Nazis Destroy Outhouse

Outhouses in the distance showed up in a number of Tex Avery cartoons at MGM—The Screwy Truant, The Last Angry Bad Man, The House of Tomorrow. And there’s one in Blitz Wolf (1942).

This is the one where the Big Bad Wolf is Adolf Hitler. He signs a peace treaty with two of the Three Little Pigs. Well, everyone in 1942 how trustworthy Hitler was.

The wolf uses a machine to blow down the first pig’s house of sticks. You know the story. The first pig runs to the second pig’s house of sticks. “The wolf’s coming,” he yells and points. (Note the dry brush to quicken the animation)



The pigs run off before the bomb hits the house. Avery uses a yellow colour card to emphasize the light from the explosion.



MGM’s effects department is at work here.



The flames burn out, leaving just charred sticks. They collapse, revealing the outhouse. After enough time for you to notice the burned outhouse, it collapses as well.



Preston Blair, Ray Abrams, Ed Love and Irv Spence are the credited animators.

What Are Those Comedians Really Like

You’ve probably heard stories about comedians who are always “on.” It’s a trait seemingly limited to entertainers. I don’t hear of people who work in a car wash who obsessively wash everyone’s cars after they get home from work.

The New York World-Telegram was famous for its annual nation-wide poll of radio editors of the top programmes and people on the air. Who better, then, than the paper’s radio editor to ask what the radio comedians were really like. That’s the subject of his column on January 10, 1942.

The neat little drawings accompanied the article.

COOK’S TOUR of RADIO
By ALTON COOK
Someone asked the other day whether the offstage humor of the comedians ran in any proportion to their radio popularity. The answer is a strange paradox.
With a single exception, the wittiest among the comedians are the ones who have had indifferent success with their radio programs. The exception is Fred Allen.
Comedians in general, like most actors, are ready conversationalists and because of their background of dealing in jokes as staple merchandise they more than hold up their end of the talk in any gathering. But few of the real great ones spontaneously spout humor.



Among the comedians themselves Jack Benny probably has greater personal popularity than any of the others. The reason is easy. Jack is a great listener and an easy laugher. The only disadvantage about Jack’s company, his friends say, is that sometimes he falls asleep in the midst of a merry gathering he has assembled.
Edgar Bergen has occasional flashes of a sly, subdued wit. It he gets out in a party Charlie McCarthy is likely to appear on his knee and punctuate the conversation with boisterous sallies that the quiet-spoken Bergen never would undertake himself. Off-stage Charlie serves as a release to strip away the shyness that Bergen has to a much greater degree than most actors.
Fibber McGee and Molly are quiet, homey people. Their straightforward simplicity is likable and makes them pleasant companions, but no one ever comes away quoting cracks these two have made. Bob Hope sheds his jumping-jack jubilance as soon as he steps away from the microphone. He is soberly intent on his business, and much of his conversation runs to how he can maintain the great peak he has hit.
Bob Burns never loses his air of leisurely drollery, and it is equally effective off the air. He makes homely complaints about his expenses seem very funny at the moment, but if you try to repeat them later your usual climax is a dull thud of silence. The unwary raconteur realizes then that it was the artfulness of the telling more than the wit that drew so much laughter in the first place.



Eddie Cantor is another good story teller if you get him sitting in a quiet concer. Revealing an unsuspected skill at mimicry, he might tell stories about Will Rogers, W.C. Fields and other great ones he has known in his wanderings through all branches of show business. He knows the value of all his animated gestures and leaps around the place crazily, if the point calls for it. He is a funny man to have around because probably better than any of the others he understands the mechanics of funny business.
Stoopnagle is a strange combination of pixie and sobersides. He may go into a long and tediously details account of a movie he has just seen and the switch into a complete hysterical story about the conduct of some men he watched digging a hole near his house the other day.
Gracie Allen is a guiet little body, more interested in her home and children and new hats than in jokes. George Burns has a glib memory that has him ready with quip whenever conversation calls for it, but he doesn’t pose as any great creator, frequently punctuating his jokes with such remarks as, “There’s that old story” . . .
Milton Berle is likely to be the life of the party, spouting more or less familiar gags all over the place. Ed Wynn seems to be happiest when he can go into a sad mood about the troubles that beset a man who has become rich and famous.



They are good conversationalists, these comedians, but not great wits. After all, they don’t need to be—any more than Toscanini and Stokowski must go around whistling original music all the time. Like the conductors, these comedians are interpreters.
All of them have something to do with the writing of their programs, but, again, with the single exception of Fred Allen, the bulk of the work is done by a writing staff. Fred has writers, but he leans on them less and changes their pieces around more.
In comedy, as in concert music, the main rewards go to the interpreters, not to the composers and creators.

Bending An Elbow With Bullwinkle

It’s a comforting sight to tourists and local residents alike, standing firm at 8218 Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood.

It’s the Bullwinkle statute (with Rocky the Flying Squirrel atop his left palm).

The spinning statue returned to its home last year after restoration work that began in 2013. It was created by Bill Oberlin, who had designed sets for Bob Clampett’s A Time For Beany puppet show, had worked at Leon Schlesinger’s cartoon studio around 1940 and was named assistant producer on The Bullwinkle Show in 1961. Of course, the statue and the huge block party for its unveiling were part of Jay Ward’s outrageous publicity for the show.

The story of the statue and party are recounted in Keith Scott’s book The Moose That Roared (which we once again urge you to own). One of the invitees was Allen Rich, who related his experience in his “Listening Post and TV Review” column in the Hollywood Valley Times.

We’re going to bait and switch here. This story isn’t about the statue or its party. It’s about a second party Ward threw a few months later to which he invited Mr. Rich. This was his column of December 18, 1961.

A Strange Tale Of Sunset Strip
The voice on the telephone was enticing. It said, “We would like you to bend your elbow. The Bullwinkle Show and its producer Mr. Jay Ward will be your host at Frascatis.”
After due consideration (three seconds) I said, why that is just fine. I will be glad to bend my elbow at Frascatis and I only hope they have my favorite brand. “No, no. You do not understand. The brand is only incidental to the main attraction,” said the voice.
"So what is the main attraction?” I asked.
"You. We want you to bend your elbow, put it in the cement in front of the large and imposing stature of Bullwinkle on Sunset Boulevard. Then we will write your name and the date in the wet cement and it will remain ever enshrined for posterity. This is an honor we are according to a few of the columnists, and it is a very great honor, indeed. Why, for the rest of your life people will point you out, even little children, as a man who has his elbow prints on the Sunset Strip ... you know, like the movie stars have their footprints at Grauman’s Chinese," said the Bullwinkle representative.
"Did you read my review on Bullwinkle? I asked timidly.
"Why, yes. Yes, indeed. But Bullwinkle is bigger than the both of us. He never holds a grudge.”
Thus assured, I found myself at Frascatis on the night in question. Mr. Jay Ward in person greeted me warmly. (All had apparently been forgiven.)
Curiously I asked why they wanted columnists’ elbow prints?
"Well, finger prints might be more appropriate, said Jay snidely, "but on the other hand, elbow-bending is a sort of badge of your profession."
For this noteworthy occasion, Mr. Ward thoughtfully hired the bistro’s cozy banquet room. Soon the party was swingin', complete with good food, favorite brands of this or that beverage, and a couple of lady photographers, one of whom was a beautiful doll named Miss Linda Palmer.
Mr. Ward, as host, was also his own best customer for the brands of this and that. After about two hours he sidled over and said, "You the guy that wrote that review?”
I parried this cleverly [sic]. I said, “What review?” and hid behind Miss Palmer’s skirts.
But by now it was time for the ceremony, so our jolly party at considerable peril to life and limb made its way en masse across Sunset Blvd. to the statue of Bullwinkle . . . which towers some 25 feet into outer space and cost $6,000 to erect.
In the forecourt we came upon a very energetic jaz [sic] band performing lustily although by now, what with one thing and another, it was approaching the witching hour of midnight.
More favorite brands were dispensed, the two photographers were taking pictures of everybody in sight including each other, the musicians continued to blare away, and I was somewhat surprised that nobody any longer seemed to care whether I put my elbow in the cement or not.
Pretty soon the fuzz arrived in their shiny new police car and wanted to know what was going on? They said the musicians were making too much noise. It was just like a party at the Garden of Allah (the former site of which is now occupied by Bullwinkle’s statue) during the halcyon days of kookie movie characters.
Miss Palmer, the beautiful femme photographer, asked the officers to smile pretty and took their pictures. They got back in their car, but like true guardians of the law stayed parked right there to keep the peace.
Finally, someone remembered why we had all gathered at the Bullwinkle statue.
By this time the wind was blowing up a storm and the mercury had lowered ominously. It was COLD, let me tell you.
But I thought of all the little children who would be deprived of the chance to point me out on the street in years to come . . . and bravely took off my coat and went through with it.
Unfortunately, the two photographers had at this point taken so many pictures—of the musicians, I think—that they had no film left for me, a man whose elbow marks will forever be enshrined and share billing with Bullwinkle on the fabulous Sunset Strip.
Shivering somewhat more than slightly, new horrors awaited me.
"Wheresa fella wrote ‘at review?” asked Mr. Ward.
It was then that I jumped into my wife’s fashionable DeSoto convertible—and sped to safety as Bullwinkle leered happily after me from his lofty perch.

Incidentally, Mr. Rich’s conclusion about the NBC debut of Bullwinkle was “the buildup was much funnier than the show” which he called too swift and jerky. I guess we’ll never know what Ward thought of the review.

How to Animate a Very Rainy Day

A torrent of work awaited effects animators at MGM working on the Hugh Harman cartoon A Rainy Day (1940).

Papa Bear is coyly repairing his home’s roof. A storm approaches. There are five different shades of blue in each of the five drawings below. The last one also contains lightning. Harman also inserted white and black cards to add to the fierceness of the storm.



You can see the torrent of rain develop.



Cut to a closer shot.



Cut to Papa Bear on the roof. Note the variations in colour; the third frame is another lightning frame.



I don’t envy the effects animator who had to animate all this water.



Harman loved lavish, expensive animation. The opening title isn’t just a card. It’s a rain barrel with water pouring into it from a drain pipe, leaving a wake as it lands, with a wave effect over top of the letters in the title.

No animators are credited. In fact, Harman’s name is the only one in the cartoon.

How To Quiet A Mouse in Technicolor

A colour swirl indicates speed in The Unbearable Bear, a 1943 cartoon from the Chuck Jones unit at Warners, starring the blabbermouth version of Sniffles the mouse.

(Any version of Sniffles is obnoxious, but let us not get sidetracked).

At one point of the plot, a burglar fox convinces Sniffles he’s Robin Hood, and he’s robbing the safe in his home (where two bears live) to give to the poor. Sniffles stops his patter long enough to twist the dial of another “safe” to get more money. Except the safe is a radio (which plays “Frat,” a Carl Stalling favourite that no radio in 1943 would be playing).

The fox is worried the radio will wake Mrs. Bear so he turns into a swirl to stop the sound—from both the radio and Sniffles.



Bobe Cannon is the credited animator. Rudy Larriva, Ken Harris and Ben Washam were in the unit as well. Mike Maltese wrote the story.

A Fish Story

The name Suspense conjures up images of radio of the 1940s. But there’s one Suspense broadcast of September 1949 that conjures up images of 1970s sitcom television.

On the TV version of the programme was the play “Lunch Box.” And one of the starring actors was a 28-year-old named Abe Vigoda.

It’s hard to think of Vigoda as 28. He reached real fame in his mid-50s, although he seemed older than that. Vigoda spent a good deal of his time on the stage on both coasts until he was named for Barney Miller, which became an ABC winter replacement series in 1975. By the start of the second, they were already talking about giving him his own show.

Here are a couple of pieces about Vigoda’s fame from the King Features Syndicate. The first appeared in papers around October 22, 1975.

Abe Vigoda's 'Fish' Is Caught in Spinoff on TV
By CHARLES WITBECK
TV Key, Inc.
HOLLYWOOD – (KFS) – One of the good things about "Barney Miller," ABC's Thursday night police comedy, is Detective Fish (played by Abe Vigoda).
Fish the worrier, the pessimist, the veteran detective among the young bucks in New York's Precinct 12, whose old bones ache for retirement, has struck a chord with fans.
Ever since the police comedy starring Hal Linden opened last winter, Fish caught the eye of critics and viewers who were charmed by Abe Vigoda's gentle, but tired old cop. Fish seems real to cops, kids and worn-out husbands. Currently his picture hangs in the Beverly Hills police department because local detectives say they can relate to the TV character, a first in their memory.
"I am being recognized frequently in my middle age," says Abe Vigoda. That's the status for a New York actor who has played straight man for Jimmy Durante and Ed Wynn, performed Shakespeare for Joe Papp, and portrayed Abe Lincoln for Carl Reiner over a 25-year period.
Now gentle Abe is about to vault into rarefied territory. His character Fish will have a show of his own. First comes the spinoff on "Barney Miller" this fall. Then, if all goes well, "Fish" will be on the air in January. Unlike other stars in spinoffs such as "Rhoda," "Phyllis," "Good Times," etc. Abe Vigoda will continue to portray Fish on "Barney Miller," and in the new series. Fans won't be gypped by Fish's leaving town to tape or film his own series. It's also possible "Fish" might follow "Miller" on the air, but that's a matter of conjecture at this stage.
The emergence of the New York character into a TV personality at age 54 is a pleasurable thing to watch, particularly because the soft-spoken Vigoda never expected a thing like this to happen.
True, Abe's career took a sudden leap when he landed the role of Mafia chief Tessio in "The Godfather" movie, his first Mafia role by the way. Though he was raised in New York's Little Italy, Abe felt ill at ease walking the streets following "The Godfather" run. "I actually feared for my life," he recounted recently. "People gave me the oddest looks. They thought I was a gangster."
"The Godfather" made Hollywood casting offices aware of Vigoda. But most only considered Abe to be another gangster actor. Eddie Foy III, however, learned that Abe had played comedy for Carl Reiner and asked him to come out to play a shyster in "The Sandy Duncan" series. Watching Vigoda steal comedy scenes as an accident victim in a neck brace, Foy realized Abe was just the man to play Fish in the "Barney Miller" pilot.
In Hollywood casting offices, the thinking is neat and categorized: comics play comedy, dramatic actors stick to the straight stuff, and nobody crosses over. It's ridiculous but people seemed amazed that Abe's Tessio could delight fans playing an old, worried cop. For a man who has performed Shakespeare and Strindberg, this is child's play.
But, oh, the attention is nice and so is the money.' "Fellini wants to see me," says Abe.
"And Fish has changed my position in New York. I can go back during hiatus and be a star on Broadway, and I can help people get work now. I never dreamed I could ever do that."

Fish was grumpy and so was Abe Vigoda. He wanted his spin-off; he didn’t really want Barney Miller any more. So Fish debuted and Vigoda hung around on Miller toward the end of 1977 and walked away.

Fish lasted two seasons on ABC. Vigoda explained his hopes for the show in this story published February 3, 1977.

Abe 'Fish' Vigoda Nets a New Series, Airing Saturdays
By CHARLES WITBECK
TV Key, Inc.
HOLLYWOOD (KFS) – "Barney Miller's" glum old-timer, detective Fish, is finally retiring — into a show of his own, simply titled "Fish," airing now for ABC on Saturday nights.
Saddled with aching feet and the creeping despairs of longevity, Fish has been yammering about retiring ever since "Barney Miller" went on the air two years ago. Abe Vigoda's sour yet gentle detective finally makes his move because Miller fans — cops, kids, grownups — dig the old geezer, realizing his is a bona-fide character, not the usual phony Hollywood concoction.
Fish became so popular last year that series producer Danny Arnold whipped up a husband-and-wife pilot for Abe. Character actor Vigoda went through with the project, but knew at first glance the setup was all wrong — playing an Archie Bunker hardly fit his low-keyed, understated style.
Producer Arnold, who personally directs Vigoda in "Miller," has rectified his error with a second format in which the retired detective and wife Bernice (Florence Stanley)] supplement pension checks by becoming house-parents for juvenile delinquents.
At present, the State of New York provides a house, a resident psychologist and funds for the care of delinquents. In the new comedy, Fish and wife qualify as house-parents and move out of their apartment with their furniture into a battered town house to supervise a batch of young troublemakers. Anything to escape being a night-watchman sounded good to Fish, who dreaded the prospect of becoming a mere watchdog pounding a beat to get by.
Though the detective is an innocent about his new occupation (it may be mentioned that Fish has two grownup daughters, so the man qualifies for the job), the wise old detective firmly believes that "deep down children are not born bad." A good home life, stability and care are the keys in his mind.
"Fish works best in ridiculous situations," says Abe Vigoda. "This is a comedy. Out of reality comes humor. Fish won't change one whit as he attempts to cope with the kids. He will go to the bathroom in the middle of the night to find a boy in his favorite spot. He will be harassed and provoked. Asked to kill a rat in the house, he will demur, saying the light is too poor for a shot."
Appearing in 16 out of 22 "Barney Miller" shows this season, Abe Vigoda began taping the new series in mid-January, and will return to the 12th Precinct for the closing Miller show to air in March. If the new project is a success, Fish will be retiring for good on "Barney Miller."
Born and raised in New York, Abe Vigoda claims he knows all about street life and kids growing up in the big city. On his own, Abe went back to New York recently, took a subway up to Harlem to query the current crop of teen-agers hanging around on street corners.
The kids recognized Abe from the show, wanted to see his gun, and wanted to get an acting job. They were smoking, and weren't about to stop just because Abe Vigoda said it was bad for them. But they also answered questions. Most of them came from broken homes, few had eaten lunch, or had a dollar in their pocket. "They seem to lie a lot, yet they were basically good kids," said Abe. "Now our cast of kids come from New York. They know the sounds and the rules of street life. They're real."
As for Fish, well he won't change for Saturday night. Abe describes his detective as "a hypochondriac, always complaining, but when faced with a situation he takes over. He's a pessimist because of too many disappointments, too many hopes never realized. 'Who wants to bother?' is his dictum. Yet he's always in the thick of things."
The detective turns out to be a composite of several people in Abe Vigoda's life. Fish's humor comes from Abe's mother. A police officer Vigoda played handball with in Brooklyn continually complained about his feet, so that went into the role.
Judging from the enthusiastic response by the visiting press to a 10-minute presentation clip on the show, "Fish" may be a midwinter hit. Better tune in and watch gentle Abe, a one-footed tap dancer, become a TV star at 61.

After Fish got cancelled, it was expected Vigoda would return to Barney Miller. Money took care of that. The show’s producers wouldn’t give him enough of it, so Detective Fish stayed retired.

Vigoda spent the rest of his life being undead. “People” magazine wrote a story in 1982 about “the late Abe Vigoda” and it became a joke for years that Vigoda was still alive. He kept death-watchers in Suspense for a while. He died in 2016.

The Wolf Has a Blast

Blowing the pigs’ brick house down doesn’t work, as we all know from fairy tales, but when pups instead of pigs are involved, other methods need to be tried.

The big bad Southern wolf tries dynamite.



The wolf runs around the back of the brick house and waits for the explosion. The Droopy pup pops a paper bag.



The wolf goes back to see the result of the explosion he just heard.



The wolf observes to the audience watching him: “I’m goin’ to tell you somethin’ right now, man. That there’s a pretty smart li’l ol’ dog in there.” Note how he points with his head toward the window indicating the pup inside.



Director Tex Avery and writer Heck Allen didn’t end the scene with a gag used elsewhere (think Garden Gopher. They didn’t have the remnants of the bag blow up. The scene just fades after a couple of eye blinks accompanied by Scott Bradley’s solo piano.

Walt Clinton, Mike Lah, Grant Simmons, Ray Patterson and Bob Bentley are the credited animators on The Three Little Pups (1953). Vera Ohman is responsible for the stylised backgrounds.

Stairway to the Skeleton

They sure loved those circular stone stairways in Van Beuren cartoons. The Little King had one. Cubby Bear and Tom and Jerry cartoons had them. And Don and Waffles escape on one inside a pyramid in Gypped in Egypt (1930).



It looks like the stairs are animated turning while Don and Waffles are animated in a cycle, appearing to climb them. This particular staircase has an end. When Don and Waffles reach the top, the staircase slides into itself and disappears.



Skeletons figure prominently in this cartoon, and there’s a skeleton elevator operator, wearing a little cap. Unlike your usual skeleton, he has whites in his eyes.



He slides the gate closed and up an obelisk they go. Animation of the elevator fades in. The skeleton is smoking a cigarette.



Van Beuren cartoons aren’t finely crafted, and they’re not really funny, but the best of them have random weirdness that makes them likable. This cartoon has a camel that gets murdered, an attempt at piano playing with fingering that’s pretty legitimate, a sphinx that zoom up to our heroes, and something with twirling eyes that chases them at the end. I’ll take this over fuzzy-wuzzy squirrels and happy chirping birds at Disney any day.