Philosophical Fred

Fred Allen was universally respected as a witty humourist when he passed away in 1956, though his wit had been pretty much reduced to the occasional ad-lib on a TV panel show. It was a far cry from being the star of a long-running variety show where he skewered insipid husband/wife radio morning shows and dropped topical observations in the mouths of denizens of an alley.

For someone known for being able to say something clever off the top of his head, Allen spent an inordinate amount of time writing, rewriting and again rewriting his weekly show to the point of burn-out and deterioration of his health. Whatever he did worked. Allen was a success on radio from his debut in 1932, despite ad agencies and network executives trying to tell him what to put on the air.

Here’s a feature story from the May 1934 edition of Radio Mirror. Allen had been on the air for roughly a year and a half at that point. He debuted on the Columbia network on Sunday, Oct. 23, 1932 at 9 p.m., replacing “Dramatic Laboratory.” Incidentally, for several months, Jack Benny followed him on CBS at 10 p.m., but this was long before the Benny-Allen feud. The photos you see in this post accompanied the story. In hindsight, it’s odd to see the one cast member singled out to be in a photo is Irwin Delmore, especially with Minerva Pious and Jack Smart part of the cast. Delmore left the show to go into law and eventually became a judge before the ‘30s were done.

IT PAYS FRED ALLEN TO BE FUNNY
by R. H. ROWAN
IF you could happen along one of the streets of New York right now and should encounter a tall, serious-faced fellow, with bland blue eyes, a set mouth and a serious demeanor you might at first think him a country product in from the sticks to find out for himself if the blades of grass do sprout up along Madison avenue in the springtime to give you that certain April nostalgia.
That is, at first you might think him a homemade product from the rural spaces. But then if you got a good look at him, caught that crinkly twitch of flesh below his eyes, a sudden upward twist of lips as though he were having a laugh all by himself, you'd know you were facing a philosophical man. And if you'd happen to see a photograph of Fred Allen you'd realize after a hesitation that you were gazing at the famous comedian who came to the airwaves last year to repeat the sensational success he had on the stage.
Fred Allen, the trouper and Fred Allen, the private citizen are the same. There is so little of the actor and so seldom the attitude of posing about this fun-maker that it is difficult to differentiate between his leisure hours and his microphone moments.
The first thing that strikes you about him is his understanding kindliness. Or perhaps that should come second for he is fundamentally the humorist who brings out the fun in an amusing situation rather than the brief laugh in a smart gag. He has unjustly been accused of being a sophisticated type of comedian and, rightfully, he resents that. The fact that he doesn't descend to lowbrow cracks, to obvious jokes; that he is an astute student of human nature, born to brighten life for people of more sombre mien and that there is a keen philosophy in all his funny business has caused an erroneous impression to get round about his work.
He gets his material from an analytical appreciation of the ordinary happenings but admits quite frankly he is an ardent reader of his own extensive — and expensive — library of old joke books.

Recent polls, localized and national, have proven the popularity of the Fred Allen broadcasts. The air comedian and his material are familiar to millions. He writes all his own stuff and every week turns out a skit that might be the bright spot in any Broadway hit. A famous producer, listening in to one of Fred's programs recently said, "It's a tragedy that this sparkling dialogue should go on the air for fifteen minutes and then go right into the ash-can when it might be repeated for months in a theatrical show."
In spite of his repetitious weekly successes, Allen approaches each new script with fear and doubt. Even after his broadcast he is uncertain of its reception and will humbly turn to a bystander with the anxious remark, "Do you think it was any good?" That isn't an act, either. He means it. Sometimes he's amazed when a chance comment of his, a typical Allen retort, will bring loud laughter in an informal conversation.
Not that it is such an effort for Allen to be funny. Humor flows with his most casual speeches, spontaneous and sparkling — not in a glib conceited fashion, but as a natural, un-premeditated utterance of the unique turn his thoughts are always taking. That doesn't mean his broadcasts are extemporaneous because, most of the time, he is so unaware of how funny he is that he works as hard over his material as the comedian whose humor is his job and not his own personality. He will struggle along for a week over a program and then tear it up because he thinks it's dull — start over again and in a few hours turn out a script he thinks will be all right.
Allen was born to work and started in at it the earliest age when he could earn his livelihood. But he never knew until audiences started laughing at his lines how interesting and pleasant a job could be — and how lucrative as well. He's a product of New England and he was baptized John F. Sullivan thirty some years ago. He has a reticence about having his age known so we'll just say he's in his early thirties and you can form your own opinion as to whether we're giving him the break of a couple of years. The day he first opened his eyes, the ground hog went right back into his hole and it was cold Massachusetts winter for the young Sullivan many years until at last he hit Broadway and the Main Stem paid tribute to his talents.
He tried out many jobs while he was still mastering the elementary branches of an education and though his schooling has been limited he is an avid reader and has that mellow, rich learning which comes from varied and wide experience with all sorts of people and experiences.

As a small boy he worked in the public library in Boston and had a penchant for planning his future career from whatever book he happened to pick up. If it was a volume of travel he was going to far places, if it was a thesis on bridge building then that's what he wanted to do — for the moment. It was natural therefore when one day he came upon a book which minutely described the art of juggling he should immediately consider himself an embryonic juggler and so seriously did he dwell on this outlook that eventually he became a very bad throw-and-catch-'em artist in small time vaudeville. His manipulations of thevarious instruments were so inexpert and so coldly received that he interpolated funny lines to cover his fumblings, gradually developing into a comedian, and leaving the shiny balls to those who could catch them better.
He served in the A. E. F. during the World War and after the armistice returned to New York to hunt a job and marry Portland Hoffa, his present wife and professional stooge, and to struggle along for years until a chance in a big Broadway production brought his clever routines to the attention of those who make stars out of road-show strugglers. What Fred Allen did in the way of keeping the first "Little Show" audiences laughing is still theater history. And what Fred Allen did, in that era, by way of making brilliant successes out of after-theater parties and social soirees is still talked about, too. He was the stellar guest of all those gatherings that included Noel Coward, the Alfred Lunts and other lights.
He had a grand time himself, too, until he realized that staying up late at night and getting up early the next morning made him more amusing socially than he might be professionally. Then, as is typical of Fred Allen, he immediately did an about-face. He gave up the parties because his work was so much more important and now-adays if you hear of the Fred Allens being among those present at any of the big social events you may rest assured Fred's there because of an old friendship or because he's so inherently kind he couldn't find a "no."
The Allens' existence, away from the radio, is an uneventful one if judged by the activities of most other microphone celebrities. Fortunately for Fred, Portland likes the quiet ways. Though, I suppose, she's so much in love with her husband, even if she weren't the quiet, retiring sort of person she is, whatever Fred said would be right.

Allen lives by a routine of physical exercises and careful adherence to a sane diet so that he is in better condition this year than he has been for many theatrical seasons. He has all sorts of gymnastic equipment in his own home and if you see a picture of Fred in his living room, slouched in a comfortable chair with a glass in his hand, you may be sure it contains milk. He walks miles every day and visits a New York gym several times a week. He keeps regular hours, works all day and as a result not only writes his own material, scribbles off syndicated letters and humorous articles for any number of publications but concocts the stuff for other comedians whose names are as well known as his. Many a quip that has brought a coast-to-coast laugh has originated in the fertile mind of Fred Allen and we don't mean it finally reached the public by the pilfering route either, because a part of Allen's income is derived from contracts to provide the continuities for other stars. During months between theater engagements he once served as a production man in Paramount's Long Island studio where he brightened the dialogue of many a dull scenario. And if any of you vaudeville fans of other years recall a funny fellow named Fred James who long ago made you laugh, that was Fred Allen, too. Only he changed his name to Allen after he'd changed John Sullivan to Fred James.
HE'S an old married man now, judging by Broadway matrimonial seasons but he's still so crazy about Portland Hoffa he'd rather you complimented her than his own humor. His generous spirit extends to other members of his radio cast, too. He doesn't hog the catch lines. He'll often give the funniest speeches to somebody less important than he when he writes the script because to him it's the act that comes first — not Fred Allen. That, any executive or actor will tell you, is the height of professional generosity.

Bugs Gets the Idea

Yosemite Sam tells Bugs Bunny, in a pot, where he’s going to get the rabbit for rabbit stew. “We’ve already got the rabbit. Get the idea?” Sam replies before guffawing.

Bugs repeats the line and guffaws before a take.



Bugs doesn’t do a lot in Rabbitson Crusoe, released in 1956. The cartoon is mainly Sam versus a funny shark. About this time, Warren Foster’s stories contained gags about Sam vs. a camel, or Sam vs. a dragon, but a lot of the time, it was Sam vs. himself (he lost). Bugs doesn’t even show up until 2 ½ minutes into this cartoon.

Papa Penguin Kaput

A penguin paces in Frozen Frolics, a 1930 Van Beuren cartoon.



A stork emerges from the chimney. You know what a stork means. The penguin hears a noise and a stream of identical baby penguins emerge from the igloo.



They do a little dance together until papa penguin releases more and more children are coming out of the igloo. That’s the end of him. The Van Beuren artist draws stars forming from lines coming out of his body.



Gene Rodemich supplies the score. The cartoon is directed by John Foster and Harry Bailey. (Sorry for the fuzzy frame grabs, that’s the way the cartoon looks on the DVD).

Swingin' Sammy and His Bopping Boombase

The way it was told on the Jack Benny show, the members of Phil Harris’ band were petty thieves and cons. They weren’t, of course, but one of them sounded like he could have been.

Drummer Sammy Weiss was born on New York’s Lower East Side, and he had a flat voice like a mugg who was doing the strong-arming for the “boss” before a heist.

Sammy was referred to on the show for a number of years, but finally got to go in front of the microphone in the last season, 1954-55. For years, Phil Harris fronted the band on the show, then Bob Crosby took over in 1952. But in reality arranger Mahlon Merrick did the bulk of the work; Harris and Crosby had become characters. Benny didn’t really need Crosby. So in the final season, Crosby simply didn’t appear very much and the “musician” gag spot on the show was taken up by Merrick, pianist Charlie Bagby or Sammy the drummer. Sammy didn’t sound like a professional actor, which made him even funnier. It sounded like he’s right off the Benny bandstand, which he was.

His family was poor. After success had come to him, he met Eddie Cantor at a Radio Hall of Fame event and thanked him for something 25 years earlier. Cantor had taken him out of the tenements and gave him a free two-week vacation at the Surprise Camp for Boys in the mountains. Cantor said he could repay it with a donation to help other poor boys. Sammy readily coughed up $25.

I don’t know when Sammy joined the Harris aggregation but he had worked with some of the top bandleaders—Paul Whiteman, Benny Goodman among them. He was a member of the Johnny Guarnieri Trio in the ‘40s. He cut Jewish novelty records with Mickey Katz. He made the front page of the April 15, 1939 edition of Billboard when he was drumming with Merle Pitt’s studio band at WNEW. The story had nothing to do with music. It talked about Sammy becoming the father of twins. His wife phoned him with the news an hour after the birth. Sammy asked where she was. “I’m in Whelan’s drug store having a Coca-Cola!!!” she responded. It must have been an easy birth. (In May 1951, the birth of a daughter to Sammy became part of the script of the Benny show).

Here are a couple of stories about Sammy. The first is from the Hollywood column of the Universal Radio and TV Features Syndicate dated February 2, 1953.

TV-RADIOLOGIC
Weiss Is Unusual Ad Libber-He Does It on the Drums
By TOM E. DANSON
HOLLYWOOD — One of the quickest men in Hollywood with an ad lib is Sammy Weiss. But Sammy is an ad libber with a difference— he does it on drums! Sammy plays with orchestras too—with Bob Crosby and the Jack Benny program, and with Irving Miller on the Bob Hawk show—and he's one of the best in the business. But it’s the unrehearsed stuff he does that captures and fractures the audiences, and has led to Benny considering him more a member of the cast than of the orchestra. For example, when Benny walks across the stage, Sammy may play footsteps in time to Benny’s pace. Or, as the comedian approaches the microphone, Sammy may give a drum roll like they do in circuses when the guy is about to dive 80 feet into a pail of water. Or he may express his critical opinion of a flat joke by drumming out a noise that sounds like a Bronx cheer.
MANY SUCH SOUNDS
He has a hundred or more such sounds that he can throw into a show, and the regular soundmen are considering picketing any day now on the grounds that he’s taking over their racket.
But the point is, the star of the show never knows when to expect Sammy to cut in, and frequently is caught with his lines down. When you can do that to Benny or Hawk, you're good!
It’s real disconcerting, some times.
However, the audiences love it, and what audiences love must be put up with.
Sammy, the drummer, as he’s called from coast-to-coast, wasn't always that way, but almost. He started drumming when he was 12, with sticks made from rungs of an old chair, just as Spike Jones did.
GIANT OF MAN
Physically, Sammy is as impressive as he is musically. He’s a giant of a man, 6-feet, 4-inches tall, with huge shoulders, hands and arms.
Everybody in Hollywood knows him, and even trying to walk, from one studio to another with him is often painfully slow, for everyone he passes, stops to talk. Right now he's busily writing a book about himself, tentatively titled, “What Makes Sammy Drum.” I say the title is tentative, because he’s also considering naming it “I’ll Take the Drumstick.”

And this is from the King Features’ TV Key column of July 19, 1962.

TV Keynotes
Drummer Has Fun With Boom
By CHARLES WITBECK
HOLLYWOOD--Ever hear of a boombase? It’s not a dance, a disease or a kid’s candy, but an ancient musical instrument that is currently delighting movieland celebrities at parties when played by happy Sammy Weiss, Jack Benny’s drummer for 17 years.
The instrument, which looks like it was made in a dirty cellar, consists of a broomstick on a spring saddled with a tambourine, a cowbell, and one wooden block tapped by two cymbals. A drumstick is needed to whack out the heat on the various knobs and that’s it. Weiss estimates average boombase technique can be picked up in five minutes, so there’s hope for everybody.
The boombase had been in oblivion until Sammy saw one in a music store window. He took the noble instrument home, made a copy of it and returned the original. Now Sammy’s main occupation in Hollywood, when not playing in the Benny band, is leading small combos at private parties. He works about a hundred a year entertaining stars and society folk. Sammy shows up with his boombase, and wanders from table to table, beating out “Never on Sunday” to delighted fans.
Hit With Listeners

The Shah of Iran heard him recently and immediately wanted one. Tammy Grimes thought the boombase noises so lovely she wants Sammy to do boom base background music for her next album. Red Skelton fell for the instrument and intends to use it on his hour show next fall. Actor Cliff Robertson thinks the boombase fad will soon replace the Twist.
The first sounds of the boombase—bonk, clink, clank, boom, boom are not irresistible, but when played by Sammy, something happens. He can even play it on the street and not send dogs off howling. In his day, Sammy has drummed for Tommy Dorsey, Benny Goodman, Artie Shaw and Dizzy Gillespie to name a few, cutting records with most of them, so he can get music out of a tree trunk and he makes the boombase really swing.
“You know what?” says Sammy. “I'm swinging better now than I did 25 years ago.”
But the main thing is Sammy’s personality. A big man, with a red, shining face usually wearing a grin, Sammy just makes people feel better as he bounces around whacking his boombase. After watching Sammy perform on “Truth or Consequences,” a midwestern company which happens to make boombases to practically no market at all, signed Sammy up to sell the thing. From now on it’s going to be known as “Sammy’s Boombase.”
Sammy has just been playing the gadget for fun, but, judging from the way it’s going, this boombase fad may get out of hand and turn into a big deal.
“I’m just happy playing drums in our little bands,” says Sammy. “I’ve been through the best band years, I’ve brought up three kids and I've stayed straight. Now look what’s happening. I feel I’ve got it made. I have a few good years left and I’m going to ride the boombase out.”
Last year Lawrence Welk’s band played for the Hollywood TV Emmy party. Because of the boombase craze Sammy got the nod this year. Bookings are increasing. He already has three parties booked one summer night soon.
“This presents a problem,” says Sammy. “People might think I’m getting bigger and thus too expensive, and maybe they’ll get some other hand instead. I don’t want that to happen.”
As a drummer Sammy wangles a few commercials, but there’s not a massive call for the sound. Since he fiddles with sticks, it’s assumed he can shake anything correctly, and on one commercial Sammy was called in to rattle money.
“I get a whole bag of quarters, halves and dimes and then I shake this dough,” he says. “I tell you, things are lookin’ up. “Drummers are coming back and so are big bands. You know why? The Twist. People who have never danced are out there wiggling. It’s good exercise. “Take the Shah of Iran and his Queen. She does a beautiful twist I tell you the Twist has changed everything. Maybe the boombase will be next, hey!”

Sammy led his own band and appeared at the Racquet Club in Palm Springs, the setting for a number of Benny radio shows over the years. A sadder connection with Benny is this—the two of them died of pancreatic cancer. In Sammy’s case, it was on December 17, 1977. He was 67.

Making Oswald and Pooch

Walter Lantz was a true pioneer in theatrical animation, starting as a cel washer at International Film Service in New York in 1916 and finally shutting down his own studio in 1972. Afterward, he continued to travel the world and talk about his cartoons until his death in 1994.

Lantz was handed a cartoon operation to run in 1929 by Universal’s Carl Laemmle, who considered him a good luck charm at poker games, according to Joe Adamson’s biography of him. The studio had one star—Oswald the lucky rabbit. After a well-publicised attempt to add Fanny the Mule in 1930 (Exhibitors World Herald and Motion Picture News both reported a Fanny short was released in Sept. 1930), Lantz added Pooch the pup to his starring roster in 1931.

Here’s Lantz talking about the transition to sound and how sound cartoons were made. He also has some advice for amateurs who want to make their own cartoons at home on 16 millimetre. This appeared in the July 1932 edition of American Cinematographer.

Sound Cartoons and 16 mm.
by WALTER LANTZ
Creator of Universal's "Oswald" and "Pooch" cartoons

THE advent of sound has changed the business of animated cartooning tremendously. In the old days, one needed merely to be something of a cartoonist, something of a "gag-man," a good animator — and just a little crazy, in order to make animated cartoons. Nowadays, in addition to all of these, one must be something of a musician, as well, and demented enough to produce slightly crazy music as well as slightly crazy drawings. In producing sound-cartoons commercially, we have, of course, the advantage of being able — or to put it more truthfully, compelled — to do things by factory production methods; we let one man take care of the story, another the music, others the backgrounds, animation, etc. Of course, the average amateur movie maker cannot do things on this scale, but there is really nothing to prevent him from experimenting with animated cartooning, either silent or with sound, if he wishes to — and has the patience that the work requires.

Viewed from the photographic angle, all that is necessary is a camera that can be made to expose one frame (or picture) at a time, stop with the shutter closed, and wait until it is required to expose the next frame. There are several 16 mm. cameras available with hand-cranking mechanisms; one or two of them even have the required one-picture-per-turn movements; but even without this refinement, so long as they have the hand-crank, they can be used for cartooning. Any machine-shop can build a gear arrangement that will permit the single-frame work; the normal crank gives eight pictures per turn, therefore an 8:1 reduction gear will do the trick and give you one exposure for each turn of your crank.

To photograph the cartoons, the camera is placed in a fixed mount, pointed down on a board upon which the drawings are placed, and focused so that its field exactly coincides with the area of the drawing, which, for convenience, should be 8x10 inches or larger. Over the drawing is placed a plate-glass cover in a frame hinged to swing up out of the way when the drawings are being changed, and which fits down over the drawings tightly and firmly enough to prevent any wrinkles; in our own camera-table at the studio we have, as an extra safeguard, a vacuum device which forces the glass down with a pressure of 1200 lbs. per inch. This, of course, is unnecessary in amateur installations, as is our motor-drive, which works through a clutch, and exposes one frame each time a button is pressed. A frame counter, however, is necessary, especially with sound. An ordinary Veeder counter will serve this purpose. It can be attached to the single-picture crank, and should have room for at least four figures.

As to the exact method of "sounding" cartoons, perhaps the best suggestion might be gleaned from a description of the way we make our "Oswald" and "Pooch" cartoons.

In the first place, we have to have an idea to start with. From this idea I prepare a scenario. I cooperate with the musical staff in this, fitting the action and the music together. The scenario is partly drawn and partly written; it has on it the "key drawings," which are merely rough sketches of the scene, suggesting the action. Below each drawing, I describe the action. Above it is the musical outline. This is worked out so that we know definitely that any specified action will occur at a certain bar of music — or, to put it the other way around, that at that definite bar of music, a definitely known action will be taking place. The standard projecting-speed for talking pictures — either 35mm. or 16mm. — is 24 frames per second. Therefore, we use 24 frames as our unit, and arrange our music so that we begin a new bar each second — or 24 frames. By this means, we can be sure that if we have a certain sound effect in bar No. 100, its accompanying action will be made in frame No. 2400.

Having worked out the action and music scenarios so that they synchronize perfectly on paper, and so they make the film-footage required for our release, we are ready to proceed. The music department makes its orchestral arrangement of the music, and records it. Meanwhile, the cartoon department makes its cartoon film; when both are completed, we know beyond doubt that the two will fit together perfectly. If someone is to kick Oswald, for instance, we can rest assured that the kick's accompanying "Klunk!" will be in the sound track, exactly in its place to the frame, even though the sound is recorded as much as three weeks or a month before the kick is drawn and photographed.

So much for that: now for the cartoon itself. As anyone who has an amateur camera knows, moving pictures consist of a series of tiny still photographs taken in succession on a strip of film, with each picture just a little different from the one before it. Well, in making a cartoon, we merely draw these pictures and photograph the drawings in order: the result on the screen is the same — an illusion of movement. The movement can be made as fast or as slow, as smooth or as jerky as we wish merely by the spacing of the drawings of the individual phases of motion, and by the number of frames allowed for each drawing. For the smoothest action, use closely-spaced drawings, allowing one frame per drawing. For jerky action, space the phases farther apart. To speed the movement, use one frame per drawing; to slow it down, use more frames for each drawing. The best cartoon practice, I think, is to use moderately-spaced phases of movement, and photograph them giving each drawings two frames. A great help in learning animating — as this business of making these moving drawings is called — is the studying of slow-motion films taken of natural movements, which is easy with many of the better 16mm. cameras! study both the film on the screen, and the film itself, frame by frame Study both slow-motion and normal films — and then work hard, and you'll have it.

From our scenario, we begin to get into the specialized work of mass-production. One man specializes on the backgrounds. These are made on paper, usually as combination pen-and-ink and wash drawings. We cannot go in for too fine gradations, but confine ourself to a fairly limited scale of grays, in addition, of course, to black and white.

At the top of these paper-drawn backgrounds are two punch-holes, very accurately spaced. These fit over standardized pegs on the background-artist's board, corresponding pegs on the action-artist (or animator's) board, and upon the camera-table. They are what keep the figures in their proper places on the background.

The figures are first drawn on paper, in pencil, by the animator. Then they are traced in ink onto thin celluloid. The black areas are filled in — on the back of the "cell" — with India ink, while the white areas, through which the background must not show, are similarly backed with Chinese white. The areas around the figure, of course, through which the background is to be seen, are not backed at all. When used, these cells can be cleaned with ordinary soap and water, and used again and again until they become too scratched and dirty to be usable.

Now, of course, there are a number of short-cuts in animating. For instance, if we have Oswald in a scene where he is standing still, but talking, or gesticulating, we don't need to draw his body every time: instead, we draw him a body on one cell, and his head or arms, or whatever moves, on other cells; thanks to the registering-pegs, the two will be in their proper relation, and we won't be embarrassed by seeing "Ozzie's" body standing still, and his head talking busily away somewhere else.

Similarly, if we have more than one character that is to move in a scene, each character may be drawn on a separate cell — or cells. Too many cells, of course, will spoil the picture, but we can safely use three or four at once — sometimes more, if the cells are clean, and the light good.

When a character is to repeat a movement, we can naturally use the same cycle of cells as often as may be desired; similarly, when, for instance, we want hundreds of animals to pour out of a house, we can make a cycle for them, drawing them all on the same cell, and using a series of such cells for the cycle, which can be continued indefinitely.

When a character is to walk across the screen, we can use a walking cycle, with multiple registration-punches to give him the movement; of course, in this case, the cells must be long enough so that their edges don't come into the picture at either end of the walk. When, on the other hand, our character is to walk, but remain in the same place, while the background flows past him, we can use an ordinary walking cycle, while the background is drawn on a long roll of paper, and moved by, a sixteenth of an inch or so at a time. This type of movement must, of course, be handled very carefully, so that the background moves naturally, and does not appear to skid by under the character's feet.

Photographing the drawings is simple. I have already described the camera-set-up; the lighting may be either by Cooper-Hewitt mercury-vapor tubes or by incandescent light. We use the latter; I think that for amateur use a pair of the new "Photoflood" bulbs would be excellent. The only requirement as to lighting is that the field be illuminated evenly, and that there be no reflections, either of the lights or of the camera and its supports, in the cover-glass.

When it comes to "sounding" the amateur cartoon, there are several methods. In the first place, bearing in mind the way I have described that we allow 24 frames to the bar, you can, with some experimenting, synchronize your cartoon to existing records, either the 78 r.p.m. commercial records, the new 33 1/3 r.p.m. "long-playing" records, or the 33 1/3 r.p.m. theatre sound-effect records made by several of the photograph companies. The 33 1/3 r.p.m. records are the best, as they will last long enough for a 400-ft. reel, and, too, most of the 16mm. sound-projectors are made to take them. In addition, you can record your own sound on these records by means of the new Victor, R. C. A., General Electric and Greybar home-recording phonographs, or through one of the several agencies that specialize in making sound-effects for 16mm. films. If you haven't a sound-projector, it is possible, though difficult, to synchronize your ordinary projector with an electric phonograph. The results aren't, of course, perfect, still — it can be done, with patience.

There, in a few words, is an outline of sound-cartooning. It is difficult, and requires patience — but it provides a deal of enjoyment, and a type of film that is rarely seen on amateur programs — and therefore doubly welcome to home-movie sated audiences.

Cupid's Nose For Love

Poor B.O. Skunk is forlorn after unsuccessfully attempting to romance two female rabbits. But look who appears!



It is a rule in cartoons that skunks smell. The odour is even too powerful for little Cupid (played by Dick Nelson), who skids backwards out of the scene and returns with some assistance.



Little 'Tinker (1948) has all kinds of outrageous takes that you’d expect in a Tex Avery cartoon, a quick string of gags (including several Frankie! ones) and, unusual for Avery, a touching, happy ending. The credited animators are Bill Shull, Grant Simmons, Walt Clinton and Bob Bentley. Ex-Disney animator Louie Schmitt designed the characters.

Bare Faced Oswald

How often does a cartoon character strip off his face? There are some cartoons where a face comes off after a head is bashed into something but in Africa Before Dark (1928), Oswald takes off his face and leaves it by a hole to capture a tiger, while his body is at a second hole.

The plan works.



It’s a great gag, but a reused one. Walt Disney (this is a Disney Oswald) tried it out in Alice Gets Stung (1925).

She's a Happy Joyce

“Mr. Disney liked me because I reminded him of one of his animations.”
“Cinderella?” she was asked.
“No. Dopey,” she replied.
That rim-shotting line came from actress Joyce Bulifant, who appeared in “The Happiest Millionaire” (1967) for Uncle Walt. She also showed up seemingly everywhere on television where a laugh-track could be heard (or before live studio audiences), or a tumbleweed tumbled (such as “Bonanza”), and in some of the most obscure places.
Good reviews greeted the 23-year-old Bulifant in an off-Broadway production of “There is a Play Tonight” in 1961 (syndicated critic Alice Hughes declared her “a good actress, with charm and stage presence”). She soon found work on the West Coast in all kinds of TV roles, including a spot on the “Tom, Dick and Mary” portion of the rotating sitcom “90 Bristol Court” (1964, photo to right) and a season as a dancer on “Arthur Murray’s Dance Party.”
Due to its huge popularity, she’s perhaps most associated with “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” where she showed up occasionally as Murray Slaughter’s (Gavin McLeod) wife. Alas, attempts at other junctures in the ‘70s for her to break out in a starring role somewhat eluded her. One was in a short-lived series called “Love Thy Neighbor” in 1973. It was during that period where TV executives, uniting almost as one, decided if they imported some Britcom with a left/right, rich/poor or black/white dynamic, they’d be greeted with instant success. Let this King Features syndicated column from June 20, 1973 try to bring back some memories.

NO LOVE FOR "LOVE" SITCOM
By CHARLES WITBECK
TV Key, Inc

HOLLYWOOD (KFS) – "Love Thy Neighbor," a modified version of the English TV series about blacks moving into a white neighborhood, arrived on ABC last Friday for a summer run, and the results are not encouraging. "All in the Family" it is not.
Even so, the black-white female comedy — scheduled for a six weeks' engagement — may have an extended run, earning a chance to find its groove, since the prolonged writers' strike has forced networks to drop plans for the customary grand fall opening in mid-September.
For those who missed the first episode, "Love Thy Neighbor'' looks in upon a middle-class San Fernando Valley, Calif., development called the Sherwood Forest Estates. Charlie and Peggy Wilson, played by Ron Masak and Joyce Bulifant, live on Friar Tuck Lane. Blue collar man Wilson, a shop steward, blows a fuse at the plant over the hiring of an efficiency expert, then has a second fit at home when hit with the news that a black couple has bought the house next door. The new neighbors, Ferguson and Jackie Bruce, turn out to be the efficiency man and his wife, portrayed by Harrison Page and Janet MacLachlan.
Wives Peggy and Jackie become immediate friends while the men are more wary, unable to drop their suspicions and prejudices over a handshake With wives forming allies, the promise slides into male-versus female combat for comedy playoff, and judging from the first two episodes, actresses Joyce Bulifant and Janet MacLachlan clearly have the best of it.

Bulifant had another obscure starring role, on—of all places—Saturday mornings. Here’s King Features again in a story published July 25, 1976. This series didn’t take off, either.

Joyce Bulifant, a Happy Little Dizzy Blonde, Can Make Silliness Palatable
By CHARLES WITBECK
TV Key, Inc.
HOLLYWOOD – (KFS) – Joyce Bulifant has a rare quality that's much in demand these days on the tube; she can make silliness palatable.
The happy little dizzy blonde with the turned-up nose, the elfish grin and the high-pitched squeaky voice brightens game shows like the new "Cross-Witts," and "The Match Game" in the daytime.
At night there's Joyce, when she has time after telethon and guest spots, bolstering her series husband, writer Murray Slaughter, on "The Mary Tyler Moore Show."

This fall the busy Bulifant invades a new territory of the ridiculous — Saturday morning, where she joins Herb Edelman and child actor Robbie Rist in NBC's "Big John, Little John." It's a crazy show by Sherwood ("Gilligan's Island," "The Brady Bunch") Schwartz and His son, Lloyd, about a housewife (Joyce) whose 45-year-old husband drinks from the fountain of youth and regresses back to the age of 12.
In the Schwartz rendition, fans will see both the 45-year-old husband in the form of actor Edelman, and the head of the household when he has slipped back to 12. Whether hubby is 45 or 12, Joyce's housewife remains steadfast, going along in her happy, giggling fashion.
As Bulifant fans can attest, the Schwartzes hit the bullseye when they thought of Joyce. On game shows, the actress plays the dizzy blonde, shooting verbally from the hip. She may be miles off target, but that hardly matters because she makes everyone feel better with her happy disposition.
"I speak before I think," Joyce admits. "That's a terrible thing to say, but it usually pays off in the game show business. I've never lost a job because of the habit."
Just because Joyce says the first thing that comes to mind doesn't mean she's a lame brain. "It's not a dumb mind, only a silly one," is her explanation. Silliness has its limits with the actress. She goes through periods of depression wondering what she is doing playing dumb games for daytime consumption. But then she bumps into an elderly couple at the supermarket and hears "You make our day." Little kids run up to her on the street and fuss over her. "That's really nice," she says.
Thanks to her happy-go-lucky silly image, the actress earns a good living, enough for three children. A working mother, the 13-year charter member of International Orphans, Joyce is known for her inability to say no to anything involving kids. When the first Vietnam refugees arrived in California's Camp Pendleton, there was Joyce ready to lend a comforting hand. This had nothing to do with show business.
As for her happy disposition — it's real, not put on. Evidently, the actress was born that way, and a lucky thing too. Before Joyce reached the seventh grade, she had attended 21 schools.
The Bulifants kept on the move after Joyce was born in Virginia, and the youngster learned to adapt quickly to new environments, shifting from the Southern states on up to New York before she went off to boarding school in Pennsylvania, where she met her first husband, "Hawaii Five-O's" James MacArthur, son of playwright Charles MacArthur and Helen Hayes.
Sailing through her childhood without visible scars, the outgoing actress appears to feel at home anywhere. True, she will get up and perform at the drop of a hat, but nobody ever minds. She brightens an evening.
"I enjoy people." she says. "And I don't take myself seriously. I'm having a great time.”

The scars may have been invisible but they were there. Joyce’s parents divorced when she was very young and she ended up in an orphanage. She married alcoholic husbands—four of them. You can find out more about her book on her web site. And this afternoon at 4 p.m. Pacific time, she’ll talk about her life with Stu Shostak on his webcast. If you’ve heard Stu’s previous interviews, you’ll know he likes and respects the people he has on his show, and has the background knowledge to ask the right questions. It should be a worthwhile few hours of listening.

Birthday Bouquets to Gene Deitch

Animator Gene Deitch has turned 94 today. As best as I can tell, he’s as hale and hardy as he’s ever been. We wish him a happy birthday and continued good health.

Mr. D. is known for trying to modernise theatrical Terrytoons in the late 1950s—and was succeeding until some politics in the front office got in the way. He brought the world Tom Terrific, a creative, delightful series by any standard. He was responsible for some fine, stylised animated spots while at UPA and elsewhere, and after his move to Czechoslovakia in the early ‘60s, came out with an array of independent cartoons that deserve wider circulation.

He also won an Oscar for directing the Paramount-released short “Munro.” If you’ve never seen it, watch it below. His son Seth provides the title voice.

What Colour is He?

In Gerald McBoing Boing (1951), the colours of the scenes change depending on the mood being expressed. In the follow-up cartoon, How Now Boing Boing (1954), the colours of the backgrounds change because, well, I’m not really sure why. But in a lot of cases, the characters are simply outlines and the background colour is their colour.



In some scenes, it means characters are two-tone.



Rhyming dialogue and Marvin Miller’s narration don’t mask the fact this short has none of the charm of the original. But UPA boss Stephen Bosustow apparently felt pressure to make more Gerald cartoons.

So made them he did,
And it can be said
They didn’t go “boing boing,”
They went “splat” instead.