Jippo Kills

Jippo endows its imbibers with different reactions in the warped Fleischer cartoon Betty Boop M.D. (1932). An invalid drinks some, starts scat singing and dancing, then dies. He makes his own grave, then his grave plants a scat singing flower.



Willard Bowsky and Tom Goodson are the credited animators.

Flynn No Failure

He was 30 years old, and considered himself a failure.

He had run for political office in Ohio and lost. He came west, was a graduate student speech at USC and planned to go into teaching, according to a 1953 Los Angeles Times story. Instead, at age 30 in 1955, he was the host of KTTV’s Whatsa Name, where four fashion models attempted to identify relatives of famous people.

It wasn’t quite the career path he was hoping for.

But things picked up and he got his big break in 1962, a TV role that made him famous to millions. He became “Old Leadbottom.”

That’s when Joe Flynn was enlisted for McHale’s Navy.

Flynn eventually became so well known that he became a “type.” Producer Mark Evanier once related how Joe Barbera wanted to hire Flynn to, basically, repeat his McHale’s Navy characterisation on a cartoon series but then hired John Stephenson instead because Stephenson sounded more like Flynn than Flynn did.

United Press International’s Hollywood reporter, Vernon Scott, talked to Flynn while the series was still on. His first column was published on May 29, 1963, and in it Flynn seems to place a great amount of importance on being important. I admit I’m confused about what Scott means when he says “He holds little brief for Bishop, however.” I presume Flynn and the dour Bishop didn’t get along.

Love to Hate Joe's Role
By VERNON SCOTT
HOLLYWOOD (UPI)—Persistence and a photogenic snarl have finally paid off for character actor Joe Flynn, who claims he's had a hundred false starts at achieving stardom.
For the uninitiated, Flynn (definitely no relation to Errol) plays the sulphurous Capt. Wallace Binghamton in video's "McHale's Navy"—a character you love to hate.
But to Flynn the dyspeptic despot of a miserable PT-boat base is an archangel.
Were it not for Binghamton, Flynn would still be lost in the horse latitudes of show biz searching for a claim to fame.
FOR MORE than 15 years the bespectacled performer has wandered around seeking fortune and a modicum of fame. He has appeared in 50 movies and 350 television shows, including regular stints with George Gobel, Bob Newhart and Joey Bishop. He holds little brief for Bishop, however.
"It's a terrible thing to wake up one morning and find yourself 30 years old and a failure," Flynn said.
He was dispatching lunch in the Universal City commissary. Dressed in his Navy captain's uniform he looked every inch an actor. A former Army sergeant, even Flynn admits he couldn't pass for an old sea dog in real life.
"Guys I had gone to school with were doctors, lawyers and successful politicians," he continued in an obvious attempt to garner pity, "but I was still on the fringes of show business.
"I took every part offered me, from one-line bits to support roles in movies.

"EACH TIME I'd complete something worthwhile I was assured by the producer, my agent and friends that I was on my way. 'Just wait until this comes out,' they'd say.
"Well, I'd wait and out would come a bomb."
It was something of a surprise, then when "McHale's Navy" became ABC-TV's big hit of the year. People recognize Flynn on the street now, and he's hearing from old friends--doctors, lawyers and successful politicians, for example.
"It's a thrilling thing to be recognized and to have strangers address you by name," said Flynn. "And I get a big kick out of playing Binghamton. He's a cowardly naval officer. But having been a cowardly sergeant I was well prepared to play the role.
"The world is full of Binghamtons. And we all have at least one of them in our lives that we like to see get his lumps.
"AT THE SAME time he does get some sympathy because, like most of us, he wants to be something he isn't. At least he tries, and you have to give him credit for that."
Because Flynn was stomping around the boondocks of show biz for so long even small touches of status elevate his morale. A few weeks ago he arrived on the set to discover that a canvas chair had been added to the stage one with his name (Joe Flynn) stenciled on the back. He almost came down with the vapors.
"Nobody will ever know how much that meant to me," he concluded. "I was so proud of it I didn't sit in the chair all day. I didn't want to sit down and cover up my name." The name is Flynn, F-L-Y-N-N - like in Errol.

Now that Flynn was a success, he seems to have settled into a comfortable, drab life. Scott pulls a punch here. Flynn didn’t like Ernie Borgnine but nowhere in the story does he or Scott explain why. Maybe Flynn was a fan of Ethel Merman, I don’t know.

This story appeared on June 6, 1964.

Joe Flynn Smokes Pipe in Secret Because of Sponsor
By VERNON SCOTT
UPI Hollywood Correspondent
HOLLYWOOD (UPI) — Joe Flynn, the vile-tempered Capt Binghamton of “McHale's Navy,” is a placid soul off-screen who dabbles in politics and loafs as much as possible.
He’s a secret pipe-smoker because the show is sponsored by a cigaret company.
Another thing, he’s not particularly fond of his co-star, Ernest Borgnine. When he shouts at Commander McHale in a scene he is venting his own wrath at Borgnine.
If nothing else, that proves Flynn is courageous. Even he admits that big Ernie could dismember him with a single shot to the incisors.
Away from the set Flynn leads the good life. He likes nothing better than to settle down in a comfortable chair with a highball.
The easy chair most likely will be an Italian provincial number in his contemporary home in Benedict Canyon, a genteel section of Beverly Hills. He and his wife Shirley (married eight years) have lived in the four-bedroom, three-bath house for the past three years. They have two sons, Tony, 5, and Kenneth Conrad (K.C.), 4.
The senior Flynns collect paintings—28 in all—ranging from modern impressionists to abstracts. Flynn enjoys just looking at them. Around the house he is totally useless.

“I’m not a handyman,” he says drily, “but I have a great knack for going to the yellow pages (of the telephone book).”
Every work day the actor is up at 5:30 in the morning and seldom returns before 6:30 p.m. He’s home for dinner every night.
“I’m on the Three-S diet,” he boasts, “Steak, Salad and Scotch. We exist almost exclusively on beef—steaks, roasts, hamburger, meatloaf and stew—Shirley cooks them all well.”
Joe drives a 1962 sedan while Shirley pilots the children around in a sports compact.
If Flynn appears to be more affluent than his television salary might indicate, it is only fair to state that he also owns two parking lots in the heart of Beverly Hills. The Comstock Lode produced less gold.
Capitalist Flynn has refused to buy a pet for his youngsters. For himself, however, he has a year-old cocker spaniel named Guy.
Flynn is remarkably proud of the fact that he is a lounge lizard, a total stranger to exercise. He does not play golf, swim or play tennis. Just watching such exertions gives him the bends, at least at the elbows.
His friends are mostly performers—George Gobel, Bob Newhart, Robert Vaughn and Tim Conway, who plays the hare-brained Navy ensign on “McHale's Navy.”
The Flynns rarely entertain and rarely dine out. A big night in the family consists of a visit with friends. Joe prefers to relax with a good biography or history book and hit the hay early.
A gardener relieves Flynn of hacking around the shrubs and flowers, the thought of which appalls him. A steady housekeeper makes life easier for Shirley.
Frequently Flynn devotes his weekends to the U.S. Navy, traveling around in his Captain’s uniform for benefits, telethons and a variety of Navy functions. Sometimes he is paid. Sometimes not.
He takes along his stand-in and secretary, Jimmy Jones, who does the driving and handles his fan mail.
When not in uniform Flynn lazes around in sweaters and slacks.
He is much in demand as master of ceremonies for Democratic Party functions. He is an ardent Democrat and longtime friend of Jesse Unruh, California’s “big daddy" of Democratic politics.
This summer Flynn and his pretty wife are vacationing in Europe, safe in the knowledge that he won't have to wear his Navy uniform for two whole months.

McHale’s Navy left the air in 1966. Flynn’s personal friendship and on-camera chemistry with Conway led to the two starring in a sitcom called The Tim Conway Show in 1970. It was one of Conway’s numerous failures. At least it got to air. In 1972, Flynn shot a comedy pilot with Soupy Sales called The Bear and I that went nowhere. In early 1967, Flynn and Jack Weston filmed a Dragnet parody called Ready and Willing. It got an airing seven years later as part of NBC Monday Night at the Movies.

But Flynn found steady employment in Disney family comedies until his untimely death in his swimming pool at age 49 in 1974.

The Colour of Danger

Here’s another reason why Don Patterson should have kept his director’s job at Walter Lantz.

There’s a good colour change effect at the start of Termites From Mars (1953). As the Martian danger approaches in various gag situation, the sky turns darker and more ominous, becoming various shades of magenta.



Later Lantz cartoons wouldn’t have bothered with all this. They would have gone for the gag (ship becomes a sub, plane hides in a volcano, skyscrapers turn into huge gun barrels) and that’s it.

There’s no story credit on this short. La Verne Harding, Ray Abrams and Paul J. Smith are the animators.

The Chaplin Bears

George and Junior dress up as fire hydrants to attract a little dog they’re trying to catch in Hound Hunters (1947). If you’ve seen enough cartoons, you know what’s going to happen next.



Curiosity.



The dogs realise where the noise is coming from. Hydrants!



Here is George and Junior’s reaction. This is one time in the cartoon where the characters don’t have their tongues sticking straight out in shock.



Both George and Junior do that one-foot slide when running around a corner that Charlie Chaplin did in his films.



Heck Allen helped Avery with the gags, Johnny Johnsen is the background artist and the animation is credited to Ed Love, Walt Clinton, Ray Abrams and Preston Blair. It sounds like George is played by Frank Graham sped up.

Canadians Love Jack Benny

Today being Canada’s birthday and it also being a Sunday, the day when Jack Benny broadcast for many years on radio, let us combine the two and look back at when Benny’s show aired from Vancouver on April 23, 1944.

Benny’s appearance was part of Canada’s Sixth Victory Loan push. His cast and his writers made the trip up by rail and put on their Sunday night broadcast from the Forum [right], at one time the home of the Western League Vancouver Canucks.

Joining the Benny regulars were a couple of incidental players. John Brown had been a part of Allen’s Alley, but when Fred Allen went off the air for a year and a bit due to heart problems, Brown left New York and came to Hollywood. Benny used him for a while on his show. Sara Berner was later one of one the telephone operators on the show. On the northern swing, she played Ruby Wagner, who was a real-life relative of Mary Livingstone. Mary grew up in Vancouver and the Wagners lived there, too. The Marks house on Nelson near Denman Street was torn down for apartments some time ago.

The three Vancouver papers covered the Benny visit and broadcast. Let’s present a story and two columns from the Sun the day after the programme aired. It would appear, judging by the stories, there was only one broadcast, with no live repeat for the West Coast. Benny was broadcast at both 4 p.m. and 8:30 p.m., the latter time slot on Mutual/Don Lee stations, which were allowed to make a transcription of the NBC line feed for re-broadcast that season.

The Benny show was broadcast locally in Vancouver on CBR and CKWX at 4 p.m., but 1943-44 was the last season for Benny on Canadian radio. When he was sponsored by Lucky Strikes, he was removed because Luckies were not sold in Canada and the CBC felt the sponsor was so integrated with the actual comedy that mentions of the product couldn’t be edited out satisfactorily. Listeners in Vancouver had to tune in to Seattle stations to hear Benny.

First, let’s go to the unbylined story about the broadcast. BC’s liquor laws are still antiquated (until 1986, one could not buy a drink on a Sunday), the tolls were removed in the 1960s conveniently prior to an election and the Grouse Chalet has been eclipsed by bigger ski resorts. Mayor J.W. Cornett has been dead since 1973. He owned a shoe store. He was not an actor, as is pretty clear if you listen to the broadcast. And, yes, English Bay and Stanley Park are still there.

Gag Experts Give International Publicity to City in Rollicking Show at Forum
Beauties of Vancouver Extolled by Benny Broadcast Before 9000
Thirty-five million Americans from California to Rhode Island to Montana to Texas now know that Vancouver is a beautiful city practically surrounded by a body of water called English Bay—and toll bridges.
They know it’s a city in a “monetary paradise,” where ten dollars (American) will get you eleven (Canadian) without even going near a race track.
And they’ve been tipped off, too, to some of our local restrictions governing the sale of spiritus fermenti. (Spiritus fermenti? That, according to Jack Benny, is the stuff that comes in pints, quarts and W.C. Fields.)
And this, and Mayor Cornett, too, came to them on Sunday afternoon when Benny broadcast his weekly show from the Hastings Park Forum before an estimated crowd of 9000.
Vancouver, its Lions Gate bridge, Grouse Mountain chalet and its largest hotel, rated more plugs in the script than Don Wilson was able to muscle in for that breakfast food he peddles. You know, they’re tempting and toasty-brown, and they come in the big new 12-ounce economy size package!
Benny, the world’s most loveable heel; Wilson, Rochester, Mary Livingstone, Phil Harris and Dennis Day were accorded one of the greatest ovations a Vancouver audience has ever let loose for any visiting celebrity.
Some statistics might be interesting: Usually Benny allows about five minutes’ slack in the script to take care of the laughs. Sunday they took up seven minutes. And, at that, he cut the laughs short time after time by diving back into the script.
The script was chockfull of local gags, the longest one centred about a supposed Vancouverite who announced he’d been appointed by the major to welcome Benny to the city.
“I’ve lived here all my life, and if there any places of interest you’ve missed I’ll be glad to point them out to you,” he offered.
Then the script went like this:
BENNY: Well, let me see, I’ve been through Stanley Park and then I . . .
VANCOUVERITE: Stanley Park? Where’s that?
BENNY: Why it’s right at the foot of Lions Gate Bridge.
VANCOUVER: Lions Gate Bridge? . . . They have one here?
BENNY: Of course, that’s the bridge where Burrard Inlet meets English Bay.
VANCOUVERITE: English Bay?
BENNY: Certainly. That’s the body of water that practically surrounds the city.
VANCOUVERITE: Oh! So THAT’S what that is.
The payoff on this gag came later in the program when Benny was telling Mayor Cornett that his emissary had lived here all his life and “didn’t know that large body of water out there was English Bay.”
“Oh, is THAT what is?” said the Mayor.

That five-day wait imposed on visitors before they can buy a liquor permit was milked down to the dregs for several laughs. Like when Benny told Rochester “money isn’t all that important,” and the little valet cracked back:
“Boss you talk like a man whose five days are already up.”
Those toll bridges which are Vancouver’s first line of defense against any invasion were worked to show Benny up for the cheap heel he is supposed to be. Mayor Cornett told him how beautiful the Grouse Mountain Chalet is and added that the toll charge is only a quarter.
“It’s one of the beauty spots of Canada,” said the mayor.
“Well, that settles it,” replied Benny. “I’ll take your word for it.” Benny and the rest of the cast stuck meticulously to the script throughout, except once when the comedian ad-libbed a subtle crack about our weather.
When Mary Livingstone reminded him, “You’re not wearing a toupee because it’s cold,” Benny came back with, “Sister, are you kidding?” It wasn’t in the script but neither was that rain, or the sheet of ice that lay under the Forum floor.
Incidentally, Mary was well protected against the cold by an “ah-inspiring” mink coat.
The touching farewell to Dennis Day was more than “script.” The singer could not withhold his tears and had trouble continuing with his lines.
* * *
The bagpipes probably have never been played to a larger audience than the one which heard their skirl over NBC on Sunday. The piper was Sergeant William Lamont of the Vancouver Seaforths.
* * *
Mary Livingstone’s gag about her uncle Harry packed a double kick for one member of the audience—Harry Wagner, a native of Vancouver, who is her uncle.
A tireless showman, Benny returned to the Forum with his cast last night to entertain 7000 troops from all over Vancouver.
* * *
Fifteen minutes before and after the actual broadcast, Benny and his cast put on a show that packed more laughs than the radio script.
Phil Harris, who said he was taking over while “Jackson” was putting on his hair, apologized for not bringing his wife, Alice Faye.
“She wanted to come,” he said, “but one of us had to stay home and have the baby.”
Don Wilson told the story about the elm tree that was planted in Waukegan, Benny’s home town, in honor of the comedian.
The tree withered up and died, Wilson explained, because, as Fred Allen said at the time, there was the tree in Waukegan while the sap was running around in Hollywood.

Two of the Monday morning columnists talked about the class of Benny and his cast members. First, let’s hear from Pat Wallace, the Women’s Editor at the Sun (she would move to the competing Daily Province later in the year. She talks briefly about Mary Livingstone. While Jack flew to various parts of the world in the off-season to entertain troops, Mary stayed at home, but was nonetheless helping to boost morale.

Talk of the Town
By Pat Wallace
Benny Meets So Many
After watching the JACK BENNY gang this week, we’ve come to the conclusion that it takes a lot more than talent to be a top-ranking celebrity.
They need the patience of Job, the charm of Cleopatra and the endurance of MacArthur.
Ever since the Grape-Nut and, pardon us, we nearly forgot, Flakes radio troupe arrived here last Tuesday night or Wednesday morning to be exact, to do a considerable chunk of pun-plugging for the Sixth Victory Loan, they’ve been hounded and harried by swarms of signature-seeking fans during practically every waking minute. Not once have they refused. And more important, not once have they appeared ungracious or bored as they signed, signed and signed again.
It’s not only the autograph seekers which must stretch their civility to the snapping point, but the personality parasites—those hangers-on who stick their faces up to the outer rays of the lime-light.
* * *
Mary’s Not Contrary

Sunday afternoon at the nationwide broadcast, with nine thousand packing the Forum to the rafters, both aforementioned types were out in full force. Yet exhausted as they all were, Jack, Mary, Phil, Rochester, and recently arrived DENNIS DAY, naughty boy of the show going nautical next week, had a word, a smile and a quick scrawl for anyone who asked, and believe you men, plenty did.
The whole troupe were feeling sort of low, too. Yesterday’s number was Dennis’ swan-song for the duration, and as Mary told us: “It’s like losing one of the family. We are that you know.” It’s easy to see it. They worry about each other, do plenty of kidding back and forth, and most noticeable of all; they build each other up continually.
It’s quite evident out in public that Jack takes the lead, and Mary usually retires quietly to the background. Mary’s explanation: “I’m proud of being Mrs. Jack Benny.”
* * *
A Plug for a Jug
In fact, when they’re in Hollywood, Mary tells us she lives a pretty domestic life. “Except for rehearsals and the show at the week-ends, I spend a good deal of time at home. After all, my daughter JOANIE, who’s 10, needs attention, and I’ve my war work. I go to the Hollywood Canteen once a week, to Birmingham Hospital to chat with the servicemen Tuesdays, and Friday is my day at the Fort MacArthur Induction Centre.”
With their Vancouver stay up tomorrow morning, Mrs. Benny’s chief disappointment is the fact she never did find a moment to do any sight-seeing or shopping for additions to her collection of Toby jugs.
“I’ve loved it though, and maybe I’ll be able to sneak back again soon.”

And now, here’s Hal Straight, managing editor of the Sun. His column is a little odd; it comes to a very sudden end. The reference to pitching at the outset is kind of a little joke. Straight was a top amateur pitcher in Vancouver before pro ball returned to the city in 1937, and then covered the Vancouver Capilanos of the Western International League as Sports Editor. It’s a shame he didn’t talk baseball with Benny, as Jack was a fan.

From the Sun Tower
By Hal Straight
The General Is Pitching
Jack Benny and his troupe, with their wonderful tribute to Vancouver, almost pushed the war interest into the background over the week-end, but not quite.
Glamorous and U.S. president-nibbling General MacArthur, staged a pretty fair show himself. By landing on both sides of Hollandia in New Guinea in a sudden, important invasion, he made the strategy of the south Pacific and far east look quite clear.
The Navy is bombing the small islands—Jap strongholds—into submission which will open the way for the army to reach out from New Guinea to the Phillipines. Then with forces striking through Burma, Mr. Nippon will be completely cut off and will be left to shrivel like a sunburned cadaver which won’t take much sun.
A Fellow Named Benny
Like everybody else in this profession, we met Jack Benny. Before doing so we vowed we would not punish him with clichés, with the usual line of guff that must fatigue him, for instance: “Always listen to your broadcasts. Must be wonderful to be so successful! Are you really so stingy and do you really drive a Maxwell?”

But our good intentions were in vain. We exchanged “J’do’s,” both looked stupidly at each other and dug right into the frayed bag containing shopworn conversations.
“Saw you back in the Orpheum days when you HAD to play a violin,” we offered.
“Did you?” That was fourteen years ago. Time flies.”
“Saw you in Los Angeles a few years ago. You’ve lost weight.”
“Really! You notice it?”
“Yes. You’re quite a bit thinner.”
“Been on a diet. Was the only one who toured the war fronts who gained weight, 28 pounds. Quite unusual. I really am thin now.”
“Yes. Quite slim.”
“You’ve lost weight yourself,” twinkled Benny. “Oh, pardon me, I thought you were Don Wilson. What the devil, let’s relax and have a drink. Fellow can’t live on breakfast food forever.”
Which we thought was nicely done and the reason, probably, that Benny is “up there.”
Pin-Ups Not So Nude
Subsequently somebody mentioned something about pin-up girls. Benny, in grey-haired seriousness, explained that home folks had the wrong impression of servicemen’s “pin-ups.”
“They are not so naked. You’d be surprised at the modesty,” pointed out “Mr. Love-in-Bloom,” referring to servicemen’s quarters he saw overseas. Which brought us right into the conversation. On our Alaska Highway tour we bunked in army quarters and saw many walls papered with many pin-ups. At Dawson Creek the four walls of our room were covered. And there were no nudes.
Like most displays we saw, pretty girls, some of them completely clothed, others just decently, were predominant, but there were also pictures of the world war leaders, male actors and prominent people in general.
One place where we stayed there was a display of the famous Varga girls, the drawings that put Esquire magazine into the courts. But this display was on the back of a cupboard door, not open visibly.

Koko and Max Silence the Wise Ones

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rover is Carmen Miranda

Bugs Bunny was Carmen Miranda in Slick Hare (1947). Daffy Duck was Carmen Miranda in Yankee Doodle Daffy (1943). But before both of them was Rover in Porky’s Pooch (1941).

Rover uses the routine that the Chuck Jones unit put into Charlie Dog several years later: Porky Pig ain’t got no dog and Rover ain’t got no master. At one point, Rover tries to impress his potential new owner by grabbing a table cloth, swirling it around him like a skirt, and then turning into Carmen Miranda when a bowl of fruit that had been on the table lands on his head.



Rover, as Carmen, sways and sings “Mi Caballero” by M.K. Jerome and Jack Scholl from the 1940 Warner Bros.’ feature Torrid Zone.



The angry Porky is having none of this and hauls Rover out of the scene. Porky looks awfully large.



Warren Foster wrote the story (Mike Maltese and Tedd Pierce wrote the first Charlie Dog short) for director Bob Clampett. Izzy Ellis is the credited animator.

Iwerks' Bosko

Is there a pun I’m missing, or is this an inside gag?

In The Air Race (produced in 1933), Willie Whopper points to a list of entrants. Some of the puns are easy to pick out, but look at the name of one of the pilots—Bosko Turnover. Is there a play on words here, or is the Iwerks studio making a reference to a cartoon character made by Harman-Ising?



The irony is MGM dumped Iwerks and its Willie Whopper cartoons the following year and replaced them with Harman-Ising shorts, including Bosko. It really was a Bosko Turnover.

The Crazy Smash Hit

How many stars would, basically, turn over half of their show to someone who audiences barely knew and let him loose?

Jack Benny did.

On April 9, 1950, much of the Benny radio show that evening was taken up by impressionist Frank Fontaine. He used Jack as a straight man for a brain-addled sweepstakes ticket holder character of his named John L.C. Sivoney. Later, Fontaine was given full reign to pull off some of the impressions he had used in his act (his Winston Churchill was exceptionally good).

Fontaine had appeared on Ed Sullivan’s Toast of the Town earlier in the year but the Benny show turned him into a sensation. Benny kept inviting him back and kept having to stifle laughter because Fontaine’s gooney routine broke him up. Fontaine milked Sivoney for several years, then brought him back as Crazy Guggenheim on Jackie Gleason’s TV show in the ‘50s.

We printed a newspaper column on Fontaine’s sudden fame in this post. It turns out the columnist loved Fontaine, too, as we’ve found a different article he wrote several months earlier. This was published a little over six weeks after Fontaine’s first Benny show.

Two Radio Bit Parts Make Unsuccessful Movie Actor A Star Comedian Overnight
By HAROLD HEFFERNAN
North American Newspaper Alliance
HOLLYWOOD, May 24 — "I was just hangin' 'round ... I was mindin' my own business ... I wasn't doin' nothin' . . . just hangin' round . . . then he came along ... I asked him for a dime and he gave me fiddy cents! ... I was just hangin' round . . ." etc.
This strange line of jargon coming over the ether waves on a Jack Benny program several Sundays back — from a panhandler identified in the script as "Mr. Sevony" — touched off a major explosion in show business.
Allowed To Drift
Listeners throughout the country sat back and howled. Benny himself was convulsed to the point of stopping his own show. One Sunday later, "Mr. Sevony" played an encore on the Benny show and from that moment big things began happening for him.
"Mr. Sevony" is really Frank Fontaine, a talented young character actor who had been trying for the past 18 months without success to find a foothold in Hollywood pictures.
Signed to a Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer contract and given a role in "Nancy Goes to Rio," he was allowed to drift away by that studio. The actor kept going by working in small night spots and finally in a Hollywood musical revue called "A la Carte." It was there that a 20th Century-Fox scout noted his remarkable impersonations and signed him for a role in "Stella." He finished his part and was allowed to go his way.
Jack Benny was Fontaine's unwitting rescuer. It is now acknowledged that through those two brief guest appearances with Benny, Fontaine overnight became the top comedian and the most sought-after actor in film business.
In his debut for Benny, Frank shattered the traditionally tight-fisted reputation of the star by announcing, to the crashing of falling tinware, "I asked him for a dime and he gave me fiddy cents."
This led to another comedy routine, wherein Jack was congratulated on his generosity by famous personages, among them Winston Churchill and Cary Grant. Fontaine handled these impersonations.
Critics Doubtful
After the first radio fill-in, all Hollywood voted Frank one of the funniest men uncovered in a decade. But the critics were doubtful. Possibly he was just a one-show flash-in-the-pan. The "Mr. Sevony" repeater on the following Sunday removed any doubts.
By another of those freakish turns of events in movie-town, Frank Fontaine had become pedestaled as a smash hit. From a nobody faced by the unwanted sign on every movie lot, he was now sought by all. "Jack Benny better get that fellow off his program and quick or he'll steal it," warned all the Hollywood "brains."
What happened to Fontaine the following morning— a Monday— is typical of sudden recognition in fickle filmtown. His phone in the little Culver City hotel where he occupies a small hall room began jangling early. People he'd never heard of before were calling to congratulate him— and making with the "pal" and "buddy" stuff.
A Fat Contract
Nicest message of all, however, came from Republic Studio. John Auer, producing that company's biggest picture of the year, a musical "Hit Parade of 1951," asked Fontaine to come over for an interview.

Frank took a bus across to Auer's valley office and emerged two hours later with a remarkably remunerative contract and the star comedy role in the feature. From 20th Century-Fox, where he had finished his small part in "Stella" two weeks before, came a frantic plea. The Zanuck studio, with its ear to the radio ground, wanted him back for what they termed "retakes." Actually, they sought Frank for an enlargement of his part as Ann Sheridan's job-dodging brother-in-law. Frank obliged— but received a fee for the so-called "retakes" that made his original deal look ridiculous.
Radio agencies, with eager advertising sponsors, were standing in line, too. Frank had two wired offers from Broadway show producers. And during all this time, he was in a great daze, torn between a desire to be back in Boston with his wife for an important family event and the economic necessity of staying around Hollywood and sorting those Jack Benny-propelled offers.
Fontaine, who is only 30 years old— looking five years younger— finally decided on flying east to be with his wife to quarterback the arrival of their seventh child. The newcomer safely checked in, Frank scurried right back to Hollywood to take charge of his quickened career.
The rest of the Fontaines, at one time packed and ready to move West when MGM suddenly dropped his contract, are a cinch now to make the move.
Born in New York, the son of a vaudeville team, Frank managed to get the feel of show business early in life— by setting up a shoe-shine stand at 46th and Broadway. Here he polished the brogans of many a great name in the amusement world, among them Cary Grant, George Jessel, Edward G. Robinson, Spencer Tracy, Pat O'Brien and others he now imitates so impeccably.
Fontaine's fabulous new popularity includes a startling offer from C.B.S. to play Amos and the Kingfish on the Amos and Andy air show when Freeman Gosden and Charles Correll retire, as announced, next year. The Fontaine bid was a straight 25-year deal— optionless!
Fontaine's "discovery" is additional proof that no one in Hollywood is a Solomon when it comes to judging talent. Only a few months ago, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer's experts were so certain Fontaine wouldn't do, they passed up his $500-a-week contract— and that barely a week after he'd been assured it would be O.K. for him to move his family out from Boston. Frank had sold his furniture, given up his house and purchased bus tickets for the family to travel west.
Now it will be different! The Fontaines will come out on the Super-Chief, in bedrooms. They'll probably live in a Beverly Hills mansion, have fancy furniture and a swimming pool.

It's Higgins, Sir

In Tex Avery’s 1949 cartoon Wags To Riches, Spike reads over a Will leaving everything to him if something should happen to Droopy, and there’s an inside joke by Avery and background artist Johnny Johnsen.



The Will is signed by W. Higgins, and therein lies the joke. “W. Higgins” was Bill Higgins, an assistant animator in the Avery unit who never got screen credit at MGM but did later at other studios.

William Thomas Higgins was born in Indiana on November 2, 1911 to Patrick and Freda Higgins. His father worked in a glass factory, and that’s what he was doing in Los Angeles by 1920. There’s a William T. Higgins who graduated from Los Angeles Polytechnic in 1927, though we don’t know if it’s the same person.

Higgins was in animation by 1933; his name and head shot are found on a Charles Mintz Christmas card that year. It looks like he was an original employee of the MGM cartoon studio that opened in 1937. Variety reported on December 10th that year he was at Metro and had married Jean Glover, who was a painter at the studio. He was getting $35 a week in 1939.

When the war came along, Higgins left MGM and enlisted in November 1942 and was assigned to the animation division of the First Motion Picture Unit at what everyone called Fort Roach. When he was let out is unclear, but Variety reported on June 24, 1947 that he was on the Board of Trustees of the Screen Cartoonists Guild and that he was now working for John Sutherland Productions. Evidently he came and went as his signature is on the1948 Christmas card from the Avery unit.

Higgins was at Sutherland in the ‘50s and he started to receive screen credit. A full collection of Sutherland’s commercial and industrial cartoons isn’t available—oh, where, oh where, did the company’s archives go?—but you can spot his name on The Devil and John Q, What Makes Us Tick (both 1952), It’s Everybody’s Business (1954) and the great Destination Earth (1956).

He moved on to Playhouse Pictures, a commercial studio, where he worked on award-winning cartoons in 1957. After that, he animated some TV Popeye cartoons for Gerald Ray, possibly under TV Spots/Creston Studios. The end of the ‘60s found him assistant animating (and there wasn’t much animation to begin with) on the Hot Wheels series at Pantomime Pictures.

Higgins died in Los Angeles on March 5, 1991.