Quacking For Disney

In 1930, he was a postal telegraph clerk. Little did he realise he would soon veer on a career change that would make him, well, partly famous.

We say “partly” because for years and years and years, Clarence Nash never got to see his name on the animated shorts in which he provided the voice of Donald Duck. It doesn’t appear to have bothered him. He does appear to have been bothered by other cartoon studios which featured quasi-unintelligible quacking ducks. MGM even had a cat that sounded like Donald Duck. Nash didn’t voice any of those characters; he worked in shorts exclusively for Disney. Nash did use the voice on the Burns and Allen radio show for a character called Herman the duck (coincidentally, Nash had a brother named Herman).

Here’s one version of how Donald got his voice. It’s from the Chicago Tribune of February 26, 1961.

The Voice of Donald Duck
By Marion Purcelli
AN inconspicuous man wearing a well tailored but inconspicuous blue suit sat quietly in a chair; a conspicuous, brightly attired puppet duck in a sailor suit sat in his lap.
Around them a score of editors from high school newspapers gathered for a press conference. The students drank cokes or milk and munched cookies and petits fours, nervously waiting for something to happen.
No one seemed to notice the man until the duck began snapping at his nose.
“Quack, quack—so you want to fight, doggone you anyway,” the man said. He sounded so much like a duck that even the duck was startled.
One young editor whispered to her companion, “Have you ever heard anything like that?” Her friend said no, but actually she had. And so have most of the people in this country, at least those who listen to the radio, watch television, or go to the movies.
Clarence [Ducky] Nash is known in show business as the noisiest man in the world. He’s perhaps the busiest actor in Hollywood, yet he could stand in the middle of Main Street, U.S.A., and not be recognized.
Nash was in Chicago and especially at this news conference to plus his boss, Walt Disney’s latest full length cartoon feature, “One Hundred and One Dalmations.”
* * *

BARRY Freed, a press agent who looked no older than the assembled students, entered and asked the editors to be seated; the conference was about to begin. He introduced Nash as the voice of the world famous cartoon character, Donald Duck, and numerous birds, beasts, and scared urchins.
“How was the funtastic (sic) character of Donald Duck born?” asked one editor.
“Back on the farm in Oklahoma where I was born, I learned to love animals and imitate their sounds,” answered Nash. “I knew one day I’d make a living doing these imitations. My family moved to California and when I finished high school, I entertained on the Chatauqua [sic] and Lyceum circuits and then went into radio. The friends I made during these early radio years kept telling me I should meet Walt Disney who was pioneering in the field of animated cartoons and had become famous with his Mickey Mouse character.
“One day I was wandering down the street and passed a studio and noticed a sign that read ‘Walt Disney Studio—the home of Mickey Mouse.’ I remembered the words of my friends and walked in. I was ushered into the office of a director and auditioned a bit of the show I did on the Chatauqua circuit.
* * *
“As I recited ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb,’ the director pressed a button on the interoffice communication system and my duck voice was piped into Walt’s office. Disney immediately came to the director’s office, listened to more, and fell in love with the voice. The was the first time the voice of a Disney character came first.”
Thru subsequent questions the students learned that Nash has made more than 125 cartoons, that Donald’s cartoons have spread around the world and are spoken by Nash in French, German, Italian, Spanish, and Swedish, and that Nash gets most of his animal sounds by spending hours at the Los Angeles zoo.
They learned that Donald is somewhat frustrated and quick to get angry and that he plays at being sad to prey on the sympathy of his nephews. When everything around him looks black, he’s the kind of duck that’ll fall to his knees and begin praying.
They learned that regardless of how well trained the animals are, it’s almost impossible to train them to make noises at just the right time. Instead of taking weeks to train a horse to whinny on cue, it’s much simplier [sic] and less risky to employ Nash. And Nash says he doesn’t mind not being recognized. “People recognize my voice,” he explained, “and that’s the important thing to me.”

The TV Floor Director Who Made Good

Landing a gig on a successful, long-running sitcom (especially in syndicated reruns) is something most actors can only dream about. But two of them? There may be only a handful that can make that claim. And one of them is Bill Daily.

Daily has passed away at the age of 91.

Actually, Daily did more than that in his career. In the ‘70s, he starred in Bill Daily and His Hocus Pocus Gang, a syndicated children’s series where he went to amusement parks across the U.S. In the early ‘80s, there was another you’ll-miss-it-if-you-blink sitcom called Aloha Paradise which one reviewer compared to a tetanus shot. And there were a few other TV gigs in the ‘80s and ‘90s.

Daily’s humour was unique. On I Dream of Jeannie, he occasionally plotted against his buddy, Larry Hagman’s Major Nelson. But he wasn’t evil or nefarious. It’s almost like he just couldn’t help himself. As Howard the next-door neighbour on The Bob Newhart Show, he was no jokester. His comedic acting was low-key, almost apologetic.

Both Daily and Newhart got their starts in Chicago. Daily came from an odd background for a stand-up comedian—he was a director at a TV station. He landed his first comedy gig at the Blue Orchid, opening for singer Roberta Sherwood. Variety reviewed it on March 11, 1959:

BILL DAILY
Comedy
20 Mins.
Black Orchid, Chicago
Ranks of offbeat funnymen should easily accommodate Bill Daily, a low-key type whose stuff is largely situational. This is his maiden nitery stand, and he betrayed remarkably little nervousness at the initial spotlighting.
Promising as he is, with undeniable talent for the gentle whimsy, there is a disturbing derivativeness about the act, a factor that could hinder him less if he brought to his portrayals a strong personality characteristic or a deep-impressing material gimmick. Neither of these identifiers is present, so that much of the time Daily is reminiscent of established comedians in the same general genre.
For example, his soft-spoken "H'lo" gambit and subsequent meandering patter harks of Herb Shriner, including a quip about a plush restaurant where "you have to audition to eat there." One of his funniest sketches has to do with a shy guy new to the formal banquet circuit, and his attendant perplexity re apparel, which cutlery to use, for what course, etc. This one, as it plays, evokes the sturdy image of Sid Caesar.
Daily flashes a particularly keen imagination with an impresh of a newborn just home from the hospital. It's a delightful bit, but again invites comparison, this time to Jonathan Winters.
Yet, for all the suggestion of personalities in the same orbit, Daily is a sufficiently attractive and fertile performer to rate attention by the small rooms and tv potentates, especially for guesting on the variety formats.
Video, in fact, is familiar ground for Daily. He's a floor director for NBC-TV, Chicago, and made occasional appearances on the web's short-lived "Club 60" daytime stanza. He has a good "feel" for his stuff, and may in time give his own character the sharper definition needed to spell the difference between fair success and the upper rungs. Pit.

Variety also noted singer Duke Hazlett had been added to the bill because of a fear that Daily was so new, he wouldn’t be enough support.

Daily carried on at WNBQ until 1964 when he was signed to be a banana on Steve Allen’s syndicated show for Westinghouse to do the same kind of shtick that Louis Nye and Tom Poston (Ah! Another Newhart connection) had pulled off on earlier Allen variety efforts. His big break came in early December, when he was added to the cast of the pilot of I Dream of Jeannie. The show lasted five seasons. (Until it got on the air, Daily teamed with Ann Elder in a comedy act). Here’s a United Press International column about Daily at the start of season number four. It appeared in papers on September 21, 1968.

Supporting Actor Big Aid to 'Jeannie'
By VERNON SCOTT
UPI Hollywood Correspondent
HOLLYWOOD (UPI) – Bill Daily is one of the co-stars of “I Dream of Jeannie”—not the kind of star who makes you drop everything to catch the show, but whose performance is absolutely invaluable.
As with most successful series, it is the gem-like assists from supporting players that make “Jeannie” a hit.
As does Roger Healey in the weekly situation comedy, Daily frequently slips in nuggets of humor on his own. It is a natural extension of his moonlighting job as a writer of commercials for radio and television.
In addition to the series Daily writes commercials regularly for a potato chip firm and for a national bakery.
The actor and his wife, Pat, have been married 19 years and are the parents of Patrick, 10, and Kimberly, 8. Both are adopted.
The Daily family is poised to move into a brand new four-bedroom home in the hills of Studio City, a half-hour drive from Columbia Studios where the NBC-TV show is filmed.
There will be an office in the house where Bill can work on his commercials. Included on the grounds is a swimming pool for the children.
Working Day

Daily works four days in the series, rehearsing three and shooting on the final day. On a normal day he is on the set at 7 a.m., in makeup, in his Air Force uniform, and before the cameras until 7 p.m.
Pat, whom he considers a brilliant cook, has dinner waiting for him when he gets home.
“I’m a cook, too. A good one,” Daily claims. “I’m terrific when it comes to making spaghetti with clams.”
The barbecue chores fall to Bill when the family spends the summer in a beach cottage on Lido Island at Newport Beach about 50 miles down the California coast from their home.
On weekends Daily likes nothing better than packing Kimberly and Patrick into the family car and heading for the chartered fishing boats for deep-sea trolling. Recently, to Pat’s dismay, the children and their father returned home with almost a hundred pounds of bonita.
Mrs. Daily was grateful, however, that the catch was brought to the old house. She has plans to decorate their new home with antiques and as many of the Daily painting collection as possible.
“Our problem is that the new place has so many glass walls and draperies, we don’t know what to do with all the really fine paintings we’ve bought over the years,” Daily says.
A native of Des Moines, Iowa, Bill attended the Goodman Theater College in Chicago before becoming an NBC staff director. Later he switched to writing for the old “Club 60” television show starring Dennis James. Thereafter he formed his own comedy act and hit the Midwest nightclub circuit.
At the moment he is satisfied with working as an actor during the day and writing commercials at night—oh, yes, and fishing weekends.

After Jeannie, Daily enjoyed fishing and the occasional gig until he and Newhart got together for six seasons starting in 1972. His old castmate, Larry Hagman, went on to other things, too, becoming part of one of the most famous cliff-hangers in TV history. Seemingly everyone in 1980 was talking about who shot the evil oilman J.R. on the nighttime soap Dallas. Well, almost everyone. This is from the Associated Press, August 21, 1980.

Hagman’s ex-partner doesn’t watch ‘Dallas’
AKRON, Ohio (AP) – Bill Daily is one person who isn’t caught up in the mystery over who shot J.R. Ewing.

As Larry Hagman’s former co-star in the television show “I Dream of Jeannie,” Daily spent five years with Hagman in the series during the 1960s. The show, which also featured Barbara Eden, has been in syndication since production was stopped. Daily, in Akron Saturday for the 43rd annual All-American Soap Box Derby, played Roger Healy to Hagman’s Tony Nelson in the highly-successful comedy about an astronaut who found a female genie.
“I’ve never watched ‘Dallas,’ ” Daily said. He said he didn’t know anything about the show, that Hagman's character had been shot in the last episode this season or that the show has taken the country and parts of the world by rage.
“You’re kidding. Larry was on the cover of Time?’ ” Daily said. “This ‘Dallas' thing is the most bizarre thing I’ve ever heard in my life.”
Daily said he doesn’t watch much television, especially situation comedy. “If it is really great, I ask myself why I’m not in it, and if it’s lousy, I sit and ask myself ‘Why am I wasting my time watching this,’ ” he quipped. Still, Daily has made much of his livelihood through television “sitcoms." After “I Dream of Jeannie,” he had a run as Howard Borden in “The Bob Newhart Show,” He said he makes a pilot for a possible television show each year, but none have been purchased recently.
Lately, most of Daily’s work has been devoted to a play he wrote for the dinner-theater circuit. “Lover’s Leap” has been playing around the country since 1978. The show opens in St. Petersburg, Fla. on Tuesday.

Even when playing himself on The Match Game (and seemingly not matching contestants very often), Daley came across as a genuine guy, a little befuddled perhaps, and pretty likeable. That’s why you’ll find fan reminiscences about him on social media today.

Happy Caterpillar Dance

A caterpillar separates and its parts do a dance in Playful Pan, a 1930 Walt Disney cartoon. Not very elaborate stuff but fun nonetheless.



One little part almost gets left behind and brings up the rear. Friz Freleng was still using this kind of joke at Warners years later.



There are no credits, other than to the Bray-Hurd patent people.

The Man With the Rilly Big Shoe

It was on October 13, 1948 that he debuted at Le Ruban Bleu nightclub in New York City. Not too many months earlier, on June 20, 1948, another man made his debut. And their careers would forever be entwined on March 29, 1953.

That’s when the first man, comedian Will Jordan, appeared for the first time on the Sunday night TV programme of the second man, Ed Sullivan, and did an impression of him.

Jordan, the man’s whose name likely isn’t the first one who comes to mind when you say the word “impressionist,” has passed away, according to his long-time friend and colleague Keith Scott.

Just about everyone can do an impression of Ed Sullivan. Except they’re not. They’re doing Will Jordan’s impression of Ed Sullivan.

Jordan explained this odd phenomenon in a newspaper feature story. This was published October 14, 1978 in the Pittsburgh Courier.

Will Jordan defines mimicry
Charlie Chaplin, himself came in a shaky third in a Chaplin contest staged at the Chinese Theatre in Hollywood a number of years ago. Bing Crosby once struck out as ... Bing Crosby, and Al Jolson was actually booed off the stage imitating himself. How could such things happen? Will Jordan, a veteran impressionist, has the answer.
Jordan analyzed the art of mimicry while working as a mimic on the set of Universal's "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," a raucous comedy about Beatle crazy teenagers in New York during the early 1960s. On their first trip to America the Beatles' first stop was for a "live" appearance on the Ed Sullivan TV Show, and the movie's recreation of that event has Jordan cast as the late columnist and impressario. It's a role he has played thousands of times in nightclubs and on television, including 22 on the Sullivan Show itself.

"Some you hear on TV or radio are so perfect that everyone thinks they're the originals," says Jordan. "What happens is this, a good mimic capsulizes his characters, pulling highlights out of what may be an hour-long routine, and boiling them down to maybe even a single short sentence.
"Did Ed Sullivan ever say 'Really-Big Show'? You're wrong. He never said it. I invented it for him when I first imitated him in 1954. Also the famous knuckle cracks, eyes upward roll, and crazy body spins.
"Did LBJ really say 'I come to you with a heavy heart'? Sorry, but David Frye made that line up him. If anyone really wants to check it out, he can listen to Truman's speech at FDR's death, and that's where it was actually said.
"Did Charles Boyer say 'Come wiz me to the Casbah'? No Way. He never left the Casbah. And Cary Grant never said Judy, Judy, Judy... and same for Bette Davis "Peteh, Peteh, Peteh.. it was all made up by people like me.
"Don't tell me you ever heard Bogie say "play it again Sam' or 'Alright Louis, drop the gun.' I know better. He never did."
Jordan claims mimics made up all those lines to get laughs—and to "sell" the imitations. "If they imitated the actors as they really are, there would be no laughs, since the actors are not comedians and the lines written for them are not supposed to funny."
Jordan had two ways to go as Ed Sullivan in "I Wanna Hold Your Hand." He could either give an exact imitation of Old Stoneface, or give a much more entertaining impression. He could be made up to look exactly like Sullivan by the studio makeup artist, or do his own theatrical makeup just for effect.
Director Robert Zemeckis made the decision. In the film, Jordan looks as much like Sullivan as it is humanly possible to contrive and he provides an exact imitation.
"Imagine me, a comedian, imitating the world's straightest man, straight? It was hard to resist putting in at least on 'RRReally big shew,'" quipped Jordan, who then segued into a reflective moment.
"You know, Ed and I hit it off and were good friends. He was a great guy and a wonderful force in journalism and show business. I could never imitate that."

Jordan was performing in public at an early age; but not as an impressionist. He grew up in Flushing, New York where at age nine in 1937, he gave a piano recital (with his older brother Harold) under the direction of his teacher, T. Robin MacLachen. A year later, he performed in a couple of playlets at a Flag Day programme at School 20 (not far from his home on Sanford Avenue). He graduated from the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in Manhattan in March 1946. He changed his professional name from Wilbur Rauch soon afterward.

I can’t tell you when Jordan first came up with the words “a rilly big shoe,” but he was doing his version of Sullivan before making his first appearance on the “Toast of the Town.” He pulled it out about five weeks earlier in March 1953 on the debut of “The Jacqueline Suzann Show” (yes, the same woman who wrote “Valley of the Dolls”) along with his interpretations of Dave Garroway and Morey Amsterdam.

I also can’t tell you when other people glommed onto his impression, but he was beefing about it in 1955 to United Press West Coast entertainment columnist Vernon Scott. He spent the next 60 years seemingly frustrated about it. Here’s what he had to say to United Press’ East Coast entertainment columnist on June 6, 1957.

Sullivan Mimic, Will Jordan, Says Others Steal His Stuff
By WILLIAM EWALD
NEW YORK (UP) — Will Jordan, a comic who was lifted out of obscurity by his knuckle-cracking imitation of Ed Sullivan, today cracked the knuckles of fellow comics Jerry Lewis, Sammy Davis and Jack Carter.
Jordan said the trio was guilty of swiping his Sullivan routine and sticking it in their own acts.
"I've turned the other cheek on this thing long enough," said Jordan.
"It's reached the point now where it's affecting my earnings. The Sullivan imitation has been the basis of my act, but it's reached the stage now where I'm booked into a club and then learn somebody else has done my act the week before.
His Real Objection

"What I object to is that Lewis and Davis and Carter aren't really imitating Sullivan at all. What they're doing is imitating me imitating Sullivan. And what gets me even more, is that they're all big stars, big talents, with no need to steal from a comparative unknown like myself."
The 29-year-old Jordan, in the funny business for nine years, began doing his Ed Sullivan impression about four or five years ago. Sullivan likes the routine so much he's had Jordan eight times on his CBS-TV show.
"The routine is not really Sullivan," said Jordan. "It's an extension of Sullivan in the comedy vein—cracking my knuckles with the palms turned out and rolling my eyeballs up and saying—That's beeg, really beeg' and 'Beeg shew.' Sullivan doesn't really do any of those things. They're my inventions.
How It Happened
"Well what happened, I think, is that Jack Carter stole it from me first. I was friendly with Carter once, but he used my friendship to lift the routine. It never occurred to me be was that kind of guy. Then Jerry Lewis lifted it from Carter and Sammy (Davis) from Jerry.
"Carter does it better than the rest, but they all do it poorly. They sell the comedy well, but they just don't look like Sullivan."
Jordan has talked to both Carter and Davis about the problem.
"Carter just ignored me," said Jordan. "And Sammy, you know what he said? — I'll teach you to dance."
“Well, I don’t want to be called a crybaby, but this whole thing is really hitting me in the pocketbook. Carter has played the Perry Como show and done my Ed Sullivan and now, I can’t even get on the Como show, one of the most important bookings in the business.”

Jordan still managed to work but he seems to have been overshadowed by others as the ’60s rolled along. But they all owe a debt to Jordan, who moved past the standard Jimmy Cagney-Cary Grant-Edward G. Robinson impersonations others were doing. He was big. Rilly big.

Pausing Penguins

We get several different versions of “When My Dreamboat Comes Home” in the 1938 Warners cartoon The Penguin Parade. First, there’s a crooning version in imitation of Bing Crosby, then there’s a jivin’ male trio version.

The song’s handled pretty straight but then director Tex Avery jars the audience by having the singers make nutty faces held for about 32 frames just for the hell of it. Then back they go to jive-step and finish the song.



Later in the cartoon we get a hot instrumental swing style of the song—so hot, the notes melt off the sheet music. Avery, of course, can’t treat it straight. It’s interrupted for a few bars of “The Merry-Go-Round Broke Down.” But there’s some pretty good horn playing, and the arrangement by Milt Franklyn is tops. The penguin band is too exhausted to continue and walk off the stage. With that, the cartoon fizzles to an end.

Also on the sound track are “Penguin Parade” by Byron Gay and Richard Whiting, “Sing You Son of a Gun” by Whiting and Johnny Mercer, “On the Rue de la Paix” by Werner Heymann and Ted Koehler and Sammy Cahn’s “Bei Mir Bist du Schön.”

Paul Smith is the credited animator on this short. Virgil Ross, Sid Sutherland and Irv Spence were also in Avery’s unit at the time.

More of The One, The Only...

It’s time for more of the wit and wisdom of Groucho Marx.

He apparently didn’t have much left of either when he died in 1977. But here he is two years before his demise cracking wise. This column appeared in newspapers on October 1, 1975.

Groucho birthdaying? You can bet your life
By BOB THOMAS
LOS ANGELES (AP) — “Did you know that I’ll be 85 years old on Oct. 2? Isn’t that amazing?”
Of course, Groucho. And it’s cause for celebration that Groucho Marx is alive and fairly well and living in accustomed luxury in the Trousdale Estates.
The birthday will be observed Oct. 12 with a star-filled luncheon in his honor by the Friends of the Library at the University of Southern California.
“I’ve written six books, and I never finished public school,” he comments wonderingly. Curiously, his immense contributions to American humor have never been rewarded with an honorary degree from any university. Bob Hope has 31.
A visit to Groucho is always a delight, and he was in good form at a pre-birthday lunch at his home.
In some ways he exhibits his ample years. No more the loping walk. His steps are deliberate, his frame stooped. The words don’t come with the same rattling speed — nor as scathingly.
But he is still Groucho.
“I no longer smoke, drink or make love,” he remarked, expletive deleted. “I gave up cigars five years ago, figuring that I was too old to smoke.

“Not drinking hasn’t bothered me; I was only a one-drink man anyway. As far as making love, age took care of that.”
He sat down to a hearty lunch accompanied by apple cider (“I read in the New York Times that it was good for old people”).
As he sliced the chicken breast, he mused, “My mother was a lousy cook. My father was a great cook. But he was a lousy tailor.”
Groucho had a coughing spell, and the ever-present Erin Fleming asked if he had taken his cough medicine. Twice, he replied. Miss Fleming, an attractive brunett with a sharp mind, has been guardian of the Marx legend for several years. She watches his health, makes deals for books, merchandize licensing, TV reruns, etc., collecting a 15 per cent fee as manager.
Her only complaint is that she would like to get married, and Groucho keeps scaring off her potential suitors.
“My quiz show went on Channel 5 here as a 13-week experiment, and now it’s the most popular program on an independent station,” Groucho remarked proudly. Indeed, rerelease of the 1951-1961 “You Bet Your Life” series has caused a new wave of Grouchomania. Even though the films are in black-and-white, the Marxian dialogue retains its color, and “You Bet Your Life” is now appearing on 44 channels, including the top 18 markets.
Groucho himself has been watching the reruns every night and the afternoon showings as well. He claims to remember each of the shows, and he comments on how he could have improved his performance.
He goes to sleep when the shows are over at 11:30 and rises promptly at 6. After bathing and shaving, he returns to bed for breakfast and reading the news; he still follows politics avidly and admires California’s young Gov. Brown — “I think he’ll be president some day. ”
Groucho spends a busy morning with mail and other matters, takes a walk before lunch.
Nowadays he rarely joins the fabled comedians’ roundtable at Hillcrest Country Club, the ranks of comedians having grown thinner. He lunches at home at 1 p.m. sharp, watches reruns of his show and Jack Benny's (“A fine man, and a great comedian”).
After a late-day rest, Groucho dines with friends or goes to a movie. He enjoys the films of Mel Brooks and Woody Allen, both of whom he considers “brilliant.”
Refusing to live in the past, Groucho spends time with such admirers as Bill Cosby, Marvin Hamlisch, Jack Nicholson and Bud Cort (“Harold and Maude”), the latter a current houseguest. But there is no mistaking Groucho’s sense of loss as he walks down a hallway-gallery and points to photos of Al Jolson, Jack Benny, Edward G. Robinson, Harry Ruby, and especially his late brother Harpo, “a wonderful man.”
Groucho talked of meeting another old friend, Charlie Chaplin, when Chaplin was here for his honorary Oscar last year. “You know the advice he gave me? He said, 'Keep cool,’” said Groucho.
“No, he said, 'Keep warm,’” Erin corrected.
“So what’s the difference?”

Snowbody Loves Me Backgrounds

The cartoons Chuck Jones made at SIB Tower 12 had something in common with the cartoons Chuck Jones made at Leon Schlesinger’s studio in the late ‘30s. He was going for artistry and cuteness instead of comedy.

Animated artistry, of course, costs money, and after seven cartoons SIB Tower 12 was in financial trouble and finally, in essence, taken over by MGM.

Snowbody Loves Me (1964) is the fifth of the cartoons Jones co-directed with Maurice Noble at SIB Tower 12. A number of people who worked with Jones at Warners worked on this cartoon as well, including background artist Phil De Guard. Here are some of his exteriors of a snow-covered town in the evening. The first one looks like it could have come from the Grinch special.



There’s another part of the cartoon where Jerry is resting inside a large wheel of Swiss cheese. He yodels. The yodeling echoes through the cheese. There are interior shots of the cheese. The shafts of light in the last frame are on overlays; Jerry walks behind them later in the scene.



Eugene Poddany contributes an excellent, well-arranged score. He sets a classical mood with a piano, a solo violin and snatches of classical music, including Chopin. I’d love to know if MGM still had an orchestra around to play the score or Walter Bien at SIB had to pay for one as well as the rental of a recording studio.

The animators are Ken Harris, Ben Washam, Dick Thompson, Tom Ray and Don Towsley.

Stupor Duck

Stupor Duck may be the best of the Bob McKimson/Tedd Pierce TV parodies. There are some good gags, and Pierce seems to find a little capper for each of the sequences. And one of the animators gets in some multiples (with effective dry-brush work) that are fun to watch when you freeze the picture.



And later in the cartoon...



Keith Darling, Ted Bonnicksen, George Grandpré and Russ Dyson are the animators; not exactly A-listers. Bob Gribbroek is the layout artist. Daws Butler provides some uncredited voice work. The cartoon was released in 1956.

George and Gracie and Jack

George Burns wrote a number of very funny books, and spent a good deal of time talking about his late wife Gracie and his late best friend Jack Benny. One was called Living It Up and it was excerpted in newspapers.

These portions were published in the Journal-News of Rockland County, N.Y., on Sept. 19, 1976. Unfortunately, the photocopied scans of the artwork with them isn’t the best. The caricatures are by Louise Zingarelli, who later went into animation layout and design, spending a good deal of time with the 1980s versions of the Chipmunks.

Jack Benny —Long thread of friendship
By GEORGE BURNS
As you go through life, the good things and the bad things have a way of balancing themselves out. But there are times when you get the feeling that the bad things are winning. That’s the way I felt the day my closest friend, Jack Benny, passed away.
Jack was gone and part of me went with him, but a lot of Jack stayed here with me. Not only me — part of him stayed with people all over the world, he was the smartest and moat considerate man I ever knew. Everybody who came in contact with him fell in love with Jack. And the feeling was mutual because Jack loved people.
Sometimes for no reason at all he would stop at a little bakery in Beverly Hills, buy a cake and take it up to his doctor’s office. The receptionist and nurses would make coffee, and they'd sit around and have a little gossip session. Jack didn’t have an appointment with the doctor, he just got a kick out of talking to the girls.

I envied Jack because he enjoyed everything. In all the time I knew him there was just one little thing that always griped him. He could never get what he considered a good cup of coffee. He once said to me, “George, I’ve traveled all over the world. I've been everywhere at least once, and I’ve yet to find a good cup of coffee.”
“Jack,” I said, “if you’ve never tasted a good cup of coffee, how would you know if you got one?”
He gave me one of his scornful looks and said, “George, if that was supposed to be funny, it’s lucky you don’t make your living as a writer,” and walked away. It’s a well-known fact in show business that I could always make Jack Benny laugh. And it was always silly little thing that would do it — things that nobody else would laugh at. During all the years I knew Jack I never told him an out-and-out joke, because that would be the last thing he'd laugh at. He made his living writing comedy, so if you told him a joke, first he'd analyze it, then he’d start to rewrite it.
Now, here’s something I did at a party one night and it made Jack hysterical. It started while we were both standing at the bar having a drink. We were wearing dinner clothes and I noticed that there was a little piece of white thread stuck on the lapel of Jack's coat. I said “Jack, that piece of thread you're wearing on your lapel tonight looks very smart. Do you mind if I borrow it?” Then I took the piece of thread from his lapel and put it on my lapel.
That was it. I’m not sure, but I think during my life in show business I must have thought of a funnier bit — I certainly hope so. But that bit of business took Jack apart, he laughed, he pounded the bar and finally he collapsed on the floor laughing. I must admit I always loved every moment of it. Being able to send this great comedian into spasms of hysterical laughter was good for my ego.
The next day I got a little box, put a piece of white thread in it, and sent it over to Jack’s house with a note that said, “Jack, thanks for letting me wear this last night.”
An hour later I got a phone call from his wife Mary Livingstone. She said “George, that piece of white thread got here an hour ago and Jack still is on the floor. When he stops laughing, I think I’ll leave him.”
You may think I'm exaggerating when I talk about Jack falling on the floor — but it’s true. He’d collapse with laughter and literally fall on the floor. I don’t know what his cleaning bill was, but it must have been tremendous.
This is one anecdote about Jack Benny you may have heard before, but I think it bears repeating. One day he went to his lawyer’s office in Beverly Hills to sign a multi-million-dollar contract I knew that it was a very big deal, so when Jack came into the club that afternoon I said to him “Jack, you must be very excited.”
“I certainly am,” he said. “Do you know after I signed the contract I stopped at a little drugstore and, George, I finally found a place that serves a good cup of coffee.”
That was Jack Benny, my dearest and closest friend. And wherever Jack is I hope the coffee is good.

George Burns and Gracie Allen were one of America’s most beloved husband-and-wife comedy teams for over 10 years. Gracie was the scatterbrain in a permanent state of confusion. George, while tapping his cigar, was the patient straight man who tried to unravel her circuitous logic. In the following excerpt from his book “Living It Up,” George Burns recalls his life with the other half of the Burns and Allen team and the secret to his longevity in show business.

'Gracie Allen was my only love'
By GEORGE BURNS
Getting to be my age didn’t happen overnight. I'm 80-years-old and I had a damned good time getting there.
I run into a lot of people who ask me when I’m going to retire. I think the only reason you should retire is if you can find something you enjoy doing more than what you’re doing now. I happen to be in love with show business, and I can't think of anything I’d enjoy more than that. So I guess I’ve been retired all my life.
I don’t know what age has to do with retirement anyway. I’ve known some young men of 85, and I’ve met some very old men of 40. There isn’t a thing I can’t do now that I did when I was 21 — which gives you an idea of how pathetic I was when I was 21.
But 80 is a beautiful age. The secret of feeling young is to make every day count for something. To me there's no such thing as a day off.
My writer, Elon Packard, and I work in the office from 10 until noon. It’s only two hours but it’s a very concentrated effort. We answer correspondence, update the routines in my stage act, write speeches for testimonial dinners, plan what I'm going to say on talk shows, write copy for various commercials I do.
But at 12 on the nose. I quit and go to Hillcrest Country Club. Hillcrest is like a home to me. I’ve belonged to it for over 40 years.
When I have my lunch there I always sit at the same table. This table is where the action is. There's very little listening but a awful lot of talking, because most of the people who sit there are in show business. Every day the cast changes — you might find Groucho Marx, Danny Thomas, George Jessel, Milton Berle and directors and producers like Eddie Buzzell, Pandro Berman, George Seaton, etc. With that bunch if you want to get a word in edgewise you have to have an appointment.

As in every group there is usually one person who takes charge. At our table it’s George Jessel. He knows all the jokes, he’s a great storyteller and very funny. But he does one thing that drives me up the wall. Whenever he’s scheduled to do an eulogy at someone’s funeral, he tries it out on us. Did you ever try eating lunch and listening to an eulogy at the same time? Jessel is the only one I know who can turn matzos, eggs and onions into the Last Supper.
Lunch usually takes an hour or so, and then I’m off to the card room for my favorite recreation — playing bridge. I love the game.
Sometimes I’ve watched some of the great bridge players play, and it’s always so quiet. We argue, we fight and the language we use didn’t come out of “Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.” But there’s a reason why we carry on like this — all the men that I play bridge with are practically my age or even older; sometimes I’m the youngest at the table. So we holler and shout to make sure the other members of the club know that we’re still living. The only time we get quiet is when Georgie Jessel comes over to kibitz. It makes us very nervous because we know he’s got four eulogies in his pocket.
Sometimes in the evening I have a date. I usually take her to dinner at a nice restaurant. I like the company of young girls, and young girls seem to like to go out with me. It’s because I don’t rush them — there’s no pressure on them. When I take them to Chasen’s for dinner, in between courses they have time to do their homework.
On occasion if I'm in a romantic mood, I invite the young lady back to my place. And at the end of the evening she won't be disappointed. We have a little brandy. I turn the lights down low, and when I think the moment is just right — I send for my piano player. I sing her four or five songs and go upstairs and go to bed. My piano player takes her home. I’ve out lived four of my piano players.
But the only love in my life was Gracie and I was happily married to her for 38 years. Now don’t get me wrong, we had arguments, but not like other couples had. When we had a disagreement, it had to do with show business.
Looking back, I really don’t know why Gracie married me. I certainly know I wanted to marry her. She was a living Irish doll, such a dainty little thing, only 102 pounds, with long, blue-black hair and sparkling eyes; so full of life and with an infectious laugh that made her fun to be around. Besides all that she was a big talent. She could sing, she was a great dancer, and a fine actress with a marvelous flair for comedy.
But why did she marry me? I was nothing. I was already starting to lose my hair, I had a voice like a frog, I stuttered and stammered, and I was a bad, small-time vaudeville actor and I was broke. I guess she must have felt sorry for me.
I'm glad she did.
As time went on I got better onstage. I had to. For me there was no way to go but up. I finally got so good that nobody knew I was there.
Gracie: On my way in, a man stopped me at the stage door and said, “Hiya, cutie how about a bite tonight after the show?”
George: And you said?
Gracie: I said, “I’ll be busy after the show but I'm not doing anything now,” so I bit him.
George: Gracie, let me ask you something. Did the nurse ever happen to drop you on your head when you were a baby?
Gracie: Oh, no, we couldn't afford a nurse, my mother had to do it.
George: Is there anybody in the family as smart as you?
Gracie: My sister Hazel is even smarter. If it wasn’t for her, our canary would never have hatched that ostrich egg.
George: A canary hatched an ostrich egg?
Gracie: Yeah, but the canary was too small to cover that big egg.
George: So?
Gracie: Hazel sat on the egg and held the canary in her lap.
George: Gracie, this family of yours do you all live together?
Gracie: Oh, sure. My father, my brother, my uncle, my cousin, and my nephew all sleep in one bed and...
George: In one bed? I’m surprised your grandfather doesn’t sleep with them.
Gracie: Oh, he did, but he died, so they made him get up.
On Aug. 27, 1964, Gracie passed away. I was terribly shocked. The period of adjustment to such a loss took time. Gracie had been such an all-important part of my life that everywhere I looked, everywhere I went, the feeling of her was still there.
The most difficult time was at night. It was hard for me to go to sleep, and when I did doze off I’d soon wake with a start and look over, expecting Gracie to be there in her bed beside me.
This went on for about six months, then one night I did something, and to this day I can’t explain why. I was all ready to get into bed, and then for some reason I pulled the covers down on Gracie’s bed and got into it.
I don’t know if it made me feel closer to her, but for the first time since Gracie had gone I got a good night’s sleep. I never did go back to my bed —

What Price Giddy Glory?

Bugs Bunny’s first cartoon, A Wild Hare, was nominated for an Oscar after being released in 1940. It didn’t win. None of the tremendously funny Bugs shorts—and we all have our favourites—made in the ‘40s won. Nor in the early ‘50s. It wasn’t until Knighty Knight Bugs came along in 1958 that Bugs became “that Oscar-winning rabbit” that Dick Tufeld used to introduce on the Bugs Bunny prime-time TV show.

The length of time wasn’t altogether Bugs’ fault. MGM had more votes at the Academy of Motion Pictures. To no great surprise, they voted for Tom and Jerry cartoons.

The North American Newspaper Alliance took note of Bugs’ victory and featured it in its Hollywood column of April 18, 1959. The Oscar ceremony had been held less than two weeks earlier.

A LOOK INTO MOVIELAND
Bugs Bunny's Aplomb Unchanged By Oscar
By HAROLD HEFFERNAN
HOLLYWOOD—The giddy glory of Oscar ownership is not going to shatter the aplomb of at least one jubilant Academy winner—boisterous, insouciant Bugs Bunny, bucktoothed, jug-eared rabbit of film cartoon renown.
The madcap animated hare with the Brooklyn accent—a creature originated by Warner Bros, cartoon division—walked off with his first glittering statuette after a fabulous 18 years of wacky and audacious adventures.
In every laughter-loving country in the world, except Russia, where he is not yet entitled to scamper the carrot-cruncher has fast become one of filmland's best-loved characters. This was evidenced by the crescendo of applause welling up from the audience at the Academy presentation when Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh made the formal announcement. Bugs matched the decibel level of plaudits accorded many of the flesh-and-blood stars.
Gets Own Fan Mail
Such is Bugs' amazing popularity, according to John W. Burton, Warners' executive cartoon producer, that almost every mail delivery brings him his own batch of fan letters.
Although Oscar was late in coming, the bustling bunny had not gone without recognition from other sources. For 14 consecutive years exhibitors of America, in their annual poll, have voted him top favorite in the short subject group.
Bugs Bunny's distinctive voice, from the time he first appeared on the drawing boards, has been that of noted character actor and radio-TV personality, Mel Blanc, often seen as Prof. Le Blanc, the music teacher, on the Jack Benny show.
'What's Up, Doc?'
In his screen bow the rabbit was given a line of dialogue which since has been repeated at least once in each succeeding episode, one that was quickly mimicked over and over by untold millions of youngsters—"What's up, Doc?" delivered with irreverence and mocking derision.
Just as he is the Bugs Bunny voice, Blanc also produces the eloquent crunching as the hare devours a carrot. Blanc says he is unable to estimate the hundreds of pounds of the vegetable root he has chomped in this segment of his performance.
Through long and intimate association with the rabbit, producer Burton has come to know him almost as a real-life friend. He speaks of him with reverence. "If you'll notice," he says, "Bugs is never the one to start trouble. He suffers in silence—up to a point. Then he explodes into action — and usually comes out ahead."
Audience Reaction
This is the behavior wherein audiences of every age find personal identification, Burton believes, and which may largely be responsible for the genuine warmth with which Bugs is greeted whenever his wide-cheeked countenance flashes on the screen.
Each cartoon episode is one reel in length, with a running time of seven minutes. Eight episodes are released each year, meaning that to date Bugs has made almost 150 separate performances. Each segment requires approximately 15,000 individual drawings.

Bugs is strictly hep, always in tune with the times. For example, in the Oscar-winning entry, "Knighty Knight Bugs," directed by Friz Freleng, there is a scene in which he traps his familiar adversary, Yosemite Sam, a desperado of unsavory reputation, in a silolike tower used to cache dynamite.
The explosives are set off by Bugs, and Yosemite Sam rides the runaway silo on a trip all the way to the moon, which means that the rabbit has already beaten the boys at Cape Canaveral at their own game.
For Bugs, according to his legion of admirers, that's no more than par.