Out of the Ink Stain

Here’s a feature story about Max Fleischer from Picturegoer and Film Weekly, a British publication, dated January 13, 1940. It’s actually one of two stories the newspaper wrote; an article the following April 20th gave profiles (accompanied by drawings) of the characters in Gulliver’s Travels.

This feature story starts off with an incident early in Fleischer’s animation career. It doesn’t attempt to be a history of his studio. Gulliver gets only a passing mention. To say the film “adheres strictly to the line laid down by Swift” is, well, not altogether true, even if you set aside all the travels that don’t involve Lilliput.

He turned ink into Gold
THE living-room of the little apartment on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn looked like a Heath Robinson drawing. Electric wires were hung on chandeliers, picture frames and any other place that would support them. Drawing boards were propped up on chairs, the drawings at first glance looking so alike that an outsider would have wondered why so many sketches of the same subject had been made.
An upright piano huddled timidly in one corner as if trying to escape the attention of three brothers working in the room.
The brothers were busy with a motion picture camera in the opposite corner. They were Max, Dave and Joe Fleischer. The camera poked its lens in between improvised standards bearer electric lights which glared at the drawings on one of the boards.
Max was at one side of the board. A pile of drawings lay on a small table beside him. Dave was on the other side of the drawing board and Joe stood at the side of the camera. Max would pick up a drawing and place it on the board. He and Dave then would fit it carefully within marked boundaries.
“Turn,” Max would say.
Joe would turn the crank carefully until the handle reached a mark on the side of the camera.
“Okay,” he would say.
Then the process would be repeated.

It was three o’clock in the morning. The brothers had worked steadily for honours. Max’s wife had long ago retired, after giving reluctant permission for the brothers to work in the living-room. Max had to plead with her.
“We have worked for months drawing these pictures,” he argued. “We have no money to rent a place to work and everything is read now to photograph them. Let us work there. We won’t hurt anything.”
“All right,” she had said finally. “You can work there tonight, but it you damage that rug of mine, out you all go.”
And so they had worked far into the night, trying to get as much done as possible. It was going to take several nights to complete the task.
“Hand me a wrench, Max,” said Joe. “This handle is loose.”
All of them were physically exhausted, so Max wasn’t as careful as he should have been. He turned to pick up the wrench from the table, his elbow struck a bottle of ink, and the bottle landed with a sickening thud on the beloved rug.
THE three brothers gasped in dismay as the pool of ink slowly but relentlessly spread on the rug. Suddenly they were galvanised into action. They grabbed blotters and pieces of paper to blow the flow of the ink. They stemmed the tide and mopped up the pool, but the blot was still there.
Max had become imbued with the conviction that characters could be drawn by artists and photographed in a series to make those caricatures move with human action across the screen. If he was right, as he had informed the brothers, there was a fortune in his idea. If he was wrong, all that they stood to lose was their labour.

And now disaster threatened to offset their months of labour. They were so tired that the inclination was to walk out of the room, go to bed, and take the consequences—which meant expulsion from the house and the abandonment of Max’s idea.
They slumped into chairs, so despondent that not one of them said anything for a few moments. Suddenly Max saw the way out. In whispers he convinced his weary brothers that too much was at stake to abandon the idea and sacrifice the time which they had spent upon it.
They unlocked the door to the dining-room and locked the door to the bedroom where Mrs. Fleischer lay asleep. Then, on tiptoe, they carried the furniture, the paraphernalia, and even the upright piano out of the living-room. They turned the rug around and then restored the furniture and the paraphernalia to their places. The tell-tale spot of ink was hidden under the piano.
That was twenty-five years ago. Since that time, the amazing combination of the Fleischer brothers has invented and developed virtually every piece of equipment which is essential in the making of animated cartoons. Dave directs the pictures and turns such problems over to Max. Max invents the equipment needed or adapts existing equipment to the problem. Joe then rebuilds it.
There are more than seventy-five patents, on everything ranging from drawing paper to rotoscopes, held by the Fleischers.
Today, twenty-five years after the ink bottle, Max and Dave have achieved their greatest success by producing, at a cost of hundreds of thousands of dollars, Gulliver’s Travels for Paramount.

Employed in the Fleischer plant are seven hundred artists. In addition to the full-length feature, the Fleischers are under contract to make thirty-eight one and two-reel animated cartoons for Paramount release.
Max Fleischer was born in Austria in 1885, but was taken to America by his parents when he was four or five years old. He studied art in the Art Students’ League and mechanics in the Mechanics’ and Tradesmen’s School in New York.
Even as a boy, Max was determined to become a cartoonist and obtained a job in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle art department as an errand boy. On the same paper was J. R. Bray, also a cartoonist. Bray and Max began talking about the possibilities of animating cartoons for the screen. They began their experiments separately.
The Fleischers were almost a year making a piece of film 150 feet long. Max took the film to a distributor and screened it. It lasted one minute. The distributor was interested and asked him if he could make one a week.
“No,” laughed Max. “That’s a physical impossibility.”
“How long did it take you to make this one,” the distributor asked.
When Fleischer told him that it took almost a year, the distributor told him that if he had something he could offer for sale once a week, or once a month, he would be interested.
So that work started over again and Fleischer finally worked out a method whereby he produced a hundred feet every fourth week. Then Bray became interested in the Fleischer process and the two brothers went into partnership with Bray. Eventually, Fleischers broke away from the Bray organisation and formed their own corporation, retaining the title “Out of the Inkwell.”
It is general believed that Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs was the first full length cartoon feature. This is not true. Max Fleischer produced two seven-reel features, virtually all done by hand drawings, many years ago, and both of them were very successful. Each of the pictures capitalised upon discussions which were in the public print at the time.

The first full length cartoon feature was titled Relativity. This was produced by Fleischer with Dr. Garrett P. Serviss, a science writer of the New York American, shortly after Dr. Albert Einstein announced his famous theory.
Fleischer’s second feature was Darwin’s Theory of Evolution and was produced with the co-operation of the American Museum of Natural History, at that time that William Jennings Bryan and Clarence Darrow waged their famous battle in the Scopes trial in Tennessee.
Ever since the advent of sound, Fleischer has wanted to make a full length feature based on the famous Jonathan Swift satire, “Gulliver’s Travels.”
The picture adheres strictly to the line laid down by Swift. However, Swift wrote the story from the standpoint of Gulliver. Fleischer made the picture from the standpoint of the Lilliputians.
One of the most noteworthy things about the Fleischer organisation is the permanency of a job there. Many of the employees have worked for Fleischer for twenty years, at least twenty-five of them have been with him for twelve years, and there are more than forty that have been with him more than seven years.

Black and White Porky in Black and White

Porky Pig checks out a car engine in Porky’s Super Service. A little brat, the kind that populates cartoons of the 1930s, turns on the ignition. See the effect on Porky.



The tune in the background while this is going on is “Little Old Fashioned Music Box” by George W. Meyer and Pete Wendling (unheard lyrics by Mac David). The soundtrack is more likeable than the kid. It features “I’m Hatin’ This Waitin’ Around,” “My Little Buckaroo,” “Gee But You’re Swell” and “ ‘Cause My Baby Says It’s So.”

Bob Clampett and Chuck Jones have animation credits; this was animated at Ub Iwerks’ studio in Beverly Hills. Mel Blanc and Elvia Allman provide voices, and there’s an incidental voice I can’t pick out.

The 1943 Wolfmobile

The Wolf turns into a fancy roadster as he rushes to Grandma’s House penthouse apartment in Red Hot Riding Hood. Sound editor Fred McAlpin plays the sound of a car motor starting in the background.



The car skids to a stop. Naturally, the brakes are so powerful, it scrunches into itself.



Perhaps some day we’ll see a DVD release of Tex Avery’s work minus DVNR that mars the versions of this cartoon in circulation on line. Tex, and this cartoon especially, deserve better.

Steed and Peel

The Avengers was unlike any other series on television.

The tone was completely different, and so was the look. Odd plots, odd camera angles. The scores built an unusual eeriness and tension enhancing the feeling that whatever was going on was off kilter. And, of course, there was an English atmosphere in terms of speech, setting and fashion. The main characters were cool and understated in an English manner.

To me, the key of the show was Diana Rigg. The series was not the same after she left in 1968.

Canadian stations started buying the programme in 1965 when Honor Blackman was the female lead. Then late in the year, ABC in the U.S. picked it up for broadcast in 1966. Oddly, it wasn’t on the schedule again when fall of that year rolled around but was added a few months later (the lead-ins were, unbelievably, Rango with Tim Conway and The Pruitts of Southampton with Phyllis Diller).

Here’s a feature story from the National Enterprise Association, dated February 11, 1967, describing the coming season on American television.

‘Avengers’ Fans Welcome Derring Duo's Return to Home Screen
By DON ROYAL
NEW YORK (NEA)—When Emma Peel and John Steed, "The Avengers," returned to American television a warm welcome waited for them from fans they made during their go- around here.
"The Avengers" missed the transatlantic boat when ABC made up last fall's schedule. Viewers and reviewers alike made known their thoughts on dropping the show. And so, the net returns the polished pair of derring-doers to its "second season" lineup.
The sleek Mrs. Peel and the urbane Mr. Steed, secret agents played to the British hilt by Diana Rigg and Patrick Macnee, are on ABC Friday evenings, 10-11 p. m. Eastern time.
"Apparently the British aspects of 'The Avengers' intrigues viewers on the American continent," said R. H. Norris, the chap in charge of production for the English producing firm, from London.
A big change, however, has been effected since the first visit of "The Avengers" the slick and sophisticated Emma Peel and John Steed are now performing their fabulous deeds in color.
This season, Steed is driving a 1929 six-and-a-half litre Green Label Bentley in British racing green; Emma has a new 1966 Lotus Elan in powder blue.
This season, each episode begins and ends with a stylized sequence in Emma's apartment.

At the beginning of each story Steed arrives, in various ways, all unexpected, to say, "Mrs. Peel, we're needed." At the end of each story he returns, but for a more pleasant purpose, perhaps to take Emma to dinner.
Steed's apartment, near London's Houses of Parliament, has had a face lifting. It's been done over in natural pine paneling, with buttoned red leather upholstery and a winding staircase.
Emma has moved from her penthouse on London's Primrose Hill to an airy, L-shaped studio nearby, which has an artist's north light ceiling window, a scarlet alcove, and an early Victorian sofa and chair in white and gold.
Emma's new wardrobe is the work of a new, young English designer, Alun Hughes, who was recommended by Diana Rigg. This year she introduces a new outfit called the "Emmapeeler" in a variety of colors. It's a skin-tight, all-over suit. Steed's wardrobe is a version of the famous Pierre Cardin's clothes of Paris—but he still favors the British bowler and brolly.
One outfit, which could start a men's fashion trend, is a pearl gray suit with a pearl gray velvet collar. The shoes are the same color, in suede, and the gray bowler completes the costume.
The science fiction element in the stories will be stronger this time around, though the seemingly supernatural happenings may have a logical explanation. The emphasis is a development based on several highly successful episodes of last season.
Unlike James Bond, Emma and John report to no one such as "M." And their adversaries are mostly private villains, madmen with delusions of power, rather than merely agents of You-Know-Who.
Emma, of course, remains Mrs. Peel, internationally educated daughter of a wealthy shipowner and youthful widow of a famous test pilot. She is obviously chummy with John Steed, but we never really know exactly what they mean to each other— at least, they never tell the audience.
Diana herself is unmarried, tall (5 feet 8 1/2), shapely and quite knowledgeable about judo and karate. (An autograph-seeking fan once asked her if she were indeed the woman who throws men through walls.)
She does throw people about as the distaff partner in "The Avengers," but never outside the studio. A Yorkshire actress who learned her craft with the Royal Shakespearean Company, she was with them again when the call came to make new adventures for "The Avengers."
Diana spent her early years in Jodhpur in Rajputana, where her father was in the Indian Government Service. Back in England, she studied at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art—but getting started in the theater was a sticky wicket.
Too tall, they said. So she became a model, eventually to begin as an actress in a reperatory theater and later, in 1959, to gain a fine reputation with the Shakespeareans at Stratford-on-Avon. A quest for a change of pace brought her to television, succeeding Steed's first partner, Honor Blackman.

Patrick Macnee is a native of London who has been living the role of undercover agent John Steed since 1961. A cousin of David Niven, the role was created especially for Macnee and has developed around his own background and personality.
Many of Steed's tastes, habits of speech and dress are Macnee's—others are projections of the man he would like to be—a romantic who would have favored the grand life of a Regency swinger in the days of George III.
Macnee was educated at Eton (he began his acting career there, by playing Queen Victoria in a school play).
Macnee served with the Royal Navy in World War II as a torpedo boat commander. He returned to busy himself on the London stage, in television and in films. Unlike father, his son is a student at Princeton.
By the 1950s he was an established actor, working in major television dramas in England, the United States, and in Canada, for four years. He is well-known in the Hollywood teleseries centers, and still owns a house on Malibu Beach.
"The Avengers" are based in England and they never really leave for any more exotic arena.
What is presented in this series is wit and satire, and an awful lot of Jolly Ol’, especially those aspects of British life as it is promoted overseas — from atomic laboratories, biochemical plants, automated factories to fox-hunting, stately estates of lord sand earls, and the Olde English Inne.
Many American viewers call it their cup of tea.

Hell Freezes Over

Betty Boop falls asleep inside her house on a snowy night and dreams she’s in Hell in Red Hot Mamma (released Feb. 2, 1934). Even though they’re not really menacing her all that much, she gives the cold shoulder to some imps, who freeze. She gives a cold stare to the head imp. The same thing happens.



Then Hell itself freezes over. The imps escape.



Willard Bowsky and Dave Tendlar get the screen animation credits. The Motion Picture Herald called the cartoon “an entertaining little filler.” Frankly, it could have been a little more nightmarish like the great Snow White released the previous year.

How Do You Like Them Apples?

Half-eaten poisoned apples come to life and dance around Andy Panda in Apple Andy, a 1945 release from Walter Lantz. The cartoon was built around the song “Up Jumps the Devil” sung by Del Porter.

I like how the trees in Terry Lind’s background painting have expressions.



There’s even a high-stepping apple core-us line. Some fine animation here.



Dick Lundy directs, while Emery Hawkins and La Verne Harding receive animation credits.

How Not To Retire From Radio

“Retirement” was a word in Jack Benny’s vocabulary. He talked about it, he threatened it, but he never actually did it. At the end of his life, he was doing the concerts that he loved and an occasional TV show, and he was likely content with that after a career that had begun in vaudeville some 60-or-so years earlier.

Sheilah Graham of the North America Newspaper Alliance devoted a whole column to Jack. It was published on November 2, 1947. Jack talks about leaving radio in a few years. He didn’t. In fact, his new agents MCA worked out a deal with CBS to move his show to the network and cut Jack’s taxes at the same time. He only gave up radio when all the sponsors’ money and audiences started going into television. In the interview, he also talked about having a second child which the Bennys never got around to doing, and why he didn’t end up doing stage plays, as he had mulled over off and on.

Jack Benny Looks Toward Radio Retirement
And He Has ‘No Desire to Make Another Picture’ Unless It Proves More Interesting Than Playing Golf Daily
By Sheilah Graham
HOLLYWOOD
“In four or five years I shall up radio,” says Jack Benny, puffing calmly on a large cigar. “I expect to very tired by then,” he adds. He means of radio. “I’m not much of a radio fan,” confesses the man who has been consistently among the first top Hooper-rating lords ever since the system was started. “Maybe it’s because I know what goes on backstage.”
Now I’ll tell you what goes on backstage—or rather off stage—with Mr. Benny. Jack is now starting his 16th consecutive year in radio—12 of them at the same time (on Sunday). But he is still nervous before each show.
“You’d never guess it,” says Jack. “People who see me just before I go on say I haven’t a nerve in my body. But stage fright is one of the reasons why I want to get out of the business in a few years. Nearly everyone feels the same—except Ingrid Bergman and Barbara Stanwyck; they’re always completely calm before a show.” Jack doesn’t believe even Crosby is as calm as he seems to be before a show. Yet I’d take bets that he is.
Golfs Constantly
I asked Jack what has happened to his plan to star in his movie autobiography, “Always Leave ‘Em Laughing.” “The script wasn’t too hot,” said Benny, who shudders when you mention his last movie, “The Horn Blows At Midnight” “I’ve no desire to make another picture unless it’s worth giving up my golf for.”
Jack plays golf seven days a week, but says he is not in the same class as Hope and Crosby. But, next to traveling, it’s his favorite outdoor sport. Jack has just returned from a three-month tour of the United States. “Mary (Livingstone, his wife) didn’t go with me she hates to travel and she hates to hear me talk about it. I usually come home every day with a handful of pamphlets. I’m always ready to go somewhere.”
The Bennys are going to adopt another child. They already have 13-year-old Joannie. “We should have done it years ago,” Jack told me. “We have a big house, and now, with Joan away in boarding school, it’s very lonely for us” The lucky baby probably will be a European war orphan.
We got to talking of the radio comics of tomorrow. I’ve heard a lot of moaning about “where are they to come from?” Even Mr. Benny doesn’t know. “There's no way of training future comedians today,” he told me. “In the old days, there was vaudeville—you traveled all over the country, did five shows a day, and when you hit the spotlight you knew your job. Today kids have to make good their first time out.”
Jack believes that if Dennis Day and Jack Paar are careful with their writing, they will be the two big radio stars of the future.
Here is the Benny system for having a good show: “I have four writers now. I used to have two, and at one time I only had one. After each show on Sunday, we have a huddle on the idea for the show the following week. Then I forget it completely until the following Thursday morning. The writers start work again on Wednesday, the day before.”
Shows Recorded
One of the secrets of success, according to Jack: “We don’t worry about the show being great—we just see that it isn’t lousy. We never try to follow a ‘great show’ with another great show. We just do our best each time.” Jack has made recordings of each of his shows for the last 12 years. “I can’t get into my bedroom because of records of my shows,” he said.
Jack’s favorite comedy show on the air is “Amos ‘n’ Andy”—“because of the great, great writing job; it’s like a play.” Jack prefers the story-line radio show to the gag show, such as Bob Hope’s. “But one of the reasons Bob has such a big following is because people don’t have to stay with their ears glued to the radio or they lose the plot. They can listen for awhile, then talk, then listen again. But then, again, some people like to listen all the time and follow the story-line.”
When his radio days are over, Jack says, he’d like to do a play on Broadway. “I was going to do stock this summer in ‘The Front Page.’” Jack would have played the part made famous in the movie by Pat O’Brien. “But I couldn't be bothered to learn it all just for two weeks.” Jack used to smoke 15 cigars a day. Now he swears he smokes only one. “I never smoked anything in my life until I was 36,” he told me, and his smoking was an accident. “I had to smoke a cigar in an Earl Carroll show.” Jack says his doctor wants him to drink more than he does. “Drinking is good for the arteries,” he assured me with a straight face.

The Silent Pioneer

A while ago, you read about some of the cartoon series on movie screens in 1924, courtesy of articles in Exhibitors Trade Review of August 16th that year. There was one more article, a profile of J.R. Bray, who operated what is conceded to be the first successful animation studio.

The article calls Bray a “funmaker” but, to be honest, if Bray had “fun” working in animation, it’s hard to tell from photos of him taken in the era. He seems to have treated cartoon production as solely a business and in pretty well every picture I’ve seen, he is shown with a stiff, business-like mien, as if taking his picture was cutting into his profit-making. He spent time in interviews talking about his patents on the animation process and lawsuits to enforce them; the comedies he produced brought money, not joy. Others like Walter Lantz, Paul Terry and Max Fleischer animated his films for him. Notice how they’re known by their first names. Bray was always a formal “J.R.”

He lost interest in cartooning and concentrated on industrial films; his studio never made theatrical shorts in the sound era. However, his ancient silent cartoons reaped a second reward when television rose in the late 1940s. He dug them out of storage, slapped stock music beds behind them and advertised them to the growing number of TV stations for use on/as children’s programming.

Bray lived until the age of 99. He died in 1978. Read what Tommy Stathes has to say about him here and here.

John Randolph Bray, Pioneer Cartoonist
IT sometimes has been said that the average cartoonist is more or less a gloomy individual. The same statement has been made of John Randolph Bray of Bray Productions and other companies of an allied nature.
Possibly there may be a basis for the fancied touch of gloom that occasionally appears to surmount the features of this funmaker. When taxed on one occasion with the suggestion that his face seemed to be one of unusual seriousness at times he told the story of his first professional experience as a cartoonist.
Mr. Bray's initial employment following his graduation from the University of Michigan was as cartoonist on the Detroit Evening News. One of his occupations there was drawing the features of the persons brought to the local morgue.
Engraving in newspaper offices in those days frequently was done on chalk, the molding being cut with a sharp steel instrument and the result afterwards sent to the stereotype room, where the completed cut was made.
His school friends used to marvel at the nerve of the young artist in entering such gruesome places, but Mr. Bray seemed to think it was all part of the day's work.

MANY stories have been told by his former newspaper associates of his unusual assignments. One of these was when he called on an undertaker at 2 o'clock in the morning in order to get a drawing of the features of a certain body in the keeping of that functionary. The undertaker removed the lid merely remarking "Go ahead and help yourself."
Mr. Bray was born in Detroit and educated in the schools of that city. He early manifested a tendency toward the artistic. His school books such as are at present in existence will bear testimony to that statement. On one occasion his teacher detected him surreptitiously outlining on the blackboard one of the creatures of his fancy. She stopped him and told him that really he should be dismissed for the day, but that she thought the drawing once started should be completed, and he was instructed to finish it.

All through his early school days he submitted drawings to different comic papers. Even at that age the humorous strain was highly developed. In high school and in college he drew regularly for the school publications.

IT was in 1901 Mr. Bray joined the Detroit Evening News as a cub artist. Then he went to New York City, where he obtained a position with an advertising agency. A little later he joined the Brooklyn Daily Eagle as staff cartoonist, remaining until 1904, when he resigned to take up freelance work.
The pages of Punch, Life and Judge for 1905 and 1906 contain many cartoons signed by John Randolph Bray. The artist in 1907 joined the McClure syndicate, and through this instrumentality his work was circulated throughout the United States.
It was about this period there occurred to him the thought that if cartoons and comic strips were such a hit in the newspapers they should be even more successful on the screen. With this idea in mind he began the creation of his first animated cartoon.
Not satisfied that it should be merely a curiosity, he determined to work with the idea of completing a commercial product — one that would rank with any other form of screen entertainment.
In 1912 Mr. Bray completed a dog cartoon and Pathe Freres, as the great motion picture house then was known, lost no time in acquiring the novelty. The artist immediately made application for basic patents on this method of making pictures.
The dog cartoon went over with such success that Pathe ordered six more and they met a similar reception. The order gradually was increased to an additional twelve and then to one each week.
Soon afterward Mr. Bray conceived the idea of Colonel Heeza Liar, the first cartoon character of the screen. The Standard Cinema Corporation is releasing the more recent adventures of the doughty colonel.
In 1913 Mr. Bray found himself forced into the organization of what became the Bray Studios, which soon had on its roster a list of forty artists. In 1915 the company signed a contract with Paramount for the distribution of Bray Paramount Pictographs, the first magazine of the screen.

ONE of the features of this release was the famous character Bobby Bumps. A precedent was formed at this time by leasing for five years instead of selling the negatives outright.
In 1916 Bray Pictures Corporation took over the Bray Studios. Paramount continued until 1920 to issue Bray product, when it discontinued its short subject department, and the Bray material was transferred to the Goldwyn company.
Following the inauguration in 1922 of the Bray Romances of Science Mr. Bray a year later invented the Brayco projector, a device doing away with the stereopticon and making available for the home, school and church 3,000 subjects in the Bray Library. It is the latest development in the rapidly expanding work of visual education — and entertainment.

Say, That Looks Like...

There’s a scene in the episode of “The Capture of Thunderbolt the Wondercolt” on the Beany and Cecil show (1962) that any cartoon fan must love.

Dishonest John overhears that Thunderbolt has a “notorious distrust for humans,” so he disguises himself as non-humans to capture the heroic steed. Thunderbolt is a step ahead of him, and opens up his own trunk of disguises.

The disguises, though they bear Bob Clampett-style monikers, suspiciously look like cartoon characters from other studios, especially the late ‘50s versions of a pair of characters from the Chuck Jones unit at Warner Bros.



“Graham Quacker” is only missing a sailor suit.



Clampett and his writers parodied Disney a number of times, especially in the “Beanyland” episode.



“You’re not that Tom and Jerry-drinking mouse,” exclaims D.J., pulling off a mouse mask to reveal, uh...



That’s not all, folks.



“And you’re not Hare-cules Hare,” shouts the pig-headed D.J. I’m surprised Clampett, Eddie Brandt, Dick Kinney or whoever wrote this didn’t have him stutter.



“And you’re not Franken Swine,” intones Thunderbolt, dressed as, well, it looks like a really lousy version of Yogi Bear. Same colours and nose as Yogi. But it’s actually supposed to be “Rin Tin Can.”



The two reveal Beany masks and then themselves.

There are really lots of great celebrity puns and takeoffs in this cartoon. D.J. turns into a horsey version of Edward R. Murrow at one point, chain-smoking cigarettes and dropping them into an ash tray. One of the stars who left her horseshoe prints outside Grauman’s Chinese Theatre is “Betty Harness.” And there’s another electric shock gag for good measure.

The series was hit-and-miss, but this episode was a hit for me. It’s a shame the show was plagued with problems (including network TV’s sudden souring on animated shows around prime time) and didn’t last more than the one season.