Baseball, Benny and Broadcasting

Baseball was still America’s pastime in the 1950s. It began in the days when even big cities had vacant lots on which boys could play the game. It was played all over America; even teeny towns could have a professional team, if not semi-pro or amateur ball. The big leagues were centred in the East, where newspapers in New York City and its boroughs wrote of the game’s stars, some of whom hob-nobbed with Broadway’s hoi polloi (and appeared on the vaudeville stage in the off-season).

Meanwhile, stars of the entertainment world took more than a passing interest in the game. Bing Crosby and Bob Hope had an interest in major league clubs. Hollywood stars became minority owners of the Hollywood Stars of the Pacific Coast League. Jack’s radio show featured at least one episode centring around a PCL game in Los Angeles. And twice he had as his guest that noted umpire-baiter, manager Leo Durocher (though the way Jack pronounced his name, you’d swear it was Derosha).

Durocher was glitzy, show-biz guy by nature. He appeared on other radio comedy shows as himself. Television, too (including the George Burns-owned Mr. Ed). He showed up on a Benny TV broadcast in 1954, and one Associated Press columnist thought it was worthy of a column on “the changing Benny.”

It was no change at all, really, as you’ve read above. Durocher had been on the air with Benny before. And the idea of a “Benny life story” episode had been done twice with Danny Kaye on radio. The “Tom Jones” show mentioned below was an episode of “General Electric Theatre” co-written by Benny’s occasional writers Hugh Wedlock, Jr. and Howard Snyder and included secondary players Joe Kearns and Benny Rubin in the cast.

This story appeared in papers on November 19, 1954.

Jack Benny Forgets His Maxwell, Violin In Change Of Pace
By WAYNE OLIVER
NEW YORK (AP)—“How'd you like that Leo Durocher? Wasn't he great?”
That was Jack Benny as he flew into New York from Hollywood, still enthusing over the appearance on his show of the New York Giants manager in a baseball skit. In it, Durocher repeated some of his now famous performances from the playing field, where his acting reputation already is firmly established.
Benny's opinion is that the acting ability of the Durocher family is by no means confined to Leo's pretty wife, Laraine Day.
Turning serious, Benny declared “I think Leo would make a fine actor. I think if he wanted to quit baseball and start playing character parts, he'd do very well. “And that Beans Reardon is another good one who would make a good actor,” said Benny of the retired National League umpire who also took pan in the Sunday night show.
The show was in keeping with Benny's increasing change of pace in which he relies less on old trademarks—such as his Maxwell, his stinginess and his famous violin. He will change pace again on his next telecast Nov. 28 “in which I'll do my own life story.”
The comedy will develop from his attempts to cast actors in the roles of people he has been closely associated with in his long career.
Benny came here for an appearance in a Sunday night half-hour guest shot on CBS-TV's Sunday Night Theater. He will play “Tom Jones,” a waiter whose face is so ordinary no one is able to remember him.
Jack, who has the energy you’d expect if he were really 39, has continued his weekly radio program and stepped up his telecasts to every second week this season. But somewhat to his own surprise, “it's not tough at all.” He resorts to film only on occasion and all except four of his 16 shows this season will be live.
He says he finds a lot of people still follow his radio show “and I think it has a bigger audience than the ratings show—19 out of 20 people who tell me about hearing it say they heard it in their cars, and the ratings don't cover automobile sets.”

Angry Mickey

Don’t tell the Disney people there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Either now or in 1932.

You wouldn’t think a column in a local newspaper would be worth getting upset about, but it did when it didn’t fit The Gospel According to Walt. And the gospel, in 1932, was that Mickey Mouse was a huge success, beloved by the world.

So it was one of Walt’s Minions took on the writer of a column in the Pittsburgh Press of July 18, 1932. All the writer did was quote another publication. But Walt’s Minion got what he wanted. The writer backed down and instead lauded how great Mickey was. At least he tried to make some humour about the brow-beating.

Mickey Mouse, His Vanity Wounded, Declares War on This Column and Writes Reproving Letter
By KASPAR MONAHAN
MICKEY MOUSE is mad at this column. He rushed into his palatial Hollywood office the other day, whiskers quivering in rage, and plunked down a copy of the June 20 Show Shops.
He was as mad as the M-G-M lion with a sore tooth and did his best to roar in the manner of that benign beast. He bellowed (if a throaty squeak can be called a bellow) and waved the Show Shops column.
“Who’s this guy in Pittsburgh, anyway?” he demanded. “What does he mean attacking a great artist like me by intimating that I'm not the greatest box-office attraction that ever was?”
Several dozen “yes” men turned pale and asked tremblingly of Walt Disney’s creation, “Why, what is it, Mr. Mouse—who's insulted you and how?” “How,” shrieked Mickey. "Why look at this, you dopes. Read it and then pack my bags. I'm going to take the next train to Pittsburgh and when I get there I'm going to do something awful to that Show Shops guy. I’ll swipe his cheese, or something, I will. Gr’r’r!”
The Show Shops column in question gave the results of the nationwide questionnaire sent out to 12,000 exhibitors by Motion Picture Herald in regard to the box-office appeal of the various film stars. Wallie Beery and Marie Dressler led the male and female fields, respectively, with 67 per cent and 91 per cent. But Mickey trailed far behind, and the column said so.
This Raised Mickey's Ire
THE cause of Mickey's great rage was this little innocent paragraph: “Mickey Mouse made a poor showing in the poll, despite all the reported popular interest in his weird adventures. He received but 1.6 per cent—the same rating as Loretta Young, Dorothy Mackaill and Bill Boyd.”
Mickey placed a quivering little paw on that paragraph, swore roundly, then paced back and forth with his hands behind him, fuming and fretting:
“The idea, placing me in the same class with Bill Boyd and giving me a lower rating than those two low comics, Wheeler and Woolsey, when everybody knows my comedy is refined and subtle.
“Gimme pen and ink, Ham, I'm going to burn that feller up in Pittsburgh. I'll tell him a few things. Insulting a great artiste like me, the fathead. Gimme that pen and paper and I'll burn his hide off. Huh!”
But Ham, who is Harry Hammond Beall, Mickey's chief press agent, talked soothingly and wisely.
“Tut, tut, Mickey,” he remonstrated. “Where's your sense of humor? Trying to insult one of these drama editor guys—haw! That's funny and it can't be done. Now you let me write the letter to him.”
“All right,” said Mickey, “but make it strong. Remind him that I once beat the socks off Emil Jannings in a popularity contest in Vienna. And call that Pittsburgher a couple of so-and-so's and a such-and-such. Make it hot.”
“All right, all right. I'll burn him up. Now run along, Mickey, and go to that cheese luncheon with Minnie Mouse.”



Once Beat Emil Jannings
SO HERE is Mickey’s reproving letter as written by the courteous Ham Beall, somewhat contrary to the rip-roaring rodent's instructions: “Although I think you'll agree with me that short subjects are quite vital to the motion picture industry and are saving many a program throughout the nation, they are not getting the recognition they deserve.
“The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences does not offer any medals for short subjects now, but when such an offer was made, cartoons were excluded.
“In the case in point, the Herald contest, Mickey Mouse was not even submitted as a candidate, and the fact that he was ‘written in’ to the extent of 1.6 per cent scarcely indicates that popular interest in him is waning to any great extent.
“I feel that Mickey has made a great showing considering the fact that his name was not on the ballot.
“Mickey won the popularity contest over Emil Jannings conducted in Vienna and on numerous other occasions has topped the list in polls of the motion picture favorites.
“The Walt Disney organization would be delighted if the individuals conducting such contests in the future would include a division of short subjects or sound cartoons, or both, enter Mickey Mouse as a candidate and leave the decision to the public. At the same time it would give a vital part of every motion picture program the deserved recognition.”
A fair letter—and the column herewith apologizes for its unintentional slight to a great little guy whose followers indubitably number as many as those of the Great Greta. I'm for him as a candidate in a short subject contest or even for President.
Censors Are After Mickey
THE LETTER clears up the mystery why he made such a doleful showing in the poll. If the youngsters from 6 to 100 the world over had been allowed to vote, the result might have been a sweeping victory for Mickey.
One of the greatest tributes paid to the impish little fellow came from the two wee sons of Charlie Chaplin—Charlie, Jr., and Sydney Chaplin—when they arrived in New York from Europe en route to Hollywood to act in the films.
Both youngsters declared their favorite movie actor was Mickey Mouse, with his consort, Minnie Mouse, second choice, and their renowned daddy, third.
Further proof of the growing popularity of Mickey is shown in the increasing attention paid him by the high and mighty censors in all countries.
In Ohio, for instance, the censors believed Mickey guilty of moral turpitude or something when he permitted one of his droll herd of cows to read Elynor Glyn's “Three Weeks.”
England's censors were shocked profoundly when a fish with a naughty twinkle in its eye slapped a mermaid on the thigh in one of Mickey's films so the cartoon was banned.
Germany was no less outraged when General Mickey led an army of cats, wearing helmets. German censors also declared that Mickey was suffering with “paranoiacal dementia” in one of his films and barred it from German screens. Sweden would have none of another Mouse comedy because Mickey was “mentally unwholesome.”
Up in Canada the censors ordered that Mickey's herd of cows should have smaller udders.
All this censorship persecution, while annoying to Mickey, is really the finest compliment that could be paid. Censors are not interested in just “nobodies.”

Duck Tales, Er, Tail

A sight-gag pun in Real Gone Woody (1954), the cartoon where Woody Woodpecker and Buzz Buzzard are stereotypical ‘50s high schoolers. Woody combs his hair into a duck tail.



Gil Turner, La Verne Harding and Bob Bentley are the credited animators. Ray Jacobs and Art Landy provide some great settings and Clarence Wheeler was inspired to write both Guy Lombardo and Johnny Ray musical parodies. This may be my favourite cartoon directed by Paul J. Smith.

Duck Dodgers Proclamation

“Because there’s no one who knows his way around outer space like....”



Now, Daffy Duck makes his proclamation: “DUCK DODGERS.....IN THE 24TH-AND-A-HALF CENTURY!” Here are the drawings that get him there.



Duck Dodgers is not immune to gravitational pull.



I like how the scientist finishes the scene by looking over and then being shaken by the impact of the fall.



Naturally, this was written by the great Mike Maltese. Chuck Jones’ animators are Lloyd Vaughan, Ken Harris and Ben Washam.

Mary Wickes

The St. Louis Post-Dispatch reported on a local actress who made good in its edition of October 21, 1934.

A NEW Marc Connelly play, "The Farmer Takes a Wife,” is set for a Broadway opening Wednesday night. Acting as understudy to Margaret Hamilton in the lead role is Mary Wickes, who is better known to St. Louisans by her real name of Mary Wickenhauser.
Miss Wickes, regularly in a minor part, had the lead role for several performances in Philadelphia last week, where the play has already opened, when Miss Hamilton became ill. Miss Wickes, graduate of Washington University, is a former comedienne of the St. Louis Little Theater and received further training at the Berkshire Playhouse, Stockbridge, Ma. Her first professional appearance was well-received by Philadelphia critics, according to a letter to Cowles Strickland, director of Little Theater.

Wickes never became a star, but she was a fine character actress, working opposite such diverse talents as Abbott and Costello, Monty Woolley, Shemp Howard and Acquanetta. She did have a starring role on television—she played Mary Poppins well before Julie Andrews. It seems to me she had a wise-crack about that once. Wickes wasn’t far from a withering comment when the mood struck her.

She had a long career. The same newspaper chatted with her in its issue of June 20, 1991, later syndicated.

Actress Mary Wickes: Her Phone Still Rings
By Harper Barnes
Post-Dispatch Movie Critic
"OH, SO YOU'RE a movie critic," said Mary Wickes. She looked intently across the table, her eyes bright and piercing as crystal daggers.
"Did ya see 'Postcards from the Edge'?" she asked.
"Yes," was the answer.
"Did ya like it?"
"Sure."
"I'm in it, you know," she said, a smile flitting across her lips. Her eyes were twinkling, but she continued to look appraisingly across the table.
"You were great," was the response. "You should have been nominated for an Academy Award."
She raised her eyebrows, grinned and lightly slapped the table with her right hand. "That," she said, "is true.' She laughed heartily and rolled her eyes, simultaneously suggesting three things: (1) she knew very well when someone was trying to flatter her; (2) she understood that the whole Hollywood ego game was pretty much of a joke; (3) she was still very proud of her work in the movie.
In "Postcards from the Edge," the 1990 film version of Carrie Fisher's semi-autobiographical novel about growing up in Hollywood, Wickes plays the eccentric grandmother and holds her own with frequent Oscar nominees Shirley MacLaine and Meryl Streep. The movie just came out on videotape, giving us yet another chance to watch Mary Wickes do what she does best—bring an abundance of character to character acting.
Wickes has also been seen recently in the TV series "Father Dowling Mysteries," in which she plays the quippy housekeeper and cook to a priest played by Tom Bosley.
A St. Louis native (she grew up as Mary Wickenhauser) and 1934 graduate of Washington University, Wickes had flown here from her Los Angeles home to speak to Forest Park Forever, a nonprofit group that works to improve the park. Two days before she came, she received a phone call informing her that the "Father Dowling" series had been canceled after three seasons.
"It was quite a surprise," she said. "We thought the show was doing well, and people are always coming up and saying how much they enjoy it. People are always asking me for a piece of my apple pie. We've always had good ratings. I don't know, there's new management at the network, and I hear they're clearing the decks for a bunch of half-hour sitcoms next year."
"You know," she said, "I'm not sure these bankers who run the networks these days know what they're doing." She shrugged. "Maybe the show can be saved. Write letters. Sometimes that works. Send your letters to ABC."

By all means, send those letters. But you shouldn't worry that septagenarian Mary Wickes will be out of work if the series is not renewed. Wickes has been successful in show business since the mid-1930s—her first notable role was the nurse in the Broadway hit "The Man Who Came to Dinner," a part she repeated in the movie version. Her other early movies include "Now, Voyager," the 1942 Bette Davis romantic classic. In all, she has appeared in about 40 movies, and the phone still rings.
"I'm very choosy," she said. "I won't do anything that's in bad taste. One thing that's nice. I get a script from time to time that describes a part as 'a Mary Wickes part.'"
Wickes was staying at the Ritz-Carlton in Clayton for a few days, visiting friends and taking care of some family business. Over the years, she has been a frequent and enthusiastic visitor to her old hometown, and it was typical that she would come on behalf of a group that is trying to preserve Forest Park. She grew up a few blocks from the park and still speaks fondly of childhood visits to the St Louis Art Museum, the St Louis Zoo and the Muny.
As an adult, she has appeared in a couple of dozen Muny productions, and she was very enthusiastic about Paul Blake, who took over last year as production director. "He's sharp as a tack," she said, "and he really gets you excited."
Wickes is an authority on the history of the Muny, having done considerable research on it about 20 years ago, when she went to graduate school at the University of California at Los Angeles.
"You see," she said, "Washington University gave me an honorary doctorate of arts In 1969, so I decided I would go ahead and show I could actually do the work for a graduate degree."
She shook her head. "But I'm a very busy actress. I was just getting into it when I went to London to work with Orson Welles, and that sort of thing kept happening. I still haven't written that master's thesis on the Muny. I guess I'm an actress, not a writer, although I would like to finish the thesis just to show I could do it."
When asked why she thinks the calls keep coming, Wickes said, "Well, I get along with people. I don't grouse or complain. I have no patience with actors who sign a contract and then complain about the work they agreed to do."
She laughed deep in her throat, the kind of laugh that can cheer up a table, or a theater full of people, and looked her visitor in the eye once again. "I always remember what Spencer Tracy said about acting. 'Say your lines, don't bump into the furniture and remember that Shirley Temple did it at 4.'"
She laughed again, more softly this time, and gazed across the hotel lobby.
"You know, I've been in plays with kids who'll say, 'How do you feel it every night?' And I say, 'Sweetheart, you can't feel it every night. If you did, you'd be a limp rag. The idea is to make the audience feel it'. "

Wickes died four years after this interview. She was 85.

Dam Moose

Sticks for a dam just disappear between frames to reveal a hiding moose in Busy Beavers, a rather lacklustre “Silly Symphony” from 1931. These are consecutive frames.


The moose gets up. It has tubes for legs.



The point of this cartoon seems to be how many characters it can populate the screen with, all doing the same mirrored movements. The gags are pretty weak.

Burt Gillett apparently directed this short.

That Sinking Feeling

In a gutsy bit of pacing, Tex Avery pans up the barrel of a rocket launcher for 23 seconds, stopping at this drawing unexpectedly stating the obvious.



The pan continues, quicker this time, and for only a few seconds. The gun fires.



Some prints of Blitz Wolf cut suddenly to a scene with the Hitler wolf. That's because a gag has been edited out. The cartoon actually cuts to a shot of Tokyo and perspective animation of a shell sinking it and then the red sun (there was similar arcing perspective animation of a tomato smushing into wolf earlier in the short).



A sign drops into the ocean, referring to Admiral James Doolittle, as “Yankee Doodle” plays in the background. By the time this cartoon had been released in August 1942, Doolittle had commanded air raids on Japanese cities in retaliation for the Pearl Harbor attack.



After the war, this gag would have been a little tacky, so it was snipped from prints. Hitler, however, remains a target of derision for the ages, so cartoons featuring him are just fine.

Oh, “dood it” was a catchphrase of the Mean Widdle Kid character on the Red Skelton radio show. It seems to have gotten a workout at most cartoon studios at the time.

Irv Spence, Ed Love, Preston Blair and Ray Abrams are the credited animators. Tokyo is by an uncredited Johnny Johnsen.

They Loved Me There

Among the almost countless running gags on the Jack Benny radio show was the response “Saint Joe! They loved me there!” when the city of St. Joseph, Missouri was mentioned.

It was only natural, then, that Jack and his cast would head to the city for one of many road stops during the war years. Originally, the broadcast of March 7, 1943 was supposed to originate from St. Joseph but Jack came down with a serious case of pneumonia that knocked him off the air for five weeks. He didn’t reschedule it until February 18, 1945.

It turns out they really did love Jack there, judging by the editorial page of the St. Joseph Gazette of February 21st. Robert Gordon devoted his “Top O’ the Morning” column to the goings-on at the hotel where the cast was staying, and fans decided to stake out.

SCENES shot by a hotel lobby kibitzer: Jack Benny's claim that “This is greatest reception I have received anywhere,” may well be true. For, in addition to the many official functions honoring the troupe, autograph seekers and the curious kept the lobby of the Robidoux Hotel as tightly packed as a pile driver lunch box, and the revolving door leading Into the lobby spun like a roulette wheel most of the time that Benny and his company were here.
Youngsters, and some not so young, crowded around the elevator doors and watched wide-eyed as though they were at a three ring circus. A groan of appointment went up whenever the elevator came down empty of without any celebrities. The elevator girls were in their glory, with the crowd hanging on their every word. Occasionally a rumor would spread that radio stars were coming in or had gone out another way and were now in front of the hotel. The call of "Fire!" couldn't have caused a more dynamic exodus. You won't believe this, but on several occasion the wind from the swinging door swept several people, in the middle of the lobby, off their feet.
One little girl, displaying the autographs of Alice Fay, Jane Wyman and Mary Livingstone, was the hero of her set Saturday afternoon. She explained her success this way: “When I knocked on the door, the maid told me to get along. But I told her I was alone, and she got the autographs for me.”
The high spot of the unofficial performance of the cast came Friday noon when Lewis Shady, Gazette and News-Press photographer, deployed Rochester and Benny all around the old 1922 Maxwell, commandeered for the parade which was called off, barking command like a drill officer and snapping shots from all angles. Jack and Roch (as Benny called him) obeyed promptly and to the letter Shady's every whim—Jack, worrying as he did about Roch catching cold.
Another high point of interest was reached when Rochester and Larry Stevens, the singer, garbed for fishing, burst into the lobby with a long string of fish and proudly posed with their catch.
Side glances at the stars: Patient fans, who stuck in the lobby tenaciously, will have many things to remember about this visit of the Benny troupe.
They will remember Jane Wyman, for example, who was rushing into the Chamber of Commerce luncheon Friday noon, but turned around and smiled graciously when an impatient fan called, “Turn around, Jane, so we can see you.” They will remember Benny and Rochester patiently signing autographs. Jack, in a trench coat and wide-brimmed brown hat, looked serious, almost pensive, but signing autographs willingly and rapidly. Rochester, wearing a lopsided, infectious grin, will be remembered for his bantering of the autograph seekers. Signing autographs after being photographed with his string of fish, he got one little girl's autograph pad dirty. “See,” he said, “fish scale. You'll grow up to be a musician.”
They will remember kinky-haired Phil Harris, band leader, with a half-smile on his lips and a cigaret clinched between them, signing autographs with the rapidity of an assembly line. No one can be sure whose name he signed, however, because the speed with which he signed caused his writing to look like turkey tracks,
Or perhaps they will remember Larry Stevens, backed off into a corner, signing autographs, and patiently listening to a local youth telling him how lucky he is and how everyone envies him. Larry, readily agreeing he was lucky, said: “I can hardly believe it myself. One day I was singing at my work in a filling station. Mary Livingstone drove in, and next thing I knew I was auditioning with the Jack Benny show.”
As often happen, the fans pulled several boners while seeking out celebrities. Jovial, gigantic Don Wilson, announcer on the Benny radio show, went about his business of cashing a check in the lobby Saturday afternoon and had gone into the coffee shop to eat lunch before he was recognized and mobbed. Yet George W. Heller, superintendent of the district Prudential office here, was stopped for his autograph while casually passing through the lobby. When he demurred, he was asked. “Aren't you a member of Phil Harris’ band?” He explained that he had never gotten any nearer to Phil Harris than the next barber chair and moved on.
Jane Wyman and Mary Livingstone, with scarfs on their heads, scooted past the crowd at the elevator and were on their way down the street shopping before recognition dawned on the fans. Suddenly they declared in unison, “There go Jane and Mary.” It reminded us of the comedian who starts blithely on the next joke, and then stops flat-footed when he suddenly realizes that the straight man has turned the last gag on him.
Two other local men who had interesting experiences at the Robidoux were George Jackson, deputy clerk of the federal court, and Leland E. Becraft, executive secretary of the Community Chest. Mr. Jackson, while passing through the lobby, stopped to give us a tip to watch the cop at the door. He hadn't finished his first sentence when an eager audience gathered around to hear what he had to say.
And Mr. Becraft reports getting haircut in a chair next to one occupied by Jack Benny. The manicurist asked Benny if wanted a manicure, and he cracked: "No, thanks. I bite ‘em off."

Meet My Boss, Walter Lantz

There was an animated woodpecker on TV screens in 1957 who used to invite young viewers to “Meet my boss, Walter Lantz.” The shot would cut to the cartoon producer who’d do a little introduction and appear in between cartoons on the show. Never mind that he and Woody never appeared together on screen—matte shots like that cost money, you know—it was still entertaining.

This was far from the first time that Lantz appeared on screen, as fans of silent films should be able to tell you. Lantz animated Dinky Doodle and dog Weakheart in the 1920s for the Bray studios. In this case, the three of them did appear together on screen. Lantz’s performances wouldn’t have won him any Oscars if they had existed, but they were good enough for the shorts he appeared in.

In an article in the July 10, 1926 edition of The Exhibitor, Dinky Doodle kind of invites us to meet his boss, Walter Lantz, who explains how cartoons were made. The article only talks about the animation, not the procedure to combine it with the live-action shots of Lantz.

Dinky lasted from 1924 to 1926. Tommy Stathes has a filmography on his site.

How Animated Cartoons Are Made
By Dinky Doodle
Per Walter Lantz
NEW YORK, July 6. — Do you really want to know how an animated cartoon is made? Well, my boss was supposed to write this, but his spellin’ is so bad that he passed the buck to me, so here goes.
Of course, you have seen me and my side partner, Weakheart, do our stuff on the screen and wondered how we moved around.
Our home is in an ink-bottle at the Bray Studios and we burlesque the well-known fairy-tales; which reminds me, do you know that J. R. Bray is the daddy of the animated cartoon and has done more for its advancement than anyone in the business?
The animated cartoon field is about the only line of art that isn’t over-crowded. No matter how good an artist one may be, he would probably find it very difficult to animate cartoons. There aren’t any practical schools that teach the work and the only way any one can learn to animate is to start as a tracer in a movie cartoon studio.
These places are known as studios, but take it from me, factory is a more appropriate name. Hundreds of drawings are turned out every day, but not by automatic machines. In this case, the machines are cartoonists, who must be capable of drawing from 100 to 200 individual drawings a day.



A STUDIO that produces a complete animated cartoon each week requires a staff of 25 or 30 people. These consist of six animators, who do nothing but pencil drawings, tracers who ink them in, a gag writer and a photographer. A cartoon that requires ten minutes to project in the theatre has 3000 to 4500 individual drawings.
After a scenario is written, the artist in charge distributes the various scenes among the animators, who study the action very carefully to see where they can insert a little funny piece of business. If a scene calls for an action where a man walks across a room and picks up a book, it is left to the imagination of the animator as to how the man should do this in the funniest possible way. It isn’t so much the scenario, but the manner in which each animator handles a scene that makes it funny.
The drawings are penciled on transparent sheets of tissue paper. The figures are drawn about two to three inches high. The paper has two holes punched at the top (like loose-leaf ledger paper), which fit on pegs of the same size. These pegs are fastened onto the drawing board. The artist makes his first drawing, then puts another blank sheet of paper on the pegs and draws the next position, moving it slightly forward or around, according to what the action may be.
Forty Drawings to Cross Room
If a character is to walk across a room, it requires about forty drawings, moving each one a quarter of an inch. If the character is to move faster, he is spaced one-half inch, or if he is to run, he is spaced one inch. The animator must use his own judgment as to how far apart the drawings are to be spaced. The slower the action, the closer the spacing. He must be careful also not to space them too far apart or the action will be jerky.

AFTER a scene is animated, in pencil, it is turned over to the tracer. The tracers are generally young art students who have ambitions to become animators. They trace the pencil drawings with India ink on sheets of celluloid, the same size as the paper and punched at the top so as to fit the pegs. Celluloid is such a long word to use, that we have a pet name for it, “cels.” A “cel” is laid over a penciled drawing on the pegs and the tracer inks it in. He has to be very careful that the lines register perfectly or the figure will “shimmie” all over the screen.
Tracing eliminates a lot of work. If a figure is to raise his arm from downward position, the animator makes the first drawing of the character, which is called the “model.” Then he only animates the arm, fitting each one to the “model.” The tracer then makes a “cel” of the figure, minus the arm, and puts the arms on another set of “cels.” When this action is ready to be photographed, the model “cel” remains on the pegs and each “cel” of the arm is photographed with the “model.” Where a figure talks, the animator makes five or six drawings of the heads only, and one drawing of the first position complete. The tracer inks in the heads on a set of “cels” and makes a “cel” of the figure, minus the head.
After the tracer has inked in the entire scene, it is then passed on to other people, who fill in the blacks, such as shoes, coats, etc. On the reverse side of the “cel” the figures are then painted with a white opaque water-color paint. This is done so that when a “cel” is photographed on a background which has furniture, etc., in it, the objects will not show through.
When the scene is blackened and opaqued, it is ready to be photographed. The animator receives the scenes he animated and writes a chart showing how many exposures each drawing gets.
The scene and the exposure chart are then given to the cameraman. A regular motion picture camera is used, which is suspended three feet over a table with the lens focused on the table. A set of pegs, such as were used on the drawing board, are fastened on the table directly in line with the lens of the camera. The camera has an automatic crank, operated by a motor. When the photographer pushes a button, the camera takes one picture. The illumination is furnished by two Cooper-Hewitt lamps, suspended on each side of the camera so that the light is centered on the drawings.

THE background is then placed on the pegs. This remains so throughout the scene. The “cels” are then photographed one at a time, as marked on the exposure sheet.
It isn’t necessary to photograph each scene in continuity, as the cartoon is cut and assembled when it comes back from the laboratory. It requires three days for one man to photograph a complete picture.
The next time you see an animated cartoon, just think of the poor animators, who sat up nights drawing it, and think how much better off they would be if they had become bricklayers. And that’s that.

Mallet-Justed

The Gene Deitch version of Tom tries to hit Jerry with a mallet in Mouse Into Space (released March 1962). He misses. We get a camera shake and some of that jagged impact effect animation Deitch loved.



Multiples of Tom.



More effect animation. The screen turns completely red for several frames. It’s accompanied by reverb electric bloops.



Tom stretches trying to get the mallet out of his mouth. No, Tom’s face is not growing a hand.



No animators are credited. Tod Dockstader is given the story credit. This is the fourth of the Deitch Tom and Jerrys to be released.