hawky (released in 1946). He also made a cameo appearance at the end of McKimson’s Bugs Bunny cartoon False Hare (released in 1964), and in some of the segments (and the opening animation) of The Bugs Bunny Show in prime time on ABC (the CBC in Canada).

Warren Foster was McKimson’s writer when the rooster was created in what was supposed to be a supporting role in a Henery Hawk cartoon. Tedd Pierce took over for the eighth Foggy short and wrote most of the rest. Mike Maltese took a stab at two (Fox Terrier, a 1957 short, and Weasel While You Work, released the following year with Snooper and Blabber music). After Pierce left the studio, Dave Detiege and McKimson himself wrote the last two.

Foggy was still popular after the Warners studio closed in the early 1960s. McKimson animated his appearance with comedian Pat Paulsen in a live/animation combo, while the pushy pullet found employment hawking (or is that “chicken hawking”?) Kentucky Fried Chicken with Henery and Miss Prissy, as Mel Blanc and June Foray provided the voices. And Warners thought enough of him to release a Foghorn Leghorn DVD a while back.

By the way, if TV promotion guru Stinson thought his station upset the Happy Hour crowd, it was nothing compared to when he worked at WGNX Atlanta in the mid-‘90s and it cancelled Star Trek: The Next Generation. Viewers were madder than a wet hen. Or maybe a wet Leghorn.

Catapulting to Failure

The basic premise of a Roadrunner cartoon:

1. The Coyote has some kind of contraption to catch the Roadrunner.
2. The contraption begins to backfire.
3. The Coyote looks at the audience.
4. The Coyote plummets down a cliff or is otherwise smashed.

But there were times when you knew what was going to happen to Wile E. You just didn’t know how. And that made those cartoons worth watching.

One great example is a cartoon released near the end of the Warners studio, based on a Mike Maltese gag in the 1957 Roadrunner/Coyote cartoon Zoom and Bored. Chuck Jones and co-writer John Dunn came up with the idea of Wile E. setting up a catapult with a boulder designed to smash the Roadrunner in To Beep or Not to Beep (1963). The difference from the earlier cartoon is they try all kinds of variations on the idea. You know the boulder’s going to land on the Coyote, but because Jones and Dunn use more than one gag, you don’t know exactly how the situation is going to play out.

After five failures, the Coyote goes through a long sequence that starts with the rope that’s supposed to set off the catapult falling off. Wile E. is overly cautious while testing it to make sure he doesn’t get smashed with the rock, but then throws away caution as he investigates why the catapult didn’t work.



More Jones poses as it takes some time for the Coyote to realise what’s happening.



There it goes.



Note the animation shortcut. Jones has the Coyote on a cel that goes behind an overlay.



After an 11-frame hold, Jones cuts to Wile E., the bluff and the boulder. What happens next?



The whole sequence is excellently timed by Jones.

But it’s not over. There’s a post-script, a completely logical one. Jones trucks in on the catapult, then dissolves to a close-up. The final gag is summed up in these frames.



Dick Thompson, Bob Bransford, Tom Ray and Ken Harris are the animators, with Phil De Guard painting the backgrounds and Bill Lava supplying a decent score.