Cats Don't Like Castor Oil

A little kitten reacts after licking from a pool of castor oil in the Van Beuren cartoon Rough on Rats (1933). He shakes his head, runs around, jumps in the air, turns a somersault, then runs in perspective past the camera.



It seems like director Harry Bailey was told to make a cartoon like Disney. This features a song by chirping female vocalists, cute characters doing action in pantomime and—pretty standard for the early ‘30s—a menace invading the cartoon half way through only to be vanquished violently by a mob. The only problem was the Van Beuren animators didn’t draw at a Disney level, Bailey doesn’t try to get anything out of poses (I wonder if the Van Beuren artists animated straight-ahead) and Gene Rodemich’s score is strictly for mood and doesn’t accent any specific actions on the screen. Still, it’s an unassuming, unpretentious cartoon with a great ending as the angry, violent, revengeful kittens become mewing and sweet while happy female singers chirp away. The Film Daily rate it “a dandy.” It’s enjoyable to watch.

Histrionic Horse

Red Hot Rider and his horse are blissfully sailing through the air.



Through the air?!?!!!?



The panicked horse decides to turn around and grab the cliff it just jumped off. The quickest way is for the horse to go back through itself. Here are some of the drawings.



Manny Gould is the credited animator on Bob Clampett’s Buckaroo Bugs, with a story by Lou Lilly.

That Old Guy on TV

He was there any time a TV show needed a character who was an energetic old man. In every role, he was an old man. There was never a time on television when he was young. That’s because Burt Mustin, with his bald head, long face, long nose and large ears, didn’t begin his acting career until he was a pensioner.

Better make that professional acting career. A newspaper clipping reveals Mustin “appeared in an amateur production in Pittsburgh, ‘The Lady of Luzon.’ One scene called for him to kiss seven girls, one for each day of the week.” That was in 1910. And Mustin can be found in the programme listings of KDKA in Pittsburgh, singing and chatting. That was in 1922, before the radio networks existed and about all you would hear on the air was amateurs singing and chatting.

Mustin built up a very long resume once he began appearing on films and television in the early 1950s. And a few newspaper columnists found room to tell readers about the old guy whose face they knew but name they likely didn’t.

This unbylined syndicated story is taken from the Utica Daily Observer, May 21, 1967. It explains why he was kissing girls on stage in 1910 and singing in early radio but never went into vaudeville or films, nor appeared on the big network shows of the ‘30s and ‘40s.

Burt Mustin: Late Starter With A Forward Look At 83
As a rule, most active careers have ended by age 67. Not so with actor Burt Mustin, who first turned to professional acting at that age. He's been going strong ever since. He's now 83.
The tall, slim actor, who enjoys being told that he doesn't act his age, will be seen in a two-part repeat on "The Lucy Show" Mondays, May 22 and May 29 (8:30-9 p.m.) in color on Channels 5 and 10.
Although he was a late professional acting starter, he has done 258 television shows and 57 movies, and looks forward to many more — including a romantic role. "There isn't much demand for 83-year-old romantic leads, but I keep hoping," he say with a twinkle.
In his appearances on "The Lucy Show," the versatile Mustin acts, sings and dances. His career as an amateur performer demonstrated the same diversity.
"I was a child soprano at age 6," says Mustin, "but the life of a professional performer 60 years ago was a miserable one and when I got married, my wife and I agreed that I should work as a salesman and stick to amateur theatricals."
Mustin was an amateur performer in Pittsburgh for 50 years. He later moved to Phoenix where an agent saw him and persuaded director William Wyler to give him a job. He hasn't stopped working since.
In brief periods between jobs he sings in a barbershop quartet and lectures to men's groups on how to keep going after 65.

Mustin appeared semi-regularly on a few shows, but landed a co-starring role on the Emmy-winning The Funny Side in 1971. It came and went after one season on NBC. It featured a variety of couples in sketches on a different theme every week. United Press International decided to profile Mustin. This lovely little column appeared in newspapers around December 29, 1971.

Burt Mustin Plays Tube For Laughs
By VERNON SCOTT

HOLLYWOOD (UPI) — Burt Mustin, the 87-year-old co-star of "The Funny Side," plays it for laughs on the tube and enjoys every minute of his sunset years in private life.
He was widowed in 1969 when his wife of 54 years, Robina, died, leaving Burt with a four-room cottage to care for in the San Fernando valley.
He lives alone now, fending for himself and getting around spryly.
Mustin fixes a light breakfast for himself each morning before reporting to NBC in Burbank, driving there himself. At noon he consumes a large lunch in the studio commissary or at a nearby restaurant. When he gets home in the evening the octogenarian settles for a bowl of cereal.
A cleaning woman stops by the house once a week to keep the place shipshape, but Burt is his own gardener.
"Robina had a green thumb," he says, "flowers and shrubs used to grow just right for her. It was a labor of love. With me it's just plain labor and things don't grow so well."
Mustin's home is as neat as the man himself. He never leaves the house without a jacket and necktie, explaining: "When you're old and ugly a good looking wardrobe is your best asset."
He is proud of the fact that he weighs within three pounds of his weight at age 19 when he graduated from Pennsylvania Military College back in 1903.
A salesman in Pittsburgh and later in Tucson, Ariz., Mustin came to acting late in life. But his interest in show business stems from singing. He was, and still is, an active member of a national barbership singing group.
Several evenings a week he "goes barbershopping," singing baritone with his own quartette. At other times he joins a barbershop chorus.
There are about 30 chapters of barbershop singing groups in southern California with between 1,500 and 2,000 members. Burt has been warbling close harmony for 25 years.
Mustin also is active in the Masquers Club, a group of show business men consisting largely of character actors.
On days off Burt sits around the club reading newspapers, magazines and talking show biz with the other veteran performers. It is his favorite hangout for lunch on days off.
Every Sunday morning Burt fires up his late model sedan and drives to Hollywood Presbyterian church. He never fails to attend services.
"The Lord's been good to me," he explains, "and it wouldn't be right for me not to be thankful."
Asked if he has any dates with the fairer sex, Mustin laughed.
"No," he said. "I'm afraid that romance business is all behind me. There was only one good woman in my life, and that's more than most men can say—especially at my age."
On weekends Mustin writes letters to friends in the East and makes a small dent in the fan mail that has piled up since the comedy show went on the air this fall. He also enjoys watching televised football and baseball games.
Mustin is usually in bed by 10 p.m. On barbershopping nights, however, he isn't tucked away until nearly midnight. Mustin should be a shining example for all old people. He is bright, alert and blessed with a sense of humor. He is a delightful companion to all who know him.

Mustin’s life seems like a throwback to an era goneby, of simpler times in a small town. Perhaps not surprisingly, then, Mustin found a place in Mayberry on several episodes of The Andy Griffith Show. He was 93 when he died in 1977, though it seemed like he had always been 93.

Your Safety First

The World of the Future was parodied in animated form before The Jetsons in 1962, though most cartoon fans likely didn’t see one earlier effort.

Your Safety First was produced in 1956 by the John Sutherland studio for the Automobile Manufacturers Association. Its story by Norman Wright and designs anticipate The Jetsons. Even the voice of the lead character sounds a lot like George Jetson, although he’s played in this industrial short by Marvin Miller instead of George O’Hanlon (the voice is very similar to the one he used as Colonel Cosmic in Sutherland’s Destination Earth in 1954).

Former MGM director George Gordon may have come up with the designs in conjunction with Wright and layout artists Gerry Nevius and Charles McElmurry. Like The Jetsons, the cars have bubble tops. Unlike The Jetsons, they drive on pavement, though they can fly to pass overhead.



No Space Needle-esque apartment for the main character in this cartoon. He lives in a stylised home on the ground.



But like George, Jane, Judy and Elroy, they eat food in a pill and have a grandpa going on 117 years of age who zooms around in a car like a teenager.



A few more designs.



The animation in the short is by Cal Dalton (ex Warners Bros.), Ken O’Brien (ex Disney), George Cannata (ex Fleischer) and Fred Madison (who moved to Cascade Pictures and became president of the Screen Cartoonists Guild in 1957).

The Six Heads of Screwy Squirrel

Screwy Squirrel may be insane, but not so insane to avoid checking out the famous stripper, Gypsy Pose, in Happy-Go-Nutty. He stops in mid-air.



He gives the audience a knowing look. (Scott Bradley plays Lew Brown and Sammy Fain’s That Old Feeling in the background).



Ah, but it’s really a trap by Meathead the dog. When Screwy realises something is wrong, he turns to the theatre audience again.



There are a couple of anticipation drawings, then Screwy sprouts multiple heads in panic. The second “head” drawing is held for 12 frames (half a second), which is enough time for it to register.



Screwy twirls in mid-air and jumps off Meathead’s rifle and out of the frame. I didn’t realise until I froze the action for this post that the butt of the gun smacks Meathead in the chin.



Ed Love, Ray Abrams and Preston Blair animated this cartoon, released by MGM in 1944.

The Pals That Weren't

Harry Conn thought he made Jack Benny and, in a fit of ego, walked out on him before the end of the 1935-36 radio season.

The editors at Radio Guide magazine may have viewed this with a bit of embarrassment. For in their February 1, 1936 issue, they cobbled together a feature story about how lovey-dovey things were between writer Conn and boss Benny. One suspects there were barrel-fulls of fiction in the tale woven by the Guide’s Kay Morgan.

For those of you who haven’t read the various posts about Conn here, after leaving Benny he bounced around from show to show before convincing CBS to give him his own half-hour comedy programme, which couldn’t get a sponsor and failed miserably after 13 weeks. Conn’s writing career went down the drain and he ended up as a doorman at a theatre in New York by the late ‘50s.

To be fair to Conn, he did revolutionise radio comedy (with Benny) in moving away from the vaudeville revue format to something more akin to characters (announcer/bandleader/singer/assorted stooges) interacting with a host. And Conn’s version of the Benny radio show has some recognisable elements. But it didn’t have Rochester, Dennis Day, a sputtering Maxwell, a cash-filled underground vault, age 39, a feud with Fred Allen, a floorwalker screeching “Yeeeeess?” and most of the things anybody associates with Jack Benny.

Here’s the Radio Guide story with the photos that accompanied it.

DAMON BENNY and PYTHIAS CONN
By KAY MORGAN

THERE were two new acts in the old Fox Crotona Theater in New York. One was a good-looking young violinist who tried to spin a few jokes. The other was a glum-faced song-and-dance man who wanted to be a writer.
Backstage one night, the song-and-dancer who wanted to be a writer, told the violinist who wanted to be a comedian. “Say, your patter is putrid! Why don't we team up? I'll write for you. With my gags and your personality you’ll go over with a bang.”
The other looked at him with contempt. “Listen, go back to your marbles and leave this business of being funny to me. You look like the last person in the world who could write jokes. “Thanks,” he said, “and no!” He turned and entered his dressing room.
This was nine years ago. And that's how the most famous partnership and the most successful friendship in radio almost died a-borning.
The violinist who turned thumbs down on the proposal was none other than Jack Benny, and the turned-down proposer was Harry Conn. Benny and Conn. Damon and Pythias, folks in radio call them.
Jack is the first to admit today that without Harry Conn he wouldn’t have been selected by the Radio Guide readers as tophole rib tickler and outstanding star in the 1935 annual Star of Stars Election. Which shows the sort of guy Jack is. And Harry says that without Jack’s inimitable, indolent manner, his gags wouldn’t go over with such a punch. So there you are!
BUT to go back to that acidulous backstage meeting . . . Each took his own Broadway path and trod it alone. Apparently Jack was right. He didn’t need a writer. In fact, he was doing pretty well on his own. Here he was now, star of the Earl Carroll Vanities — a high water mark in those 1930 Prohibition days. That’s how he came to get that offer to star on the new gingerale program then being planned. The contract was waiting for his signature. He swaggered in grandly, pen in hand, ready to sign.
“You’ll be on twice a week,” the agency man told him. “Better bring in a dozen prepared scripts for a starter.”
Two shows a week! Beads of sweat stood out on Jack Benny's forehead. He was regarded as one of the wits of Broadway, to be sure. However, doing the same act night after night, month after month, in a show or in vaudeville, is one thing. But — getting together two brand new comedy acts a week . . . whew! He felt a little faint.
He saw a great radio chance — and salary — slipping right through his fingers. Panic-stricken, he rushed to his friend Nat Burns, who was then doing a bright radio act with his wife, one Gracie Allen by name.
“Don’t worry,” soothed Burns. “I'll send up our writer. He’ll help you.”
Benny waited — and stalked up and down his hotel room alone. Time passed. Where was that so-and-so writer that Burns had promised? An hour late already. Confound it, he had even forgotten his name. Now Jack couldn’t even phone him. Jack's nerves were as brittle as an old rubber-band.
THE door opened. Benny looked up.
“You!” he cried, somewhat in the manner of the harassed heroine confronting the villain in 'Way Down East.
There before him was the sad-faced song-and-dancer of his old vaudeville days.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how Benny found Conn, radio found its biggest money-making team, and the public found a brand new type of radio comedy.

Not many comedians will give credit to their gag writers. It’s supposed to be bad business. Spoils the glamour and the spontaneity of the funny man, don’t you know! That’s why these writers are jokingly referred to, in intimate radio circles, as the forgotten men.
Jack has gone against this rigid ruling of the airwaves. And that’s a story in itself. The limelight glory of his radio success hasn't affected him — as it has some other comedians I could mention — to the extent where he has become pompous and wants to crowd out those who are largely responsible for his success.
I was in the room with a famous editor, an advertising agency man and Jack. There was a heated argument going on, with the first two men lined up against Jack. It seems that the editor was to appear on Benny’s next program, announcing the grand fact that Jack was voted the most popular comedian on the air.
“But you can’t go ahead with this fool idea of giving your writer credit on the air. You’re supposed to be the funny guy. Lots of listeners may be disappointed if you give someone else credit. That’s a bugaboo no comedian dares defy.”
They were trying so hard, the editor and the agency man, to keep up the old illusion before the public. But arguing with Jack about that subject was like trying to carry on a conversation with the Delhi Lama [sic]. The program went on, but when the honors were passed around, Harry Conn, the unknown, unseen forgotten man, basked in the limelight too. Jack made sure of that.
They’re called Damon and Pythias, but not only because they’re great friends. Matter of fact, they seldom go out together socially. Jack and Mary Livingstone, his wife, travel around with Burns and Allen, Jane and Goodman Ace and the other gay younger marrieds, while Conn goes about to wrestling matches and poker parties with the Broadway crowd. But their friendship goes even deeper than that. It's based on an unbelievable trust and understanding. Just for an idea:
After several of Benny’s early broadcasts, Conn gave up his job writing for Burns and Allen. Now don’t forget, at that time George and Gracie had been on the air and were established hits. And while Benny’s first few broadcasts clicked, his rating as a radio comedian was still uncertain and his contract had only a few weeks to run. Broadway-wise skeptics told Conn he was crazy to give up a sure-fire success for a chance. But the heart-warming part of it all is that Jack didn’t ask Conn to do this for him. He’s not the sort of fellow to demand any sacrifice made for him.
Well, you know what happened. The next few broadcasts made Jack a great star — greater, even, than the wildest dreams of either Benny or Conn. There was never a contract signed between the two. There was nothing to keep intact this business partnership — and after all, that's what it was. Jack could fire Harry tomorrow; Harry could walk out on Jack any time he wishes. There's absolutely nothing to prevent either. And yet there never has been a squabble over money, never a rumor that one was leaving the other. And in a profession where stars out-grow, with sickening rapidity, the people who’ve helped them climb up, this fact is news.

BENNY showed Conn the same loyalty that Conn displayed to him. At the beginning Harry received $100 for each of those scripts. As Benny’s salary ascended, so did Conn’s. Harry never had to ask for it. Jack was one of the rare persons in radio who kept his head when success came to him — a mighty difficult thing to do in this ego-inflated industry. Harry's pay check rose from $250 to $500 and then $750. When Jack reached his peak, just before he went to Hollywood, Conn’s salary was something like $1,250 for each script — the highest salary, I understand, paid any writer for one individual program.
The test of their friendship came with that Hollywood offer from MGM. Jack alone was called. The company didn’t need a writer. Said they had plenty of their own under contract, who had been turning out good comedy scripts for their other comedians. But Jack stood firm. I can see him exercising the same stubbornness that he showed to the editor and the agency man: “I won’t sign until Conn is signed, too.” In the end he won. Conn was hired to write all of his movie dialogue at a salary of $1,800 a week. But Jack gained more than his point. He gained, for the first time, real movie success, too.
YOU may remember Benny was in the movies once before. The Broadway Melody of 1929 it was. Jack recalls it with a headache, because it was an ill-fated venture for him. That was before the Conn days. Brutally and frankly, he was a flop in it. It seemed that the keen Benny wit, the suave Benny drawl were lost in a maze of wrong material. The great Broadway comedian who had made thousands laugh in the stage houses, couldn’t gel more than a faint ripple from the tremendous movie audiences. The movie portals were closed to him — and for good, he thought. Second chances are as elusive as cigarette smoke.
But it came to him — that second chance, I mean — and solely because of the great name he had made for himself in his radio series. This time, lease though, when he boarded the train for the movie colony, he wasn’t afraid. He had the controlling hand of Conn to shift his gear to the real Benny stride.
And as a result — well, I hear he’s just placed the down payment on a palatial Hollywood home. Which means that he expects to be making a lot of other movies, don’t you think?
And, oh yes — Harry has renewed his lease at a smart Hollywood hotel, because even though he still has no contract with Jack Benny, he knows he’ll be with his boss for a long, long time.