Everyone seems to sexually analyse Frank Tashlin’s “I Got Plenty of Mutton” but I’d prefer to do something else.
There’s a wonderful set of drawings when the hungry wolf sneaks to a pot and attempts to make a weak meat broth, only to have rats gobble it down. There are some great drawings of the wolf shooing away the rats, some of which lunge in perspective past the camera.
Tashlin doesn’t really use a cycle. Some of the drawings repeat in order but not all of them so he avoids a feeling of repetition. Here are a few of them.
You can see outlines of the wolf’s head are used to add a speed effect.
Izzy Ellis gets the animation credit on this cartoon but I wonder if Art Davis did the angular wolf going to the safe just before this scene. Cal Dalton was in the Tashlin unit at this time and George Cannata (Sr.) got an animation credit in “Swooner Crooner,” the next Tashlin cartoon to be released.
It seems appropriate that, on July 4, there would be a newspaper column about an American conquering the English. No Revolutionary War story here, though it had been joked the man at the centre of all this had been around since then.
July 4, 1950 is when Broadway columnist Earl Wilson wrote about Jack Benny’s victory on the stage of the Palladium in London. Earl—and it must be nice to have this kind of job—was a first-hand viewer.
British Love Jack Benny By EARL WILSON London — Jack Benny stands there on the stage and says, “In Scotland, they think I’m quite a spendthrift. . .” And the English, some of them well-to-do, some of them in evening clothes, smoking their cigarets and cigars as they sit in the stalls at the Palladium Theatre, go mad with delight, for Jack Benny is as popular in England as American money. I think he’s even more appreciated than he is at home. For we take him for granted back home; here they only hear his broadcasts — without commercials, yet! — during the war, and saw him two years ago at the Palladium, so he’s a great, great luxury. “I’m a collector of rare coins,” he says. “Of course they weren’t rare when I collected them”. And they roar again. The Londoners go to either the “first house” at 6:15, or the “second house,” at 8:45, and they have a drink in the saloon in the back at intermission. And sitting in the audience as the Beautiful Wife and I did, hearing the laughter of that friendly audience, you can begin to feel something new about the greatness of the English language and its power to communicate. (There, there, Wilson, don’t get serious. You’re a jerk from Ohio remember?) For they’re hep here. They laugh just at the mention of Fred Allen, and cheer the name of Danny Kaye. They know about Jolson. Jack — as a gag — said that Jolson got paid $5-000 to work at a N Y. benefit. “Jolson needs $5,000 like Jane Russell need falsies,” Jack said “They’re both loaded.” They adore Phil Harris’ singing and bragging, as when he pretends he’s the top man and says superiorly to Benny, “Glad to have you with me.” And when Rochester says he has no objection to his salary “but I’m the only man who can cash my pay check on a tram,” well they’ve had it — as everybody says here. How the critics raved! The Daily Express’ John Barber said: “Oh Good, Mr. Benny. Oh, Very Good!” And here’s a clue to Benny’s likely greatness on television in this line: “The famous deadpan’s face is never still. Radio audiences miss the best of Benny.” I think so, too, but only discovered it here. Jack is one of the greatest muggers — yet it’s an underplayed mugging; he’s really a “facial expressionist,” with about the greatest timing to be found today. At intermission, I went to investigate a great jam in an aisle, thinking it was Ava Gardner’s fans, but they were packed around Cesar Romero and Mary Benny for their autographs, Quel adoration for Romero. Afterward we went into the bar off the royal box that Val Parnell, owner of the Palladium, fitted up for the King and Queen, then we were off to the “21 Room” for a party where the guests, including the Robert Sherwoods and Sam Goldwyns, cheered Benny when he came in. Characteristically, Jack, after his triumph, talked about somebody else—about Danny Kaye and Dinah Shore phoning him from Hollywood and the Wiere Brothers from St. Louis. And he told Bob Sherwood about Barney Dean, a writer for Hope & Crosby on the coast, whom he greatly admires for his wit. “Somebody asked him how he liked his writing job,” Jack related, “and he said, ‘Fine, except every once in a while when they ask me to write something.’” “How I know that feeling!” Sherwood said. Me too. Right now.
Jack returned to the air on September 10 and the first-half of the show involved dialogue dealing with the trip. Interestingly, Jack and his writers admitted in the second half that radio was finished. Benny and his troupe are shunted around the CBS building because all the radio studios are now being used for television. Within two months, Benny’s TV show would debut from New York.
So much has been written and said about the Disney studio and its resultant empire that there isn’t really much I can add. And that’s all just as well, because I’ve never been as into Disney, or fascinated by the whole aura that built up around what’s now just a brand-name, as many others.
I liked seeing the kindly version of Walt Disney on camera and watching on Sunday nights (what else was on?) only if some funny cartoons were being shown (or Ludwig Von Drake). And, once in a while, I’d tune in the opening of the Mickey Mouse Club to see what happened to Donald Duck and the gong. By that time, the commercials would be over on Channel 12 and I could turn there and watch Bugs, the Fleischer Popeye and the really funny cartoons.
Disney himself has been analysed to death by people expert on the subject so there’s no point in me doing it. Instead, let me pass on this wire service story from 1950. It provides a bit of insight from Walt himself about why he turned away from cartoon shorts and on to other interests.
Yes, Disney Has Trouble With Animal Actors, Too By Bob Thomas HOLLYWOOD, Sept. 6 (AP) — Alfred Hitchcock, the director who has called actors anything from children to cattle, once remarked that Walt Disney has the ideal relationship with his stars: He can erase them if they get out of line. When I told Disney this, he replied: “We have trouble with our actors, too.” For instance, there is Mickey Mouse. The famed rodent has been brought back more times than Sarah Bernhardt. Several times Mickey has faded and his sentimental creator has revived him in a new vehicle. “The trouble is,” Disney explained, “that Mickey isn’t funny himself. He has to be surrounded with comic situations. That takes a lot of trouble.” Minnie Mouse has suffered an eclipse for the same reason. “There’s no action connected with Minnie,” the cartoon man said, "and we have given up the subtle stuff.” “The duck (Donald) and the dog (Pluto) are funnier characters in themselves, but even they can get out of line. We get so busy with what we’re doing that we lose perspective. We have to stop and see what is happening to the characters.” Disney has taken on a new set of actors who are even more unmanageable than his film veterans. He has started a series which he calls “true-life adventures,” starring the wild life of North America. The first of the series was called “Seal Island” and it chronicled the life of seals on an Aleutian island. It won an academy award. The second is “Beaver Valley,” which is currently winning much praise throughout the country. Among the fan letters Disney has received is one from a justice of the U. S. supreme court. “Beaver Valley,” as you might suspect, stars the Beaver. “He is a fantastic animal,” Walt said. “All he does is eat, sleep and work. He never seems to play at all. The work he does is of utmost importance in conserving the land in the western United States. The government even transports beavers into areas that needed conservation.” Supporting the dam-builders are a lively bunch of otters, who believe in all play and no work. They are as funny a set of comedians as Disney has ever offered. The rest of the cast includes the villain—a coyote, plus various moose, crickets, frogs, salmon, ducks, bears, etc. The films run a half-hour and are Disney’s answer to the double-feature. He feels audiences will get more enjoyment out of watching nature’s actors than in sitting through a B picture that accompanies the major film. “These pictures aren’t cheap to make,” he told me. “They cost at least $100,000. I have to send a cameraman into the wilds for about nine months in order to get what we’re after. I now have a man on the Olympian peninsula in Washington filming the elk. Coming up is what I call ‘Nature’s Half-Acre.’ A study of every living thing on and under an average half-acre of land.” He is also contemplating a starring vehicle for the otters. I highly recommend it. They’re as funny as Donald Duck.
“Is This Trip Really Necessary?” says the sign. “Sure, it’s necessary,” Woody Woodpecker says to us. Then he pokes his head at the camera. “I'm a necessary evil.” I love the evil expression.
I wish I could tell you who’s responsible for this piece of animation. Bob Bentley gets the animation credit. Animator Emery Hawkins gets his first of two co-direction credits on this one; the studio personnel was in a state of flux and Alex Lovy had left.
The cartoon is ‘Ration Bored’ (1943). It has the good and bad of the early ‘40s Lantz. Woody should be a frantic character like Daffy Duck; instead, a good chunk of the cartoon consists of inflating body-parts sight gags. But I like the design of early Woody, though a transition was afoot. Or a-hand. Woody’s got glove-like white hands.
Warners was experimenting with smear animation about this time. Lantz is still stretching characters in between poses. Here’s one that would be a smear if Virgil Ross or Bobe Cannon were drawing him.
At least one of the animators (or assistants) on the Lantz staff about this time used thick action lines, with outlines filled in by brush-work. I’ve seen it in a couple of cartoons. There’s a drawing like that here.
Darrell Calker’s score is really good in this one. He uses a kettle drum as Woody’s car rolls between hills to a stop. The start of ‘The Alphabet Song’ is used behind the ration book gag (as the gas station attendant reads the letters in the book). He uses a solo clarinet going up and down part of the scale when lumps of gas move along a hose into Woody’s jug. And I like the cuckoo sound with woodwinds when Woody’s “driving” the cop who has tire tubes around his arms and legs. Woody’s irises and pupils turn into bullet-shapes when he realises what’s at the bottom of a hill (the camera then cuts to it).
Woody dies at the end of the cartoon but, of course, he’s back in a few months in another cartoon.
This was a last cartoon of sorts. It’s the final time Woody’s original design would be used. Art Heinemann brought in a new design for the next cartoon. It was last Woody directed by a make-shift team. Shamus Culhane was hired for the next cartoon. And it was the last cartoon where Kent Rogers voiced Woody. He was off to war duty (he was killed) and Lantz elected to go with Bugs Hardaway as the woodpecker until the studio closed at the end of the ‘40s. Lantz had a pretty polished group of voice actors the rest of the decade (Hardaway’s monotone notwithstanding)—Hans Conried, Jack Mather, Harry E. Lang, Walter Tetley and Lionel Stander among them. Oh, and Lantz’s wife got in a couple lines here and there. We’d hear a lot more of Grace Stafford in the ‘50s. Lantz hired her to be Woody. Just a coincidence, said Lantz. He wouldn’t make up stories, would he?
The George and Junior series of cartoons had to be Tex Avery’s weakest at MGM, unless you want to count the “...of Tomorrow” shorts. “Lucky Duck” was a success because it was George and Junior vs a duck. The conflict was focused; there wasn’t even dialogue to get in the way or slow it down. And then the conflict itself became irrelevant for much of the cartoon as Avery interrupted the chase for gag after gag.
In “Hound Hunters” (1947), the conflict between George, Junior and a teeny dog gets muddled when Avery tosses other characters into it and the little dog vanishes. There’s not one but three costume gags. And one gag ends with Junior shivering in George’s arms, which he’s already done in the picture to set up a situation, not as a gag.
Maybe the story’s a little out of whack because the cartoon was originally named “What Price Fleadom.” There is no flea in this story, unless Tex was referring to the dog which is small but not flea-sized. So it could be the story underwent a major overhaul and not all the kinks were worked out of it.
Still, Tex always manages to do something inventive. One thing I did like was in the cat dress-up sequence. George and Junior get inside a lumpy cat costume, one in front, the other in back. Tex pulls off a surprise take, but adds vibrating words on the screen. And when you’ve read the first line and it sinks in, a second one pops up. I think it’s Walt Clinton’s writing.
Naturally, it wouldn’t be a Tex Avery cartoon without big-mouth fear takes. With teeth.
But where’s the little dog in all this? Isn’t the cartoon about catching him? Oh, well.
The designs are by Irv Spence and the animation credits went to Clinton, Preston Blair, Ed Love and Ray Abrams.
Chuck Jones started out 1942 with several lacklustre cartoons featuring Conrad the Cat. By year’s end he started making some funny cartoons while layout man John McGrew started fussing around with the look of them.
“The Dover Boys” gets all the plaudits as critics talk about art and animation technique instead of comedy, but I’d rather watch “My Favorite Duck” instead. Daffy’s funny in this and there’s lots going on around the plot. There’s even a benign battle of song going on. Daffy casually sings “Blues in the Night” through the picture while Porky croons “On Moonlight Bay.” Daffy temporarily wins the musical fisticuffs when Porky starts singing his song. What else do we get? Porky AND his camping gear hang in mid-air. An imaginative burn take. ‘Duck Season’ signs, predating a trio of cartoons Mike Maltese wrote for Jones in the ‘50s. Porky says “Fillagadushu.” And Maltese throws in an Avery-esque film-break at the end. In other words, Daffy is fun. Conrad is ... uh, who was Conrad again?
Oh, McGrew’s at work here, too. There are overhead shots and up shots and angular movement and character close-ups. But none of that is my favourite visual from the cartoon. I’ll take a great scene—I’m presuming it’s Bobe Cannon at work—where Porky sets up his campsite under water. Porky doesn’t realise he’s in a lake until a fish swims by. There’s a stare take then four drawings as Porky collects his stuff before going back onto dry land. They’re on ones.
I suspect Ace Gamer or someone else in effects was responsible for the bubbles.
Cannon got credit on “The Dover Boys” so Rudy Larriva gets it here. Jones’ unit also consisted of (if other credits around this time are any indication) Ken Harris, Phil Monroe and Ben Washam.
The show biz world is full of combinations that you can’t picture apart. And then there are some that just don’t seem to fit at all.
George Burns and Gracie Allen were a perfect match. It’s hard to fathom that when Gracie quit show business in the late ‘50s, Burns chose Carol Channing as his partner for his show on the Vegas strip.
Burns, as everyone knows, was ultra low key and personable, churning out a joke pulled from a dusty vaudeville trunk, puffing on his cigar until the audience got it, then rolling on to the next one. No one has ever accused Channing of being ultra low key. She and Ethel Merman strike me as the two stars of Broadway musical comedy who utterly dominated a stage through sheer force of personality, not exactly a trait you’re looking for when doing a two-hander in front of an audience. But Burns knew all the tricks of the show biz trade and was smart enough to ensure he wouldn’t be overpowered in front of the footlights. It helped, too, that Burns had been known by audiences for years; in 1959, Channing was still reasonably new and not yet the huge star she became. “Hello Dolly” was still a few years away, though she was known to audiences from the Broadway hit “Lend an Ear” and through newspaper columns that reported on the Great White Way.
Art loosely imitated life on the George Burns TV show on January 6, 1959. The plot—Burns signed Channing for a nightclub engagement and then joined the act himself. That’s what’s being plugged in this column in the Tucson Citizen from January 3rd. The writer clearly took the angle that his readers had no idea who Carol Channing was; the description would be quite superfluous today. This great caricature accompanied the story.
Her Eyes Are Brown Oceans By RON KELLY NEW YORK — Many a lover has used this line: “Your eyes are like limpid pools of moonlight . . .” Well, looking into the eyes of Carol Channing isn’t like that at all. It’s more like peering into two huge brown oceans. That’s not all that's startling about this king-sized pixie. She towers over the average male (5-8 in her nyloned feet). And the hair . . . well, she calls it “contrived careless.” Actually, it looks like it was combed none-too-recently by a portable cement mixer. The hair is, presently, blonde. If charm were gold, she would make Fort Knox look like a slum. Her fey, good-natured humor is so rapid-fire yet so abrupt that one sits in awe staring vacantly at this wonderful face, hoping not to forget one little pearly gem. Carol Channing reminds one of a big—very big—friendly sister. The voice comes through like “Gangbusters” and the laughter—warm and gay, never harsh—is contagious throughout any room. She is a good-humored, story-book character in love with the world. Particularly George Burns. “Yes, I love that man,” she chirped, “I mean this is not only the funniest man in the world, he is also the kindest. “Do you know that wonderful man gave me jokes, situations, little stage tricks that I’m still using since I first met him years ago?” “Did you know he completely staged my night club act for Las Vegas?” she demanded. Carol loves Gracie, George’s long-time partner now retired, too. And she loves their children, Sandra and Ronnie. “Isn’t Ronnie doing fine on the George Burns Show? And George. That man fractures me. “Why, he had me in stitches during rehearsals of our TV show. He’s so quick with his jokes, and he has such a tremendous sense of timing. That man has forgotten more jokes than most modern-day comedians will ever remember. “I am,” she decreed solemnly, “the world’s number one George Burns fan.” Aside from her enthusiasm for George, the man and the comedian, Carol Channing has other enthusiasms, such as: Her son, almost six. Her husband, Charles Lowe (advertising man). Her career (she opened a four-week stand at New York’s chic Plaza Hotel on Dec. 26). And people, just plain people. One gathers that this San Francisco-born charmer has a heart to match her 138 well-distributed pounds. She certainly captivates the attention of those around her—and she enters a room like a steamroller with a bass whistle. Carol Channing is quite possibly one of the funniest women in the world. She's the kind of person you’d like to have living next door—if for no other reason than she’d not only loan you a cup of sugar, but she'd give you a million dollars worth of floor show at the same time. Two recommendations: enjoy the talents of Carol Channing on The George Burns Show next Tuesday. And if ever the occasion arises to meet the girl in person, do so. It’s an experience you’re not likely to forget.
Carol turns 91 today. It’s a happy coincidence she shares a birthday with another over-the-top personality of the stage, Tallulah Bankhead, who was flamboyant in a far different manner.
Hugh Harman and Rudy Ising may have been forced to use Warners-owned songs in their cartoons for Leon Schlesinger, but they couldn’t have been handed a better break (if you’re forced to use songs, that is). Their characters got to bounce around tunes from the best movie musicals of the era. “We’re in the Money.” “42nd Street.” “Lullaby of Broadway.” “Shuffle Off to Buffalo.” All great songs. I’m sure a lot of kids had their first exposure to them watching cartoons.
The songs were plunked in cartoons which bore no similar to the musical in which they appeared, possibly with the exception of “Page Miss Glory” (1936), which has a faux Busby Berkeley overhead choreography shot. The cartoon version of “Shuffle Off to Buffalo” (1933) involved a dispatch office for a place that delivered newborn human babies. None were delivered to Buffalo, shuffling or otherwise. Instead we get rubber hose animation, ethnic throw-ins, celebrity caricatures and the Rhythmettes.
Speaking of Disney...
There’s an inside joke in one of the background drawings of the cartoon. There’s a birth chart on a wall and it lists the names “Frisby,” “Larry” and “Otto.” Frisby is Friz Freleng, and Larry is likely Larry Martin. Both were animators at the studio at the time. “Otto” could very well be Otto Englander. He worked at the Iwerks Studio before going to Disney in 1933 but it’s possible he had a stopover at Harman and Ising. The drawing is quite possibly by Art Loomer, who was later head of the background department when Schlesinger opened his own studio. The 1932 Los Angeles City Directory lists him as an artist at Pacific Title and Art Studio, which was Schlesinger’s own company.
The same celebrities seemed to come in for a caricatured ribbing in cartoons on either side of the mid-‘30s—Bing Crosby, Jimmy Durante, Laurel and Hardy, and these guys:
Maurice Chevalier.
Joe E. Brown. That kinda looks like the pre-Lantz version of Oswald the Rabbit in the crib.
Eddie Cantor. He even claps his hands and rolls his eyes.
And Ed Wynn, known as The Fire Chief on radio, sponsored by Texaco.
Just a note on the Rhythmettes...
They were a vocal trio who found work at several cartoon studios, including employment on the biggest cartoon before “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.” Said a story in Hearst’s International in 1934:
There has been much secrecy about who portrayed the Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. The voices of the pigs were those of the Rhythmettes. The Rhythmettes are three girls who work on the radio in Los Angeles. They do not broadcast that they are the Three Little Pigs because they want more work at the Disney art shop.
They were appearing on KMTR as early as January 1931 and were with Al Pearce on the NBC Red Network by 1933. Then came this story from Johnny Whitehead of the Covina Argus of May 4, 1934. The Rhymettes were now on the radio with the Rhyme-Kings.
The Rhythmettes, fancy-harmonizing feminine trio with KHJ, sound every bit as good with their new member, who really isn't new because she formerly sang with the trio before going to Chicago some time ago. One of the Rhythmettes told your reporter the other night that the reason they left Al Pearce’s Gang was that two of the team are married and didn’t care to travel any longer.
The identity of the Rhythmettes gets a bit confusing. Two of them were Mary Moder and Dorothy Compton, who was later in The Debutantes singing about a grass shack in Kealakekua Hawaii. But a story in the June 29, 1937 edition of The Oakland Tribune calls them “Doris, Dell and Kay of radio fame.” It’s quite possible there was more than one girl group using the name on radio. Or maybe all the original members eventually quit. Regardless, you can hear them on this very trying syndicated show from 1937 singing a song from a 1932 Harman-Ising cartoon. Another voice you may recognise is that of the “Queen”. She’s Elvia Allmann.
September 1950 was a busy time for Jack Benny. He had just returned from a two-month stay in Europe with Mary, and Phil Harris and Alice Faye. He and Bob Hope embarked on a jaunt to Korea to entertain troops. And he decided to make the jump into television. At least on a semi-regular basis.
Television was at the back of Bill Paley’s mind when CBS opened up its vault to put money in Jack’s at the start of 1949 and lure him from NBC. Jack was one of radio’s biggest stars so there was no reason he shouldn’t be big on television, too, was been Paley’s ultimately correct logic. CBS wasn’t loaded down with heavyweight TV shows as 1949 turned into 1950—a couple of broadcasts with Arthur Godfrey, Ed Sullivan’s “Toast of the Town” and a wheezy variety show with Ed Wynn were probably the highlights on the schedule. There was prime time when the network offered nothing to local affiliates.
During this time, Jack obviously weighed the move to television, as you shall read. But it was inevitable. Columnists speculated on when it would happen. Finally, he made the announcement a few days before the start of the 1950-51 radio season.
JACK BENNY ANNOUNCES PLANS FOR TELEVISION By BOB THOMAS HOLLYWOOD, Sept. 7 — (AP) — Jack Benny announced today he is going to take the big jump into television. The fiddle-murdering comedian will make his regular television debut on October 29. The show will be for his radio sponsor and he will do three others this season, at intervals of eight weeks. I asked him how he picked his timing. “I have to go to New York for the television shows," he explained." That means I will have to tape record my air show a week in advance so I can get away. If I tried to do this every four weeks it would be too much. So my sponsor and I agreed on every eight weeks." Last year Benny made his TV debut on a program to dedicate the local station KTTV. He views his new program with this philosophy: “I don’t say that I’m going to be any better than anyone else on television. But on the other hand, I see no reason why I should be worse, either." What about the format? “I’ll do an hour-long show. It will be variety entertainment with perhaps a scene from my radio program. The first show might picture Rochester and me at home. We could show some of the things that we talk about on the radio— the cigarette machine, the pay telephone, and so forth. On other shows I might have a scene with Dennis Day or Phil Harris or Mary. “People tell me that television is a completely new medium. I don’t think so. I’m going to give them the same kind of entertainment I do on stage appearances. It’s the same type of show I used to do at the Orpheum in vaudeville days.” I asked Benny about his future in television. He admitted that he foresees the day when he will give up radio entirely. “It would be hard to do both radio and TV and make both of them good,” he said. “And perhaps radio will not be able to afford a show like mine. After all, the others on my show are stars in their own right and have their own shows.” He admitted he would have to live in New York when he starts doing television exclusively. “I wouldn’t mind living in New York for a year," he said. But he indicated he would return westward as soon as cross-country video becomes a fact. When I asked how often he would want to do TV, he gave an interesting insight into the new medium. “I think I would do something like a half-hour every two weeks,” he said. “I wonder if it isn’t a mistake to be on television every week. The matter of coming into people’s homes and being seen is a lot different from just being heard on radio. “Even if you could be good every week—and that is doubtful—I wonder if that isn’t too much of an intrusion. Pretty soon people might become so used to seeing you that they no longer can judge whether are good or not.” Benny said he didn’t know whether he will be using one of his noted props on TV. “We’ll have to take tests to see whether I should wear the toupee,” he said.
Benny wasn’t the only veteran of radio eyeing the television camera. The AP pointed out a week later that Eddie Cantor, Fred Allen, Groucho Marx and Don Ameche were about to swing over from radio. Of the four, only Groucho was an unqualified success after a hit-and-miss radio career. But Jack was a bigger success than them all. Although his regular show ended in 1965, he continued with occasional specials (and even appearances on “Rowan and Martin’s Laugh In” among with other radio long-timers) up until the day he died. Television was the right move after all.
There are Hollywood stars of the 1920 and ‘30s who people associate with silent pictures or sound ones, and that’s that. In reality, seldom is there a firm dividing line. Many sound stars started in silents and many silent stars made the transition to sound.
Ramon Navarro is thought of as belonging to the silent era but he starred in a number of sound pictures into the mid-‘30s. A fair chunk of Depression cash was put out in October 1930 for the ad you see below.
As you can see, not only did Novarro speak, he sang.
This screening was accompanied by two shorts, “Bigger and Better,” a two-reel series produced by Hal Roach with Mickey Daniels and Mary Kornman (and Grady Sutton as comic relief), and the second of Ub Iwerks’ Flip the Frog cartoons, “Flying Fists,” which was released in two-strip Technicolor. But here’s a black and white version.
