They're Not Hubie and Bertie

Remember in Mouse Wreckers, how Hubie lowered Bertie on a fishing line down a chimney to play head games with a sleeping Claude Cat?



Wait a minute. That’s not Hubie and Bertie. That’s Jerry and an unnamed mouse in The Year of the Mouse, a 1965 MGM short.

Both cartoons were directed by Chuck Jones and written by Mike Maltese, so the similarities are not coincidental.

The plot is the same in both. The mouse plants something on the snoozing cat, instigates violence, gets pulled up the chimney, and the cat is left to wonder why he is harming himself.

Mouse Wreckers is a far superior cartoon, with stronger gags, including the one where the mice nail everything on the floor to the ceiling. In The Year of the Mouse, Jerry sneaks a gun into Tom’s hands. The trigger has a string attached, which Jerry tugs before being pulled up the chimney. I like the dry-brush colouring after the gun goes off.



The main difference between the two cartoons is Tom figures out what’s happening, catches and imprisons the mice, thereby winning in the end.



Hey, didn’t this happen in another Jones/Maltese Warners cartoon, too?



Jerry’s mimicking of Tom’s expressions gets stale (Why are these mice picking on Tom anyways?). And almost all Mel Blanc and June Foray do in this cartoon is giggle, an incredible waste of their talents.

The animators on The Year of the Mouse are Ken Harris, Ben Washam, Dick Thompson and Don Towsley, with Maurice Noble and Phil De Guard on the Jones team. Gene Poddany provides an original score.

Enough of this. Let's bring on Hubie and Bertie.

Steamboat Toby

Down South, starring Toby the pup, is kind of a cross between a Disney and a Fleischer cartoon. The whole steamboat and rescue-the-girl-friend aspects remind me of a certain Mickey Mouse short. The rest is kind of Bimbo Light.

There’s a series of gags about captain Toby welcoming passengers onto his riverboat. There one where some kind of bird in a top hat lays an egg. A more amusing one is where Toby shakes hands with a kangaroo. A joey pops up out of its pouch. Then a second one. Then the kangaroo turns around and there’s a pouch in the back with another little kangaroo.



The soundtrack includes “Steamboat Bill,” “Old Folks at Home,” and a version of “Mississippi Mud” sung in Minnie/Honey style. Joe De Nat provided the musical score.

Dick Huemor [sic] and Sid Marcus get screen credits. R-K-O released the cartoon, made by the folks at the Charles Mintz studio, April 15, 1931. Art Davis worked on them as well. In 1977, he recalled to historian Milt Grey:

The three of us actually had a piece of it. Each one of us had a contract that, on top of our salary, we were going to get 13 and 1/3 percent of the profits, above a specified amount. But we never got a nickel out of it.

A few Tobys survive for your viewing pleasure. 12 were released, all in the 1930-31 season, though we’ve found ads from 1932 where theatres were still showing them; the ad to the right is from May 14, where it was playing in Kalispell, Montana. The one I’d like to see is Toby in the Brown Derby.

Yes, Commissioner

We kids were watching a star on Batman and never knew it.

Long after the show went off the air, I learned that Commissioner Gordon had been a big name on the silent screen.

About the only exposure to silents I had in the mid-1960s were from compilations of clips of comedies—Chaplin, Keaton, Laurel and Hardy, Harold Lloyd’s clock, airborne pies, that kind of thing. And a few names like Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish.

But I never recalled seeing Hamilton in anything. Sound brought new stars. I knew who they were (they were parodied in Warner Bros. cartoons). Hamilton wasn’t among them. He made some B pictures. He went to New York in 1944 for 13 years of stage work. As you may have read on the Old TV History blog, at the dawn of network television, he hosted Hollywood Screen Test on ABC, the network that later brought you the Caped Crusader. He returned to Hollywood in 1957 and found some employment in movies and on TV.

The era of the silent screen was the era of puff pieces on the stars, planted in movie magazines and newspapers by the studios. Facts never got in the way of a good story, an attitude that carried into the sound years (Tab Hunter is the all-American boy, right?).

Whether this story from 1928 is true, I have no idea. But (and this was its purpose) I’d like to believe it. This piece of trivia must have been sent to newspapers by the Universal publicity department, where the movie page editor could insert the name of theatre where Hamilton’s newest feature was showing. I’ve found it in several papers. This is from Halifax Evening Mail of Feb. 16.

NEIL HAMILTON FEATURED LEAD
In ''Shield of Honor," a Police Film, is Out of the Usual Run of Pictures
NEIL HAMILTON, popular film leading man who portrays a feature role in "Shield of Honor", the Universal production which is now showing at the Orpheus Theatre, is just as clever and is as much at home doing tricks of magic on the stage as he is acting before the camera.
Since his childhood school days in Lynn, Massachusetts, Hamilton has been an ardent follower of the mystic art of magic. During his school days he was the "kid of the hour" with his many interesting objects used to promote the magician's handiwork.
It was not until after making his screen debut that he took up the study of magic seriously. His many idle hours in his dressing room were soon put to use with his legerdemain activities and he was the source of entertainment to the entire staff on the sets on which he has worked.
Among his favorite tricks is the disappearing cigarette stub. He will borrow someone's handkerchief, a silk one desired, take a lighted cigarette and after forming a cup of the handkerchief he will drop the cigarette in the cup, rub his thumb on top of it, shake the handkerchief and the cigarette will be gone.
Another one is the balancing of a silver dollar op the beveled edge of a water glass. This sounds easy but suppose you try it. He also has any number of card tricks, disappearing cards, picking them out of the air, calling their denomination as they are selected by others and he can also pick the proverbial rabbit out of a silk hat.

Let us leave the era of silk handkerchiefs and stop in the Mod 1960s. Batman is on the air.

The Arrow Collar Man Stars Again
By HAROLD HEFFERNAN
HOLLYWOOD (NANA) — Greta Garbo's former landlord is a great big star—all over again.
Moreover, within the next couple of weeks, Neil Hamilton—the man in the Arrow collar ads a few decades back—will celebrate his 48th anniversary in show business.
He'll be doing it on the set of the feature film treatment of the phenomenally successful "Batman," in which he's repeating his role of the police commissioner of Gotham City. And, of course, 20th Century-Fox Studio is the scene of this new mischief.
"I spend most of my time on the screen calling Batman on the Batphone imploring his aid," he laughs. Still handsome, and looking at least 15 years younger than the 67 he professes, Hamilton finds the assignment fun and a good job.
"And acting to me has always been a job, a means to a living," he says. "I've never been one of those guys who claims he acts to express himself."
Hamilton, married over 40 years to the same lady, co-starred with Norma Shearer, Joan Crawford, and all the romantic actresses of his era. At the peak of his career, he had a fan mail count of 20.000 a letters a month. In recent years, when acting lobs were hard to come by because he no longer is the young leading man type, he earned a comfortable living lecturing to women's clubs in various parts of the country.
"Several hundred dollars and chicken a la king several times a week are nothing to turn your back on," he said wryly. "And it was better than selling real estate. Heavens, that's a perfectly horrible job—real estate! I worked as a salesman for a while. A nightmare!"
Hamilton says he's still a film fan but doesn't attend pictures much any more because he's tired of those "dreary stories about perversion and dope pushing and all the downbeat celluloid that passes for significant commentary."
"Where are the pretty girls in movies today?" he asked. "Name me three—just three —pretty girls in movies today," he demanded. "Today, they are all concentrating not on how to act appealingly but in displaying what huge bosoms they've developed, or how fetchingly they can twist hips. No sign of subtlety or good manners anymore. They simply hurl the sex stuff out at you with a shovel."
Hamilton, whose chief attributes in his heyday were a flashing smile, clean-cut good looks and dress, and an instinctive graciousness, chose acting as a career after he plodded, as a teen-ager in Massachusetts, from the family farm to a nearby theatre where the actors gave him their leftovers to carry back to feed the Hamilton pigs. Gradually, he got an acting break there between the porcine chores.
He became a star first for D. W. Griffith in movies made in New York and Griffith later brought him to Hollywood, where, teaming with "It" Girl Clara Bow, he quickly won matinee idol status.
He estimates he's made about 300 films.
Hamilton's favorite assignments include the original "Beau Geste"—the fourth has just been completed—in which he teamed with Ronald Colman, and "One Sunday Afternoon," in a pairing with Gary Cooper.
Greta Garbo, during her tenure at MGM, rented a house from him for two years and always paid her rent on time.
"But I never got to meet her," he says. "When she left, I found she had piled carpets as much as a foot deep in the bedroom—I don't know why."
Hamilton has hopes, however, of finally meeting his former tenant. She's reported to be a rabid "Batman" fan.

My grade four class wasn’t the only place where we were talking about Batman on Thursday morning and wondering what would happen on tonight’s part-two episode. Here’s a good-news story as reported by the Hamilton’s home-town newspaper, The Daily Item, on Aug. 20, 1966.

Ex-Lynner Neil Hamilton
Commr. Gordon Wins Hearts of School Kids
Neil Hamilton, the onetime Lynn resident who plays Comm. Gordon an ABC-TV's 'Batman," is a veteran of 48 years of richly varied background on the stage, screen and television.
Recently, however, he indulged himself in a brand new experience—he made an announced visit to a contingent of his young fans in their fifth-grade classroom in Thousand Oaks, Calif.
Hamilton had met their teacher socially and she told him that five minutes of each Thursday morning in class was devoted to trying to solve the dilemma the Dynamic Duo had been placed in the night before.
With such interest brought to his attention, Hamilton sent off photographs of Batman (Adam West) for each member of the class—24 in all. Twenty-eight thank-you's followed, along with a brief letter from the class president extending an invitation to the actor to visit them.
Nnoe [sic] of the children expected such a visit, but they didn't know Neil Hamilton. Bearing 28 candy bars, he drove the 44 miles to the Thousand Oaks school. To get directions to the classroom, he stopped by the superintendent’s office where he was greeted with a blank look and the query: "Are you from the welfare?"
Assuring the superintendent that his bag of candy was not a welfare package, he was shown to the classroom, still unrecognized, to meet his fans. What happened next is best expressed in quotes from the letters he received after the visit:
“You are the nicest person I ever met" . . . "I would have rather seen you for 45 minutes than have gone to the movies for the whole day" . . . "I would pay $1 to see you again" . .. "My mom wouldn't believe me" . . . "Thank you for the autograph" . . . "Now I can prove you were here" . . . "You are a very nice move [sic] star" . . ."You seemed to like kids very, very much . . "
An Oscar isn't an actor's only award.

Hamilton wound down his career after Batman went off the air. He was 85 when he died about two weeks after his birthday in 1984. And while, I suspect, just about everyone reading this knows him best from telling Chief O’Hara he was about to use the Batphone, Charles Schulz remembered him from an earlier time in a 1979 cartoon.

Read the Sign!

The gag worked for Tex Avery in A Day at the Zoo (1939), so why not try a variation one year later?

In Zoo, a visitor is chided by a monkey for trying to feed it. In Cross Country Detours (1940), the narrator informs us that “Tourists are often tempted to feed the tame bears in the park.”



Check to see that no one is looking.



Now to violate the park rules!



The bear is having none of that b.s.



“Listen, stupid, can’t you read??” screams the bear.

On to the next gag.

Paul Smith gets the rotating animation credit on this, with Rich Hogan credited with the story. Johnny Johnsen painted the backgrounds, with overlays panned at a different speed to simulate a 3-D effect. Lou Marcelle is the narrator.

Stratos-Fear Backgrounds

Stratos-Fear is an imaginative Willie Whopper cartoon, both in its story elements and its artwork.

Background artists went uncredited in 1933, so I leave it to Iwerks studio experts to determine who was responsible for the paintings behind the action.

Gas-filled Willie ascends into outer space, passing an annoyed moon, a bike race on Saturn (due to its rings being like an oval track), and various stars and planets to an identified planet.



Some interiors.



Willie survived less than another year. MGM dumped the Iwerks cartoons in favour of Bosko and others from the Harman-Ising studio.

No One Laughed at 40

“People wouldn’t stand for any changes in Jack,” insisted the producer of The Jack Benny Program in 1961, one Fred de Cordova.

What we think of as Jack Benny today was something that evolved over a long period of time on radio. When Jack and his writers found something that brought laughs from the audience, they stuck with it as long as it worked.

Freddie was right. Attempts to go against Jack’s type were failures. One was in 1949 when Jack was hit on the head and became a wild spender. The writers hoped to mine a bunch of shows out of it, but gave up on the idea one week later. One said they just couldn’t write a non-cheapskate Jack Benny.

Another was Jack’s age. There was an attempt to push him past 39. It, too, failed. Just like Jack’s Maxwell, which mysteriously re-appeared in the later ‘40s after he gave up it during a war-time scrap drive, the idea was treated as it never happened.

Jack talked about “40” a number of times after the fact. One musing made its way into a column for the Bell Syndicate, published in Sunday newspaper supplements starting July 23, 1961.

39’s Find but 40? That’s Too Far
(Editor's Note: While Margaret McManus is on vacation, her column is being written this week by television comedian Jack Benny. Margaret McManus will resume her column next week.)
BY JACK BENNY
HOLLYWOOD—One way to stay young is simply to stop counting birthdays. I did that a long time ago.
It also is important to "think" young—stay active and surround yourself with young people. I have a friend, a motion-picture producer, who is in his 80s, but still one of the most youthful people I know.
He is vital and alive and he always talks about his next picture — not the one he just made or something that happened 20 or 30 years ago. It's deadly to make a habit of reminiscing: take it from me, there was no such thing as the "good old days."
Dennis Day calls me an "ancient Robert Cummings." You know. Dennis was a carefree bachelor when he joined the show and now he's married and the father of eight. He knows I would never fire an expectant father.
Well, anyway, when I come back on CBS-TV this fall I'll still be 39, and I have to say that sometimes it's a little hard to live up to the legend.
I look into the mirror some mornings and ask myself. "Just who do you think you're kidding?"
Then I shrug and think: "So I don't look 39; I don't look my right age either."
Now you can take that two ways, of course. But take it my way.
NOT HIS IDEA

You know, that joke about my being 39 wouldn't be funny at all if I actually looked my right age (67). Everyone knows by now that I'm not actually 39, but when they see the way I work and get a look at my schedule they can't really be sure exactly how old I am.
Now. I hate to say this, but stopping the clock —deciding to be 39 for the rest of my life—actually was not a stroke of inspiration on my part. I wish I could say that was the case, but it isn't.
The truth is this: My writers and I liked the idea of a fellow being so vain that he would never admit how old he really was, so we made that a part of the "Jack Benny" character I played.
And I'm sure not many of you will remember this: the writers made me 36 first (to tell the truth. I can't remember how old I really was when I was posing on radio as a 36-year-old). Then they made me 37, and I stayed that age for a few years, then I became 38 and finally 39.
When we got to that number, I told my writers, "Fellows, this is it. We go no further."
And that's the way it stood until I made that awful mistake a few years ago and decided to turn 40. I never should have done it, but I guess I was just impressed by all the publicity it would bring the show.
My wife. Mary, tried to tell me I was making a big mistake, but I said I could be just as funny at 40 as at 39.
ASTONISHED AT RESPONSES
Well, we had a big 40th birthday party on one of the shows, and the next day the telegrams, letters and phone calls starting pouring in. I was astonished.
No one wanted me to become 40. They said that, at 39, I had given a lot of encouragement to people over 40 who didn't like to tell their true ages for all sorts of reasons.
One letter, from a woman, said, "Mr. Benny, for years I've been fibbing about my age because I don't look it and I don't feel it. You have given hope to all of us who are long on years but young in spirit for a long time, and now you are going to change it all. I. and thousands of others my age, wish you wouldn't."
I also learned at about that time there were clubs all over the country for "39-year-olds." The idea was that you couldn't get into clubs until you were 39, and you couldn't get any older as far as the club was concerned. And, Brother, did I hear from them!
So I did a lot of thinking and didn't mention "40" for a few weeks. Then I decided, what the heck, I'm a comedian, and nothing I do is supposed to make much sense — so I went back to being 39.
Thirty-nine is a funny and not quite “real” number; when you say you’re 40, it sounds like you’re over the hill. I’ve been 39 for almost 30 years, so I should know what I’m talking about.

Jack's analysis was right. People found “39” funny. They referred it in their own lives. Jack knew that. Knowing what got laughs was why he was on top for so many years.

Beaky and the Bambino Bee

Buzzards aren’t associated with Italy. So why is it that Mama Buzzard in The Bashful Buzzard speaks-a with a vaudeville-style “Atsa-a-matter-for-you” Italian accent-a? Pasta fazool!

Well, if we may venture a guess.

Warner Bros. cartoons are full of radio show references. You likely know that the lead character in The Bashful Buzzard is a takeoff on Mortimer Snerd on the Edgar Bergen radio show.

But I suspect Mama Buzzard is, too.

There was an actress making the rounds in Los Angeles in the 1930s who did an Italian dialect character. Here’s an example from the Hollywood Citizen-News of July 17, 1934.

“Mrs. Pasquale,” or, if you prefer, popular comedienne on KFWB’s “High Jinks,” will be featured with the Californians over KFWB from 7:30 to 7:45 p. m. She certainly has a line of chatter!

KFWB certainly had its own connection with cartoons, besides its owner releasing them. People on the air there, like Robert C. Bruce and Arthur Q. Bryan, were hired to supply voices for the Leon Schlesinger studio on the Warners lot.

Keith Scott’s terrific research points out the Franco Sunday night Hi Jinks show was hosted by Johnny Murray, who Rudy Ising recalled hiring for main characters in Merrie Melodies, including Foxy and Goopy Gear. As well, the programme included Jack Clifford, the hard-of-hearing-sheriff, a character voice that got mushed together with Kenny Delmar’s Senator Claghorn and became a certain, I SAY, became a certain cartoon rooster. Rooster, that is.

Back to our story.

Urecal’s Italian dialect was recognised enough in the mid-‘30s for her to make personal appearances; we note one in 1934 presented by a Legion post in Los Angeles in 1934 where she “delighted an audience of 500 with her Italian characterization and impersonations.”

Does it seem probable that Bob Clampett, noted aficionado of radio references, wanted a familiar accent in one of his cartoons, and this was one of them?

By the time the dialogue for The Bashful Burrard was recorded (the cartoon came out in 1945), fine dialectician Sara Berner seemed to be brought in to handle the female adult voices. No need for Urecal, who had been in the movies for several years. Berner could do the job just as well.

Let’s get to the actual cartoon. There’s some great expressive work we’ve posted about before. The scene with the farmer and the cow in mid-air is lots of fun (Manny Gould, I imagine). So is the perspective animation in the sequence with the flying dragon chasing Beaky.

Perhaps one of the better-known moments is when Beaky is “bringing home a baby bumble bee” (to the melody of “Arkansas Traveler”).



Cut to a close-up of the little bee and his angry mother. Despite the buzzing, it’s really a silent action scene. You can't dislike animation like this.



As you can see in that last frame, Clampett wastes no time. Action is continuous. Clampett alternates between a fast pace, a slow pace and movement within dialogue scenes.

This is another cartoon where the credits have been Blue Ribboned. The second Beck and Friedwald book gives the story credit to Mike Sasanoff. The story includes a Dumbo reference, a Lassie reference and ends with a catchphrase from The Great Gildersleeve radio show.

The animation credit was apparently rotated to Bob McKimson. I am told Dick Thomas did not paint the backgrounds. Here is one in a perspective view when Beaky's brothers are overhead scoping out their targets.



Besides Berner as Urecal as Mrs. Pasquale, Kent Rogers is Edgar Bergen as Mortimer Snerd. Keith Scott points out (in Animato! Issue 37 and later in his two-book set) that Rogers died in a training exercise in July 1944, so this gives you a bit of an idea of when the soundtrack was recorded. The cartoon was officially released September 5, 1945.

Urecal died of a heart attack in 1966 at the age of 71. At that point, if she was remembered it was for starring in a TV version of Tugboat Annie in the early '50s. She had appeared on Petticoat Junction just a few months before her death.

You can hear what Mrs. Pasquale sounded like below. Cartoon fans will recognise the first song before Urecal's routine with emcee Don Wilson.