Benny On Broadway

There are several types of fans. Some are simply casual ones; they like something but they don’t deliberately seek it out. Some enjoy someone’s work but realise not everything will be a hit. And there are some who like everyone someone did, no matter how mediocre, and get angry when someone criticises it.

I fall in the second group for a number of things. If you’ve read my other, on-indefinite-hiatus blog, you’ll know I like the earliest half-hour series produced by Hanna-Barbera, though some individual cartoons don’t quite work for me. Same for Jack Benny. I generally like his radio show, but some episodes or routines simply aren’t entertaining to me.

Jack’s start came on the vaudeville stage. In 1963, he went back to New York to, in essence, put on a vaudeville show. There were a number of different acts, with him emceeing, no different than what he did in the ‘20s and then in the ‘30s when he made some lucrative personal appearances across the U.S.

The way some reviewers put it, the show wasn’t A-list Benny, except maybe for hard-core, Benny-can-do-no-wrong fans. That’s the suggestion from Newsweek magazine’s review, and that was definitely the opinion of—of all people—cartoonist Al Capp, who wrote a syndicated column.

First up is the Newsweek piece of March 11, 1963, the Capp from the Boston Globe the previous day.

Jack Benny is so wise to his following that the moment he steps out on the stage of the Ziegfeld Theater he knows what the talkative womenfolk are buzzing into their escorts’ ears. He says it first: “My God, he looks so much younger on TV.” From there on, the audience at this nameless review could almost play the same trick on Benny. His big blue eyes still serve him as a topic of infinite jest, along with his parsimony and the quirks of the stage entourage he made famous on radio. Delivered with the old familiar mannerisms—hand on cheek, one limp knee bent inward—the running gags still work, even in a production which looks like the only USO show ever cheeky enough to open in New York at a $7.50 top. Of all our illustrious clowns, Benny is the one who can do least, but when he catches himself in the reckless act of discarding some stray horsehairs from his violin bow and frugally pockets them instead, nobody could excel the princely finesse of it. Benny has the glowing patina of the vaudeville veteran, and the stage dins when he walks off. His co-star, Jane Morgan, is a torch howler whose welcome depends heavily on the way she makes an evening gown bulge, and there is a troupe of gospel sings who bully the eardrums beyond human limits. But there is also a two-man juggling act called the Half Brothers whose skill skirts the supernatural. Even Benny is at his funniest when this amazing team interrupts him in the middle of a joke to make him the stunned pivot of a terrifying whirl of Indian clubs.

Beloved Jack
By AL CAPP
Jack Benny appeared in person the other night for the first time in 30 years in a Broadway theater. It was one of those largely one-man shows, carrying a few other acts whose main function is to stay on long enough for the star to catch his breath or change his shirt.
Benny is the most beloved entertainer of our time, and it was clearly an act of love that so many of his opening-night audience remained in their seats. A few heartless ones walked out.
Us faithful glared at them with contempt. Also, to be truthful, with a bit of envy.
For in a democracy all beloved entertainers have equal rights. Jack Benny has as much right to exhaust us as Carl Sandburg or Maurice Chevalier, anyone who does anything to deprive him of that right, such as getting up and walking out, simply has come with the wrong attitude.
The wrong attitude is to expect that buying a ticket at Broadway prices to a Broadway theater entitles you to an entertainment up to Broadway standards, by an entertainer who has achieved the title “Beloved.”
Anyone who attends the Ziegfeld Theater with that in mind, for the next six weeks, is going to get either mighty fidgety or home mighty early.
The right attitude is the one you bring to a testimonial banquet—where you pay for your ticket for the privilege of paying your respects to someone who has devoted his life to making this a better world, such as Albert Schweitzer or Herbert Hoover.
You don’t expect the distinguished guest of honor to knock himself out all over again to make you happy that night, but to express your appreciation for all he’s done for you in the past.
For nearly 40 years Benny has worked himself into his present exhausted state providing fresh and charming comedy for us, and he certainly is entitled to take it easy for the next six weeks at the Ziegfeld, while we do something for him.
Benny’s show opens with a sort of two-man juggling act which quips, “What a way to make a living!” while they go about their equally obsolete japes.
And then Benny comes on, and I dare say there wasn’t a heart in that immense audience that wasn’t warmed by the sight of him.
Not even Bob Hope or Red Skelton, for all their years of making this a cheerier world, evoke quite the quality of affection he does.
There’s something so unmistakably defeated, yet so unquenchably hopeful about Benny, so irreparably decomposed, yet so stubbornly vain, that he makes his own secret foolishness more laughable than shameful.
Benny so profoundly understands, and sympathizes, with the average dumb and doomed human, that by reflecting him in his hilariously crazy mirror, he comforts him, and that is a great and rare gift.
For his first 15 minutes, Benny was delicious. And this is the limit a standup comic can be mercifully expected to last, as a fighter is expected to last 15 rounds, but no longer. It is as cruel to demand that a comedian slug it out for two hours, as a fighter.
After that first glorious 15 minutes Benny began losing his wind, and his control, but like any champ with heart he kept going.
At his worst he was embarrassing; at his best he had the amiability of the sort of guy you meet at any convention, who talks a bit too long and about subjects you’re not too interested in, but who is so pleasant you don’t resent him.

Sgt. Kling and George the Wonder Dog are Missing

George the Wonder Dog, where are you now?

You probably haven’t heard of George. That’s because he never made it to movie or TV screens. But he tried.

George was the invention of the people at Animation Inc., one of a number of companies making animated TV commercials in the 1950s. It was formed May 1, 1955 by Earl Klein, who quit as president of 15-month-old Storyboard, Inc. to open his own firm. Storyboard was an award-winning company, known at the time for spots for Heinz Worcestershire Sauce, the Ford Car bird and E-Z Popcorn (I believe all of these are on-line somewhere). It soon expanded its operations and hired people like Ed Barge and Irv Spence. Saul Bass was employed by Animation Inc. to create the animated titles to “Around the World in 80 Days.”

By 1960, when commercial companies like TV Spots (Calvin and the Colonel) and Grantray-Lawrence (Dick Tracy) were getting a piece of television cartoon action, Animation Inc. decided to do the same thing. And they came up with a concept that sounds like a cross between Lassie and the yet-to-air Dudley Do-Right.

August 16, 1961
Animation Inc., long-time producer of animated TV commercials, has entered the field of entertainment films with “Sgt. Kling of the Preston and His Wonder Dog George,” an adult-geared animated film. Earl Klein, president of Animation Inc., is producer of the half-hour program.

August 31, 1961
Howard McNear will be the voice of Sgt. Kling in Sgt. Kling of the Preston and His Wonder Dog George,” new 30-minute animated film series being produced by Animation, Inc. Hal Smith will be the voice of the dog, with Dave Barry and Mae Questel doing the audio tracks in other roles.

December 5, 1961

Earl Klein of Animation Inc. says he’s going to bring to the TV screens the first “adult northwestern” with his “Sgt. Kling of the Preston and His Wonder Dog George,” animated series now in production.

August 23, 1962
Six segments of “Sgt. Kling and His Wonder Dog George,” an animated film series prepared for theatre distribution, are being readied for early release, according to Earl Klein, president of Animation Inc., producer of the series. First segment is completed, said Klein.
“This is the first major series of animated cartoon short subjects to be geared to the growing theatre audience,” Klein states. Howard McNear is the voice of Sgt. Kling.

Unfortunately, Wonder Dog George joined prospective TV cartoon shows such as Keemar, the Invisible Boy (Format Films) and Sir Loin and His Dragon (TV Spots/Creston Films) and a number of others in sitting on the shelf when the bottom fell out of the prime time cartoon business in 1962. Within five years, Klein was a supervising director for DePatie-Freleng.

I’d love to show you a clip or even some concept art with the show, but perhaps it has been lost to the ages. I heard about this cartoon only by randomly leafing through old editions of the Hollywood Reporter. Perhaps Mike Kazaleh or someone will have a little more information about this cartoon that never was.

Morphing Bandmaster

Krazy Kat slowly but surely becomes a shadow as he conducts his orchestra in The Bandmaster (1930).



Look! He’s now Paul Whiteman!



He turns again. Oooh! Now he’s Charlie Chaplin (as the little tramp).



Is everybody happy? It’s Ted Lewis.



Now, an extended gag. Lewis’ clarinet playing is so hot, the instrument has to fan itself, then uses the handle of the fan as a hose to drink water.



He turns again. I don’t know who this is supposed to be, if anyone.



Ben Harrison receives a story credit, with Manny Gould credited on animation. There are a few off-the-wall Fleischer-like gags here; unfortunately, Charlie Mintz’s cartoons weaned themselves away from that kind of thing.

A Slice(r) of Life

Time seems to go backward in Rough on Rats (1933), where a huge rat in a grocery store kidnaps a little black kitten and ties him to a meat slicer. The rat rubs its misshapen (this is a Van Beuren cartoon, after all) hands in poorly-animated glee while kitten moves its head from side to side in fright.



The rat smells cheese outside its hole and goes to investigate. But when we cut back to the kitten, notice how far back he is. Somehow, the slicing board has moved backward, not forward toward the blade. Fortunately, this odd time-warp allows a white kitten to jump and grab the rope to stop the slicer so it doesn’t have to go back in time again.



Harry Bailey gets the “by” credit; Bailey had been around animation for about 15 years at this point.

This cartoon is still enjoyable to watch, even though it’s kind of a low-rent Disney short in terms of story. Where else can you see a rat attacked by Best English Walnuts (with a sign poking out of the bag reading “Nuts to you”?). And, as usual, Gene Rodemich finds some great tunes. Devon Baxter points out the one in this scene is called “Zombie” composed by Harold Mooney. Listen to a very good version below.

What's My Beef

We wrote the other day about Jack Benny and laugh tracks, and quoted from an article.

Here is that article, from the Associated Press wire of February 28, 1960.

Frankly, the writer’s advice is silly. Just taking time off and ignoring a problem doesn’t solve it. I imagine if she proposed that at one of her newspaper guild meetings dealing with a union problem, she’d be hooted down with ridicule.

You’ll note Jack Benny continues to support his former protégé. Benny handed the unknown Paar his summer replacement slot one year on radio to help launch Paar’s career.

Their Gripes Many, Varied
Our Unhappy Funny Men
EDITOR'S NOTE: Most people have known for quite awhile that comics are often very unfunny—sometimes very unhappy—people in private life. But lately new strains have come into the lives of television's funny men. Here's what top comedians themselves say.
By CYNTHIA LOWRY
Associated Press Writer
NEW YORK—Something serious seems to be happening to the men whose job is to make the nation laugh. Off-camera, they aren't doing much smiling. A lot of them, in fact, are unhappy if not hopping mad.
For instance:
Jack Paar stormed off his late show recently. Bob Hope has complained bitterly about his bosses. Jack Benny burned loudly at his network's new rules about announcing the injection of canned laughter to sound tracks. Red Skelton and Danny Thomas are reported unhappy about the same thing. Steve Allen wants a lighter schedule next year.
What's the matter? Why the revolt of the comedians? Three top comedians—Allen, Benny and Jackie Gleason, who has been watching the fireworks as a sympathetic spectator—have some answers. The one thing they all agree on, however, is that the Jack Paar explosion in mid-February is not typical of the average comedian's beef.

"He's a very emotional fellow", is their analysis, "and he feels the pressure of doing a show four times a week."
"I used to have that show," says Allen, "and when I had it, it seemed like a lot of fun. That was my reaction to it, but I think I have an easy-going nervous system. The question, 'Is a nightly show hard?' is a bit like asking, 'How do you like married life?' or, 'How do you like being in the Army?' You can get a lot of different answers, all correct."
Allen does believe, however, that television is a "battlefield for comedians."
"It has increased enormously the pace and evolution of the comedian," he says. "Today he will run through in three or four years material which once could have kept him going at least 25 years. "And it is a medium, too, which lets the public fall violently in love with a performer. Then it cools off just as quickly, and it starts resenting the very ones it most adored."
Gleason, who is happily sitting out this turbulent television season with an occasional special, thinks the comedians with the regular shows are edgy because of the pressures.
"It's the tension of finding suitable material," he says. "With a weekly or even a biweekly show you're faced with finding good material or lowering your standards. And I think it is impossible to do a weekly show with quality."
Four shows a year, insists Gleason, are just about the limit for the star comedian who wants to feel satisfied with his works.
"It's the luxury of time," he amplifies. "It takes a month even to get an idea. It takes another month to write the show. Then there is the production of the show—and the three months are gone."
Jack Benny insists that "comedy is treacherous," and points out that in all other areas of show business the star is removed—in the audience's mind—from his material.
"But in comedy, nobody ever says that the show was rotten but the performer very good," he continues. "However, I think that most comedians work under great tension. I'm lucky because I enjoy working on a show, and rehearsals are fun."
Paar, he says, is a marvelous performer: "He can do everything beautifully. His delivery is great, he's a wonderful straight man, and he listens—how he listens! It must take a lot out of him. I couldn't do it for a million dollars."
Benny is resentful of his network s attitude on canned laughter.
"I was very angry for a day or so," he says, “But I got over it. But I still think telling the audience that you've inserted laughter in your show is a bad idea. Sometimes you have to when you must re-tape a portion of the show that didn't go right, or when the show is made in a corner of the studio where the audience can't see it."
But even so, says Jack, he's not mad enough about the rule to leave his network.
None of the three suggests that some of the widespread unhappiness stems directly from the TV quiz scandals. But the new rules on informing audiences about recording, taping and canned laughter are a result of the uproar.
And so is the networks current and passionate concern with good taste and the elimination of material that might cause more criticism to be heaped upon television's already bloody head.
As a matter of fact, it appears that today network executives are even more touchy than the sensitive talent which works for them.
It is very possible that, in their great apprehension, they have overlooked the necessity of dealing with their stars as tactfully or thoughtfully as in other, less parlous days.
Anyway, what everybody needs is a nice long TV vacation in which to rest up and heal up with reruns, repeat shows and summer replacements.

The Old Grey Fudd

I suppose the change from a 19th century agrarian society to one of growing cities and suburbs is the reason old folks sounded like hayseeds in popular culture in the ’30s and ‘40s. Jack Benny, for example, used the same old-folks voice for both rubes and seniors in sketches on his radio show.

The plot of The Old Grey Hare (1944) shoves Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny way into the future—the year 2000. Bugs doesn’t sound just old; he sounds like a yokel. Dry brush and perspective are used as Bugs swats away Elmer’s gun.



Director Bob Clampett employs few frames to get Bugs to push Elmer up a tree to choke him.



Here’s the extreme.



Mike Sasanoff’s story puts the two in the past, present and future; I don’t know if any other Warners cartoon did the same. I remember thinking when I first saw it how far away the year 2000 seemed.

Bob McKimson is the credited animator. Rod Scribner, of course, is here, too.

Cinemascope Scare

Former assistant animators Lew Marshall and Bill (Victor O.) Schipek have been promoted and add to some of the weird shapes in the Tom and Jerry cartoon Timid Tabby (1956), joining ex Lantz animator Ken Southworth, along with Ken Muse and Irv Spence (who would leave MGM later this year).

The premise is straight-forward. Tom’s hitherto-unknown cousin who is afraid of mice pays a visit. Among other things, he tries hiding from Jerry behind a window blind.



Jerry trying to be scary.



The cartoon’s basic premise was reused by Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera in the Pixie and Dixie cartoon Scaredycat Dog.

Laughing at Jack

There’s something cringe-worthy about 1960s sitcom laugh-tracks. They all sound the same (in many cases, they were). And they sound so phoney.

Having listened to Jack Benny radio show when it was still live, it’s jarring watching his filmed TV shows and hearing the identical tired laugh track heard on other episodes. There’s a world of difference.

Jack knew it, too, and wasn’t altogether happy with it. He talked about it on several occasions, once with the Associated Press after CBS ordered him in 1960 to insert a disclaimer that phoney laughs had been cut into the soundtrack (part of the network’s knee-jerk response to the dishonest quiz shows it had been airing). This United Press International column appeared in papers on May 17, 1968. By then, Jack no longer had a weekly show and had reduced his workload to occasional specials.

The Laugh Track
By DICK WEST
WASHINGTON (UPI)—Most people think of Jack Benny only as a comedian and concert violinist, not realizing he is also an ardent social reformer.
I didn't realize that either until Benny came here this week for a series of recitals at the Shoreham Hotel. During a press luncheon, he advocated a social reform that caused me to jump up and shake his hand.
Benny came out in favor of realism in laugh tracks, which surely ranks with honesty in advertising and truth in lending as among the most needed reforms. Laugh tracks, as if you didn't know, are pre-recorded titters, giggles and gaffaws that are spliced onto taped television shows.
Okay When Accurate

When done with verisimilitude—that is, if the laugh track matches what is happening on the show—there is no quarrel with the practice. But you have only to watch one of the so-called situation comedies to recognize that mismating is rife and that liberties are being taken to the detriment of the viewers.
Laugh track synchronizers are constantly dubbing in cackles alter jokes that clearly call for chuckles, or, as is often the case, dead silence. Their worst offense is inflation.
When a show is slipping in the ratings, the usual remedy is to juice up the laugh track. Lame little jokes that merit a snicker at best are bolstered with full scale boffos. This is outright deception, and creates confusion and irritation in the home audience.
I don't know of anything more disconcerting than to find myself barely sniggering when my TV set is rocking with merriment. Makes me think I'm a hopeless square.
Rates Wit
Benny, as I was saving, understands this. Long experience performing before live audiences has taught him to evaluate the mirth-provoking qualities of any given witticism.
He said that when he uses canned laughter on a television show he personally selects the hilarity category to prevent a knee-slapper from being represented as a side-splitter, and vice versa.
Once, Benny said, when he was taping a show with living laughter, he broke everybody up with a gag that he regarded as mere chuckle material. Fearing the overkill might alienate home viewers, he snipped out the authentic belly-laugh and dubbed in a more restrained response.
It was an open-and-shut case of laugh track heresy and may explain why Benny no longer has a regular program.

We Want Quackenbush

Buried on the page of The Animator newsletter for April, 1945 is this line about the doings at the Walter Lantz studio: “Stan Qwackenbush back from European theatre”.

The fact Quackenbush, to correctly spell his name, was at Lantz is news to me. He never received screen credit. In fact, he rarely received screen credit anywhere else. Quackenbush was one of many animators who toiled in the Golden Days in obscurity, at least to the general public.

Fortunately, after he retired to Arizona, a newspaper printed a feature story after interviewing him. It doesn’t say a lot, and it certainly doesn’t contain a full filmography or studiography, but it’s nice to read about someone who contributed to theatrical cartoons way-back-when.

Louis Stanley Quackenbush was born on November 14, 1902 in what’s now Bellingham, Washington. His family moved to San Diego when he was young and returned to Bellingham where Quackenbush went to high school. In college, he was an unusual combination of a boxer and an artist.

The feature story will get more into his biography, but he was married in 1928, divorced and married again in 1937. He headed to Florida in 1939 before returning to California not long after. The story skips whole swaths of his career but he worked in Vancouver, likely at Canawest which had a subcontract with Hanna-Barbera. Among the shows animated there were the Abbott and Costello cartoons that ran in syndication (including on Canawest’s parent operation, KVOS-TV in Bellingham) and Wait Till Your Father Gets Home. Canawest had offices on Burrard Street south of Davie Street, but former Canawest manager Vic Spooner remembers the animation was done in six rented houses along Pacific Boulevard, which I suspect are the lovely wood-frame homes that have been restored west of Burrard.
This story appeared in the Arizona Republic on August 21, 1977.

Former Disney animator still draws smiles from children
Story and photo
By MARY JANE ALEXANDER
When Stan Quackenbush of Mesa recently took neighborhood children to see the original movie version of "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," he had a special interest in seeing how well the animated characters have weathered the last 40 years. Quackenbush happened to be at the other end of the pencil when many of the seven dwarfs came to life on paper.
And today, at 74, Quackenbush is still drawing regularly, using much of his cartoon work to delight children in the Mesa Public Schools.
When he went to work for Walt Disney Studios, he was "at a loose end". He had been in the advertising business in San Francisco until the Depression closed all of his accounts overnight. He had returned to Berkeley, Calif., where he had graduated from the University of California in 1925, to plan his future.
Quackenbush and his wife Marjorie had decided if they had to sit around for a few years, it might as well be in Europe where the money they had saved would get a better exchange rate.
"I had wanted to study modern art anyway, so we went to Munich, Paris and Florence. I particularly liked the Louvre—you can go there every day for months and always see something new and beautiful," he says.
Because his money finally ran out and he and his wife had drifted apart, Quackenbush returned to his hometown of Bellingham, Wash., where his parents were still living. "I didn't want to go back to San Francisco and fight the battle of advertising again," he stresses.
A year later his brother in Oakland, Calif., sent him a newspaper clipping stating that Walt Disney was recruiting animators to work on a feature-length animated movie.
"They only had seven or eight animators, and for a full-length movie, my goodness, you need 30 animators or more. So a lot of people came to Hollywood to apply—about 20 of us, and they eliminated all but three of us.
"They took us on full-time, but before we could get to work on 'Snow White' the story people and those making the characters had to finish working. How are you going to animate a character that you can't see?

"So while we were waiting I worked on some shorts — I did a lot of Mickey (Mouse). Mickey was drawn by Walt in 1928 just after sound was added. I worked on the first one that combined sound and movement, called 'Steamboat Willie', and it was a fair success. Of course, in those days a short only got about $25 for every showing.
"By the time I went to work for Disney, we'd already started on what they called the 'Silly Symphonies.' They were all in color, and I worked on one of the first ones — 'Flowers and Trees'. It had flowers and trees swaying to the music," he recalls.
Quackenbush says Walt Disney knew "Snow White" had to be in color, leaving a big job for the inkers and painters. In those days inkers had to trace the animators' pencil sketches onto sheets of transparent celluloid called cels, then painters added colors on the reverse side.
The movie, over four years in production, was released in time for Christmas in 1936. While the number of individual drawings it required is countless, Quackenbush estimates that he did 5,000 sketches for just one three-minute sequence of the dwarfs bathing in a stream, because even the, drops of water falling had to be drawn separately.
"At a film speed of 24 frames per second, you could use one drawing for two frames if there wasn't much action, but with fast movement, each frame had to have a separate drawing," he explains.
"To draw an animal, I was given a model sheet showing the character I was going to animate in profile, back and front views. I copied it many times until I was completely familiar with the little guy and how he moved. After a while I got so I could see his proportions and was able to make him move the way he should," he recalls.
It was a bit of a letdown for Quackenbush when the "Snow White" project was finished. "I was used to animating 50 feet (of film) every two days, but after that I'd sit around for two days a week with nothing to do," he says.
He then joined the Fleischer brothers in Miami, Fla., to work on another full-length animated film—Gulliver's Travels. But World War II interrupted any further pursuits for him in animation. He joined the U.S. Navy in 1940 and stayed through the Korean War, becoming discharged finally in the summer of 1954.
Quackenbush then spent five years in Vancouver, B.C., Canada, working part of that time for Hanna-Barbera Productions, Inc. on shorts with Abbott and Costello and Moby Dick characters.
"Then on May 3, 1972, I looked out the window and it was snowing—and I said to myself, 'Oh no. I do not live like this.'
"My sister-in-law lives in Mesa and she had been telling me how great Arizona was, so I came here four years ago," he says.
Since his arrival here, Quackenbush has been active in volunteer work and in cartooning for a community newspaper. He has over 650 hours of volunteer work on record with the Tri-City Retired Senior Volunteer Program based at Mesa Community College.
His projects have included caricatures of children at Franklin Elementary School jn Mesa, posters for RSVP, Mesa Public Library, Scottsdale Blood Services, Mesa Veterans of Foreign Wars, and he has just started preparing a brochure for Phoenix public schools.

People in animation padded their resumes in the day before historians started digging around to find the facts. I sincerely doubt Quackenbush ever worked on Steamboat Willie. The 1930 census has him living in Carmel and employed as a commercial artist.

I am baffled by Quackenbush’s claim about snow. Vancouver rarely gets snow, and any snowfall in May would be a real quirk of nature. Furthermore, the local papers of the date in question show the weather was sunny with highs in the mid-50s and lows in the mid-40s. Incidentally, around that same time, I read a biography of W.C. Fields where it said he and some of his drinking buddies would go to football games and incongruously shout “We want Quackenbush.” Hence the title of this post.

Stan Quackenbush died in Mesa, Arizona on September 10, 1979.

Fish and a Pan

There’s nothing like joyful little fish, and that’s what we get at the start of Playful Pan, a 1930 Walt Disney cartoon.

The fish swim along happily in a lake, skate on the water with the bodies, slide down a log (the animation is reused) and attach themselves to a turtle’s tail before Pan jumps onto dry land and the fish leave the cartoon for good.



This isn’t an all-dancing, all-music cartoon. Disney’s moved beyond that. A fire burns down the forest as Uncle Walt fill the screen with characters, and Pan puts out all the flames, albeit after every single tree has burned down.