Bobby-soxers love Frankie, whether they’re hens (“Swooner Crooner,” Warner Bros., 1944) or rabbits (“Little 'Tinker,” MGM, 1948).
Here’s one rabbit blowing kisses at the ersatz Frank Sinatra and the skunk dodging them. I like the little addition of the final, huge kiss dripping down the stage curtain.
The credited animators in this charmer from Tex Avery are Bill Shull, Grant Simmons, Walt Clinton and Bob Bentley. Louie Schmitt designed the characters.
Some cartoon fans are stuck in a Land of Childhood TV pining for a time that, frankly, was in one way inferior to today. Back then, an awful lot of old theatrical cartoons were never or rarely seen emanating from your box in the living room. Today, the internet (or a disc you can purchase) allows you to look at animated shorts you may never even have known about when you were a child.
Steve Stanchfield deserves everyone’s lasting gratitude for labours of love that have brought us works of the Van Beuren studio as well as the adventures of Pvt. Snafu. He’s got cleaned-up shorts from Ub Iwerks coming. That’s only to name three.
Other than the output of the Mintz/Columbia studio, the most difficult-to-find Golden Age animated shorts may be the Terrytoons. They’ve been denigrated in some corners as extremely repetitious and poorly animated. They were released by a distributor (20th Century Fox) that didn’t care what they looked like as long as they filled screen time and showed up at exchanges on time. Terrytoons’ owner Paul Terry was quite happy to oblige. 20th’s attitude saved him money. Saving money seems to have been one of Mr Terry’s goals in life.
Fortunately, a pseudonymous Paul Terry has begun posting his collection of Terrytoons on-line, which gives everyone a chance to make their own judgments about them. Unfortunately, some prints are chopped up for TV. Don’t expect DVD quality, either.
I’ve pooh-poohed the idea of DVD sets of cartoons in chronological order, but have to eat my words a bit. I’ve watched the posted series that way and it’s been an interesting exercise. I haven’t studied them to any great depth but the studio definitely evolved during the ‘30s. The cartoons started out in the early ‘30s much like any other studio’s—characters joyfully singing and dancing, with gags tossed in, in the first half; boy-rescues-girl-from-villain in the second half, with animation a step up from the silent era. Within in a few years, Terry added an operetta element which finally wore out its welcome—when it began, The Film Daily gurgled in delight about it—and then ran into the same problem as other studios in the middle part of the decade: finding a new starring character. Eventually, Terry settled on a watered down version of Daffy Duck. Gandy Goose doesn’t woo-hoo like Daffy but he constantly laughs. Both engage in a lot of silly stuff. Frankly, I find Gandy’s constant laughing annoying and his story elements are weak in a lot of places. By the late ‘30s, Terry seems to have fallen in love with Arthur Kay’s celebrity impersonations and dialects. There are an awful lot of Greek-accented wolves and Bert Lahr soundalikes. Like Warners cartoons, radio catchphrases are tossed in on occasion as funny-because-it’s-familiar gags (one cartoon includes a character briefly launching into an Elmer Blurt routine, a couple make reference to Jell-O’s “six delicious flavours,” others have the NBC chimes, and still more toss in Joe Penner-inspired reactions).
But if anyone thinks all Terry animation is mediocre, they haven’t watched the cartoons. There’s some really nice, expressive animation of a mother mouse singing the hi-de-ho blues in “Lion Hunt” (1938) that Milt Knight tells me is by Ralph Pearson, just to name one example. And there are some inspired gags, too, some that predate routines at other studios. “The Last Indian” (1938) is a little disjointed, but has a great climax where the nutty native is speeding in a touring car on roads shot in live action, just like Porky Pig did a few years later in “You Ought To Be In Pictures.”
My favourite Terry cartoons (until Heckle and Jeckle came along in the late ‘40s) still have to be the early sound era ones. I really like every studio’s cartoons made around 1930. There isn’t much point to them, but everything in them is alive—hot dogs, pianos, clouds, trees, cars, outhouses—and having fun. And there are some images that are downright bizarre. Take this one from “Hungarian Goulash” (June 1930). Who’d think up such a thing? I love it. As a bonus, there are Felix-style cats found in a bunch of studios in the silent era that stuck around for the first few years of sound cartoons. (Sorry the picture quality isn’t a little better).
Yes, the ‘30s output of the Terry studio isn’t as slick-looking as Warners, let alone Disney. And, yes, there are too many character-accidentally-backs-into-something-and-hilarity-ensues cartoons. But the studio did have some craftsmen. Any problems with the Terrytoons seem to rest at the feet of Paul Terry himself. He lost quality people because he was incredibly cheap; they went elsewhere. As Izzy Klein once noted, he considered himself “Mr. Story Department.” I can’t help but believe, judging by the neat gags in some of the shorts, the stories would have been better had he left the story department alone. And composer Phil Scheib could have created more imaginative scores had be not be hamstrung by Terry’s directive to have all the instruments heard at all times whenever possible (in the ‘50s, Scheib was using still using saxes skipping up and down the scale in the same tempo as he was in the ‘30s). But 20th Century Fox didn’t want quality; it only wanted cartoons because exhibitors had a contract to play them. That’s what Terry delivered. But the cartoons on the whole weren’t, and aren’t, a total loss. Occasionally, some creativity came through. It’s bound to happen when you have creative people.
Some comedians are on all the time. Jack Benny wasn’t one of them.
For proof, a couple of examples can be found in the New York Sun, one of the papers which sent a reporter to interview Jack upon his arrival in the Big Apple. The unbylined reporter is a little annoyed by the lack of humour. He has a point. It isn’t like the press just happened to be at Grand Central Station. They were told, either by movie studio publicists or Benny’s own people, when he would arrive. Jack’s on the promotional trail. Since he’s working, he should have at least bothered to have a quip or two instead of being indifferent about the whole thing. Perhaps he was just weary from the long train ride. On the other hand, a comedian shouldn’t have to be on all the time, and constantly yuck it up with jokes.
This story is from December 12, 1940.
JACK BENNY HERE, SHY ON BON MOTS
Reporters Beg in Vain for Just One Witticism
Jack Benny, the Prince of Funsters, arrived at Grand Central from Hollywood today with all the hilarity of a scene from the Spanish Inquisition.
Here with his wife, Mary Livingstone, for two radio broadcasts and the December 17 premiere at the Paramount of “Love Thy Neighbor,” his new picture with Fred Allen. Mr. Benny was met by a group of reporters who were eager for laughter in these troublous times.
Hearing that he would stay at the Sherry-Netherland, they reminded him that last night his radio-foe, Allen, said that once he left that hotel because they refused to launder his Kleenex. Then, hazel eyes aglow in anticipation, they waited for a bon mot, their chubby pink fingers holding pencils over copy-paper.
“I’ll probably say something about that on my program,” he said.
The reporters made a few efforts to get the comedian to say something about Allen, then in desperation recalled that Linda Darnell, also of the movies, arrived yesterday with a lot of allergies.
“What are you allergic to, Mr. Benny?”
“Allen,” quipped a witty reporter.
“Ha, ha, yes, Allen,” said Mr. Benny. “And food. It makes me fat.”
After a few dark moments, Mr. Benny said: “I don’t think comedians are funny any time except when they’re working. The funny guys on trains and at parties are non-professionals.”
Mr. Benny, however, got into form a few minutes later, carrying suitcases for the benefit of photographers. This got a big laugh from some women who came to meet his wife. Then, too, he playfully shoved a girl in the back. More mirth.
Mr. Benny hasn’t seen his new picture, but he said he had heard Allen was terrific. He cursed that fact, but added that he and Allen are friends.
“I find that I’m best at preparing material early in the morning,” he said. “I’m fresh then.”
Maybe it just wasn’t early enough.
Benny returned to New York two years later. The Sun had this to say on December 10, 1942:
BENNY IS HERE WITHOUT AD LIB
Comedian Tells Reporter to Think Up Quip.
Jack Benny is one comedian who doesn’t believe in squandering his repartee at places such as the gaunt ramp in Grand Central where the Twentieth Century Limited comes in from Hollywood. Arriving there today for a tour of eastern Army camps, he ad-libbed only once, calling his Negro radio-mate Rochester, “Rotch.”
Mr. Benny said that he would be in the East for eight or ten weeks, after which he would return to Hollywood and begin his twelve-picture program as an independent producer, working through United Artists. He said that he didn’t expect too much difficulty in getting stories and players because of the war.
“I have myself for six of the pictures,” he said, “and I shouldn’t have any trouble getting girls.” His arrival caused the usual miniature bedlam which envelops the arrival of a film star, complete with press agents, newspaper persons, redcaps, rubbernecks and assorted citizens. Wearing Trench Coat.
One citizen was Miss Florence Allen, secretary for the Rapid Messenger Service, who had been promoted to the post of celebrity-meeting uniformed messenger, to deliver to Mr. Benny a stack of 200 letters from persons who wanted Mr. Benny to visit places where George Washington has slept and perhaps to sleep at them himself. (Mr. Benny’s latest picture is “George Washington Slept Here.”) Miss Allen said that she had met celebrities before, “behind stage.”
Mr. Benny said that he would try to sleep at some places if he had time. He was not told that the messenger’s name was Allen, which might have occasioned a quip, because of his radio feud with Fred Allen.
Mr. Benny, in a trench coat, posed with his wife, Mary Livingston, in a mink coat; their adopted daughter, Joanie, and Rochester, also in a trench coat.
Asked by a reporter if he would say something funny for his public—an admittedly unfair question at 9:30 A. M.—he said: “Think up something. It’ll probably be funnier than anything I can think up.”
The reporter couldn’t think up anything, either.
La Verne Harding wasn’t the first female animator, but she certainly had a long career as one. Harding was hired in 1932 out of Chouinard Institute at the Walter Lantz studio. She started as an inker, was moved into the in-betweener pool, then became an animator in 1934. Her first credit was on “Wolf ! Wolf!” Despite Lantz’s financial ups and downs which caused his studio to close several times, Harding stuck with him until 1959, when she quit to work for Hanna-Barbera.
A number of people in animation supplemented their income by drawing comic strips or comic books. Harding was one of them. I stumbled across a Sunday newspaper comic she did called “Cynical Susie.” There’s a little information about it on the internet; you can read about it HERE. You should also read in the comment section as Mark Kausler has some additional information. The Catalogue of Copyright Entries lists the character with a Jan. 30, 1932 copyright date, listing Becky Sharp as a co-creator with Harding.
I’ve scrounged up a few comics. You can see the art style changed when someone else began drawing it (though Harding’s name is still attached to the comic). The format changed into a serial in later years. You can click on each comic to see it better.
June 30, 1937
July 7, 1937
January 6, 1938
November 2, 1939
November 9, 1939
November 16, 1939
November 22, 1939
It’s unclear when Harding left Hanna-Barbera, but she was back in theatrical cartoons at De Patie-Freleng when it began animating the Pink Panther in 1964. Former Lantz and Hanna-Barbera co-worker Alex Lovy may have been responsible for her jumping to Warner Bros. around 1967, where she stayed until the studio shut down in 1969. Harding then spent the next few years at Filmation to finish out her career.
Harding was certainly respected in the industry. She was given the The Winsor McCay Award for outstanding service by ASIFA on October 30, 1980. She died at her home in the Silver Lake district of Los Angeles on September 25, 1984, age 79.
A bottle of milk delivered on a window sill is about to fall off to drop to its doom. Fortunately, it grows hands. And so does another bottle, which rescues it The bottles shake hands.
A cute little scene from the Flip the Frog cartoon “The Milk Man.” Well, Variety didn’t think so. It opined: “An insipid and lazily penned cartoon” (July 12, 1932). As usual there are no animator credits.
Tom O’Loughlin painted the backgrounds for “Nuts and Volts,” a 1963 Warners cartoon directed by Friz Freleng. Layouts are by Hawley Pratt. The last two frames are parts of long pans that I can’t clip together.
Bing Crosby and Bob Hope went on the road on screen but during World War Two, they were on separate roads to entertain the troops. But, even then, the Old Groaner couldn’t escape the shadow of Ski Nose.
Here are two stories from 1944 about Crosby overseas. They both deal with a little-known fact of the war—Crosby was used as part of psychological warfare. The first is from the United Press.
Bing Crosby Goes to Work on Wehrmacht With Assistance of Phonetic German
By ROBERT MUSEL
LONDON, Sept. 3 (UP)—While Hitler is fooling around with buzzbombs and pick-a-back planes we're hurling a real secret weapon at Germany—der Bingle.
Der Bingle is what the Germans call it. Back home it's Bing Crosby.
From a position dangerously near its launching platform (a grand piano in the studio of the American Broadcasting system in Europe) I watched der Bingle go to work on the Wehrmacht. It was beautiful to see and hear and experts of psychological warfare said its effect would be beautiful too.
Der Bingle took off first in a snappy chat to the Wehrmacht which, the most powerful transmitters in Europe will smash right at the quivering ears of Hitler's "Herrenvolk." He astounded frontline observers by using reasonably good German. Since he doesn't speak German, der Bingle was later asked how come.
"I don't do it with mirrors," he said. "I do it with phonetics."
Der Bingle is a great favorite with the Germans and the gents from psychological warfare conceived the idea of having him do a little something direct, for the staggering Wehrmacht which probably doesn't appreciate what Generals Bradley and Patton are doing to it.
Thus, as Bing stepped to the microphone to make a recording, there was a mental image in my mind of a harried Hun, gasping and breathless and resting by the roadside ready to listen to anything as a change from the shell spitting tanks of his pursuers.
Bing, consulting his phonetic chart, began:
"Hello, German soldiers. Here speaks Bing Crosby. I've just arrived from America—the country where nobody is afraid of the gestapo and where everybody has a right to say and write what he thinks."
Der Bingle, rippling through the Teutonic gutturals with complete ease, told the Germans about constitutional rights, adding, "I sincerely hope that our rights and our freedoms soon will be observed again in your country. That's what we Americans are fighting for."
Letting this sink in for a brief instant, der Bingle signalled Corp. Jack Russian, pianist of Major Glenn Miller's band, and said: "But I didn't come here to preach. I came here to sing a few songs."
Bing then sang a song from a film in which he starred, except that the lyrics were cleverly twisted so that the sense of the song was really: "Come with me out of that nasty Hitlerland and back to the free world."
After that, because many Europeans such as forced laborers in Germany understand French, Bing did a song in that language. His phonetic French was not bad either.
A typist passing by asked what was going on inside the studio. "Bing Crosby is singing to the Nazis," she was told.
Increduously, the typist exclaimed: "To the Nazis! What kind of punishment is that?"
This is an unbylined piece from The New York Sun, October 12, 1944. The part about enemy territory was widely quoted for years.
CROSBY HELD TOWN IN REICH Bing, Back, Tells of Exciting Eight-week Tour.
A two-man invasion of German-held territory in France and a two-minute capture of a town in the Metz area was accomplished by Bing Crosby, who is used to capturing top honors in crooning, and an Army lieutenant, while Der Bingle was on a U. S. O. Camp Shows tour in France. The singer recalled the experience today at the Waldorf-Astoria as he discussed his eight-week tour in which he sang for G. I. audiences numbering anywhere from a dozen to 15,000 soldiers.
Bing’s misadventure occurred early one morning when, after he attended Mass by himself, a lieutenant offered to drive him to a point near the front lines a few miles from where he was scheduled to sing.
“After we had traveled for ten or fifteen minutes,” the singer stated, “I became concerned because the telephone lines had run out and when you don’t see them, you know you’ve gone too far. Then we got to this town and I was surprised because I had looked at the war map earlier and it was still in German hands. I asked the lieutenant and he said that he was lost, and I said, ‘let's get out of here fast.’”
Talking to a commanding officer that night Bing mentioned that he had been in the town.
“You couldn’t have been.”
“I sure as hell was,” Crosby replied.
“It was in German hands,” the officer protested.
“Well, we had it for two minutes.” Lost 10 Pounds on Trip.
Crosby, who lost ten pounds during the trip, put on his show while under German gunfire on numerous occasions and was in London while buzz bombs, which he described as “frightening and devastating,” were falling. Though he had lunch with Gen. Eisenhower and visited Gen. Bradley and other high officers, he played only for enlisted men.
Praising the morale of the troops as “terrific,” Bing said: “The boys want to get home, but there is no whining. They want to know that the people at home are staying behind them and there is no weakening, and the needed supplies will be gotten to them. They are somewhat concerned about a complacent attitude. They’ve read about postwar planning discussions, and they don't want to hear about post-war plans. They want to get the war won first.
Crosby, who was dressed in a tan and blue sports combination, puffed occasionally on a big briar pipe while being interviewed. Asked if the report that he was a member of the Hollywood for Dewey Committee was true, he answered: “I don’t know anything about that.”
He said that the men asked him mostly about Bob Hope (whom Crosby claimed the G. I.'s like most of all the entertainers), his children, his horses and Brooklyn. He mentioned that “a lot of pictures” have their premieres overseas. Songs Soldiers Wanted.
In discussing the soldiers’ preference in songs, Crosby said that the ones they most requested him to sing were “White Christmas,” “Swinging on a Star” and “San Fernando Valley.” He declared that he had made recordings of songs for propaganda broadcasts to Germany, singing in German from words written out phonetically. “They told me I was adequate,” he said.
Although a great many German prisoners watched the shows and smiled, they probably didn’t know what was going on, Bing said. When asked if he had converted any of them, he answered with a grin: “I probably widened the breach.”
He lauded the Red Cross workers and members of his troupe which included Joe de Rita, Jean Darrell, singer; Darlene Garner, dancer; Buck Harris, guitarist, and Earl Baxter, accordionist. He said that he would leave for the coast tomorrow night and resume his radio program late this month.
The story shows you the difference between print and radio. In the Sun story, Crosby uses the word “hell.” No one thought anything of it. But when he ad-libbed it on the Jack Benny show on March 26, 1947, all, um, hell broke loose on the NBC switchboard.
What’s with Walt Disney and his butt violation jokes, anyway? I swear every single early Disney cartoon has someone getting shot, stabbed or whacked in the rear end, or characters shoving their tushes together (in 1931’s “Busy Beavers,” the title characters clunk their tales together).
Here are some examples from “Egyptian Melodies” (1931).
Despite this, the real point of the cartoon seems to have been an exercise in perspective (especially from about 1:14 to 2:00) and montage (toward the end). As you might expect, there’s no plot. Just a lot of dancing and butt piercing. Oh, and a hand-on-hip fey character.
“I’m going to toin out da lights,” yells the detective in ‘Who Killed Who?’, “and when I toin ‘em on, I wanna see the gun here on dis table!” So he carries out the cliché.
Surprise! Followed by jumping take.
“We’ll try it again,” he shouts to the suspicious looking staff of the dead man’s mansion. Lights out. Another surprise and another take.
For reasons unknown, there are no credits, just a title card with Tex Avery’s name. Kent Rogers and Sara Berner supply voices.
He was hired as the vocalist on the Jack Benny radio show and made his debut a week after Michael Bartlett walked out to grasp at a movie career. There wasn’t much time for Baker, Benny or writer Harry W. Conn to invent a schtick for him to use on the show when he wasn’t singing. But they came up with a naïve, at times ignorant, character that stuck with Baker—and eventually gnawed at him—until he quit the show after the episode of June 18, 1939.
Baker’s first show was on March 11, 1935. His character was a hit, so much so that the “dumb” aspect of Mary Livingstone’s character was written out—two dummies weren’t needed—and the snarky, sarcastic part was left behind, which made the show even better.
Here’s a Brooklyn Daily Eagle profile of Baker published January 19, 1936.
Out of a Blue Sky
Radiography of Kenny Baker, Benny’s Singing Stooge, on WJZ These Sunday Nights—Baker Is Apology Personified By Jo Ranson
WE HAVE with us today (ahem, ahem) Kenny Baker, Jack Benny’s shy tenor-stooge and beyond the shadow of any doubt radio’s most timid soul . . . so hurry, hurry, hurry . . . when a featured performer steps on the stage the conductor in the pit usually marks the occasion by calling for a brassy fanfare and crash of the cymbals . . . but when young Kenny walks to the footlights—if they intend to keep the ballyhoo in character with him—they will have nothing
noisier than the waving of an ostrich feather fan . . . he is a great big boy—somewhat over six feet tall and built in proportion . . . but the moment someone shoves him in front of a microphone, sticks a script into his hands and tells him to read, he is practically tongue-tied . . . if the microphone were new to him, we would not bring this up . . . but he has been singing for the movies a couple of seasons now . . . however, being a radio actor is something new to
him . . . the characterization Benny worked up for him came as the result of an accident . . . just the same it is a “natural” . . . the first day he came to rehearsal, he was late . . . the gang was sitting around going through their initial reading . . . “Pardon me,” he stammered, “am I intruding?” Of course, he wasn’t, Jack assured him, and told him to make himself at home . . . Kenny took a seat in the corner of the studio . . . in a moment the jester introduced him to the cast . . . “What do you do?” cracked Mary Livingstone, instead of the traditional, “How do you do?” . . . “Excuse me, I’m a tenor singer,” countered Baker, in a loud voice that could be heard two feet away . . . Jack saw the humor of the situation, and almost verbatim it went into the first program... most of Benny’s former singing stooges have been wise guys, who knew the answers even before the questions are asked . . . Kenny doesn’t realize that he has the answer . . . he’s apology personified . . . “Gosh, you’ve got a funny face,” Mary told him one Sunday night . . . “Gee, I’m awful sorry, but what can I do about it,” replied Kenny politely . . . “You can stay home, can’t you?” flipped the Seattle poetess . . . “I know. I’ve tried that already,” came back the tenoring Milquetoast... and when hearty laughter greets his remark, he is genuinely surprised . . . Jack Benny is one of the most affable people in show business and the easiest person in the world to talk to . . . but Kenny is so shy he kept calling him “Mr. Benny” until Jack finally took him aside and told him that sort of formality would have to stop . . . one night after the show Johnny Green invited Kenny to join him at one of Hollywood’s bars for a nightcap . . . after giving his order, the music master turned to his guest with “What’s yours, Kenny?”. . . “Oh, a fudge sundae, as usual,” the timid soul said . . . Johnny told Jack the story a few days later and the next Sunday (no pun intended) the comic worked it into his “Barbary Toast” parody . . . Kenny is getting over his shyness slowly under the tutelage of Benny, who seems to be able to make good actors out of all kinds of singers and orchestra leaders . . . he admits he doesn’t have to work on Baker much . . . he is afraid if he gets any better, he’ll be worse, if you see what we mean . . . in other words, his naturally reticent manner is so disarming and comes over the mike so well, that Jack doesn't want to spoil him.. despite his timid-soul voice, Kenny is a pretty determined sort of a young man . . . among his accomplishments, he lists having acquired a wife at the age of 20 and a musical education paid for out of his own earnings . . . both are interesting stories.. Kenny and his wife were high school sweethearts and gave each other their wedding rings as graduation presents . . . after finishing school, Kenny’s father tried to interest him in the furniture business . . . he went out as a salesman and came back with no orders for three months . . . then he decided to work as a day laborer on the Boulder Dam project and saved money to take vocal lessons . . . like most everybody else, he has a secret ambition . . . he wants to be a violinist, but he has kept pretty quiet about it what with that other would-be Heifetz, the world’s foremost interpreter of “Love in Bloom” on the program.
Arguably, Baker’s tenure on the Benny show was the apex of his career. He was already on two shows when he departed and carried on with the “Texaco Star Theatre,” where he felt he’d get better songs, more air time and—most important to him—not have to act like a dummy. A format revision a few years later cost him his job. He had at least two shows of his own (one syndicated on disc by Ziv) but never attained the heights he reached when Jack Benny plucked him out of obscurity. You can read more about Baker’s departure HERE, his daytime variety show HERE and his later reflections HERE.
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