There are voices you recognize instantly.

And then there are voices you’ve known your entire life—without ever realizing how much intention, intelligence, and writing lived behind them.

June Foray was a legendary voice actor. But the conversations I remember most with her weren’t really about performance. They were about writing—and about what animated cartoons were actually trying to be during that era.

Looking back now, that distinction matters.

Who June Foray Was—and Why She Was There

June Foray was one of the most prolific American voice actors in animation history. Her career spanned radio, television, and film, and she worked across studios such as Warner Bros., MGM, Hanna-Barbera, Jay Ward Productions, and Disney.

She voiced an extraordinary range of characters, from Rocky the Flying Squirrel and Natasha Fatale to Granny, Witch Hazel, and Lucifer the Cat. But while her performances were iconic, June understood something deeper about animation: voices serve the writing.

And the writing, she believed, was never meant to be simplistic.

A Conversation About What Cartoons Really Were

I was fortunate to know June Foray, and one conversation in particular has stayed with me.

We were talking about The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle, and I mentioned that as an adult, I had gone back and watched segments like Fractured Fairy Tales. What struck me was realizing how many of the jokes clearly weren’t written for children at all.

June laughed.

She told me that Rocky and Bullwinkle was never meant to be children’s television. It was simply adults writing for adults—sharp, satirical humor delivered through animation. The idea that it was “for kids” came later, largely because of the medium rather than the intent. Even though the show was produced for Saturday morning children’s programming, it wasn’t

That moment reframed how I saw the entire era.

Super Chicken and the Writing You Don’t Catch as a Kid

As a child, I loved Super Chicken simply because it was a cartoon. The action kept moving, the characters felt strange and memorable, and the situations were endlessly unpredictable. At the time, that was enough. However, when I revisited the series as an adult, everything changed. I began to notice how carefully the jokes were constructed. More importantly, I finally understood who this classic cartoon writing was really written for.

One episode, in particular, captures exactly what June Foray once described about animation being far smarter than people assume. In this episode, a mad scientist creates a living toupee—a sentient hairpiece that escapes and launches a destructive rampage through Pittsburgh. As a result, buildings come under threat and chaos spreads quickly. The premise itself leans fully into surreal satire. Meanwhile, Super Chicken and Fred respond with wit and clever gadgetry. Still, the episode’s real impact comes from its finer details.

At one point, Super Chicken devises a plan to stop the toupee by worrying it until it loses its hair. The episode then delivers lines such as, “Congratulations, it’s twins. Signed, Kewpie,” followed shortly by, “Special delivery from the draft board—you have been classified 1A.” As a child, those jokes passed right by me. As an adult, however, they land immediately. These are unmistakably adult jokes, written with confidence and precision. They exemplify how classic cartoon writing trusted its audience to be smarter than expected.

That confidence is the point. Kids laugh at the chaos. Adults catch the subtext. In the end, animation was never the limitation. Instead, it served as the perfect disguise.

Animation as a Delivery System, Not a Target Audience

What June Foray understood—and what many of us only realize years later—is that animation in that era wasn’t defined by who it was for, but by how it was written.

These cartoons trusted their audience. They layered humor. They embraced irony, wordplay, cultural references, and satire. Children could enjoy the surface. Adults could appreciate the subtext.

Animation wasn’t the message.

It was the delivery system.

Why This Perspective Still Holds Up

Today, we talk about “adult animation” as if it’s a modern invention. But shows like Rocky and Bullwinkle and Super Chicken were already doing it decades ago—without branding, without disclaimers, and without apologizing for their intelligence.

June Foray wasn’t just voicing characters in that world. She was helping bring sophisticated writing to life, fully aware of what it was doing and who it was really speaking to.

That’s the legacy worth revisiting.

A Medium That Trusted Its Audience

June Foray passed away in 2017, but the writing she helped deliver still works—because it was never built on trends or assumptions about age.

If you’ve ever rewatched a cartoon from your childhood and suddenly realized, “Oh… this wasn’t meant for kids,” you’ve uncovered the same truth she was pointing to.

Some cartoons don’t age.

They reveal themselves.

• For more on June Foray, there’s a short biography by Charles Solomon on ASIFA-Hollywood’s website.

The world of animation is a strange planet indeed. Mysterious events burst in front of our eyes, are taken for granted, and vanish into thin air before anyone takes notice of them. Yet none have reached the proportions of the strange case of the first animated feature, a category that fosters all kind of competence among the nations: Only the perceptive know that France released its own specimen twice, whilst Italy released two at the same time! The moral to be drawn from this fact is beyond me, but anyway….

The case of France: “Le Roi et l’Oiseau” by Paul Grimault (1953 or 1980, depending on your choice).

To say that “Le Roi et l’Oiseau” is the first French animated feature involves some trickery, which is generally solved by labeling it as “the first feature film in color” or “the first animated drawn feature” (dessin animé), you can choose, since the first animated feature produced in France is actually the incredible “Le Roman de Renard”, directed and animated by Ladislav Starevich in the early 1930s and released in 1937. But Starevich produced it using stop-motion rather than drawings, and worse: even though his film was based on a French folk tale (the medieval cycle of “Le Roman de Renart,” which would also be the central theme of the best film never produced by Disney), Starevich was not French but Russian —with Polish roots— which made his classification somewhat problematic.

In contrast, “Le Roi…” exudes France from every angle. Directed by a luminary of local animation, Paul Grimault, and written by the star screenwriter Jacques Prévert, it had everything it needed to be one of the greatest animated films of all time (which it indeed is, to a large extent), but, Alas, or rather, Hélas!

A little research on the basics reveals that “Le Roi et l’Oiseau” is a film by Paul Grimault, written by Prévert, and based on Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale “The Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep,” whose development began in 1946 (or even 1942, depending on the source). Produced by the animation studio “Les Gémeaux”, co-directed by Grimault and producer André Sarrut, financial disagreements led the team to collapse by the end of that decade. After Sarrut and Grimault parted ways, the former retained all rights to the material and released a version of the film in May 1953. Under the title “La Bergère et le Ramoneur,” it was publicly disavowed by its director and writer in a campaign that undermined the promotion of a work which, despite everything, won an award at the Venice Film Festival and was admired by many (including the future founders of Japan’s Studio Ghibli).

A few years later, following the permanent closure of “Les Gémeaux” and the sale of all its assets, Grimault managed to purchase the rights to the material, the negatives, and whatever remained of the production (apparently not too much) in order to remake it according to his original vision; even though, in the meantime, the original team had disbanded and Prévert had died in 1977, during the final preparations of the new version. The definitive work, titled “Le Roi et l’Oiseau,” premiered in March 1980 and received critical acclaim.

In other words, “Le Roi” is a film that is two films, and its production also has two stories, which coincide only superficially. These versions can be summarized in the books that have been written about it so far. The first, which we might call the canonical version, is “Le Roi et l’Oiseau: Voyage au coeur du chef-d’oeuvre de Prévert et Grimault” by Jean-Pierre Pagliano, whose title already provides the general key to his thesis. The other, a reexamination of the official account, is titled “La bergère et le ramoneur de Paul Grimault et Jacques Prévert: Chronique d’un désastre annoncé” by Sébastien Roffat, which also has the virtue of being clear.

The debate between these two viewpoints can be summarized in how fair it is to portray the producer Sarrut as a kind of unscrupulous shark who destroyed the creators’ original visión, bearing in mind that seven years of production is a significant amount of time, and, above all—as emphasized in Roffat’s book—that, for a battle over copyright by the creators of an artistic work (the central issue of the various legal disputes that accompanied the release of the film’s first version)—the work of the many collaborators tended to be overlooked in the subsequent narrative focused on Grimault and Prévert. As the “protected” version of Wikipedia states: “Le Roi et l’oiseau is, in short, the symbol of a deep creative partnership between Grimault and Prévert, which was only broken by the poet’s death, while both were still working on the film.”

The bond between Grimault and Prévert dated back a long time, would continue after Sarrut’s coup, and to it we owe at least one undisputed masterpiece (“Le Petit Soldat,” from 1948), whose success launched the production of the feature film.

“Le Petit Soldat” can be viewed as part of a documentary that summarises Grimault’s long career: “La table tournante” (1988).

By then, the Gémeaux team consisted of about twenty people. The new production involved hiring new collaborators and creating a structure on the fly, so the film got underway before preparations were complete. Finances suffered and the atmosphere deteriorated. According to Carole Arouet (interviewed by Brieuc Codennec on his blog “Le Paratonnerre”), André Sarrut then changed his approach: he turned to Disney and sought out an agent. Upon his return, he requested more comedic scenes or the removal of a giant snake that, in his view, would frighten children; in short, the “Disneyfication” of the film—a point that concerns not merely a matter of taste or style but it was seen also as political (and even more so when considering the leftist leanings of Grimault-Prévert).

From the other side, Grimault was criticized for excessive perfectionism, which, combined with an “essential dilettantism,” allegedly led to the financial strangulation of the production. Among other accusations were those of destroying “perfect” backgrounds that had already been completed, starting completely animated sequences back from scratch, constantly redesigning the characters, and even spending too much time at the corner bistro—a charge that also extends to Prévert, who in turn was blamed for failing to find a suitable ending for the story (the bistro accusation is an infamy: taking it away from a French artist would be like shaving Disney’s mustache). “Excessive perfectionism,” was not unique to the Grimault-Prévert duo but extended to their key collaborators (screenwriters and animators), many of whom were replaced by the producer with less scrupulous colleagues to save face financially when the going got tough.

Attentive readers will note the excessive use of potential verbs in this account, due to the lack of documentary material combined with the efforts to preserve an Official Myth (it seems Orson Welles encountered this same bottleneck in his unsuccessful attempt to make a documentary on the history of Les Gémeaux).

In any case, watching the 1953 version is an impossible task. The closest thing available is a very poor-quality copy, dubbed into English (by Peter Ustinov, among others), and it is difficult to tell whether it stays true to the original French version or is a loose adaptation. The original 1953 film has been wiped off the map, even though its soundtrack featured the voices of luminaries of French cinema such as Pierre Brasseur and other distinguished larynges whose work would be redubbed in the 1980 version.

The plot of the story, in any of its versions, can be summarized as follows: a despotic, cross-eyed king rules the Kingdom of Tachycardia, a sort of colossal palace/city that rises from the desert. The only character who seems to oppose his wishes is an insolent bird that mocks him, dodging his bullets, since the monarch spends his free time hunting birds. One night, the King’s portrait (a flattering version of himself) takes his place to court the portrait of a young Shepherdess hanging in the Royal Gallery, who is in turn in love with the portrait of a young Chimney Sweep. The Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep flee together down through the palace: guided by the bird and pursued by the King (riding a Giant Robot, putative father of all Japanese giant robots). The young couple sink into the depths of the city and discover the people of the underground, a populace that has never seen sunlight, confined alongside some poor beasts used to terrify them. Finally, they are captured: the shepherdess will be forced to marry the King, while the Chimney Sweep and the bird are forced to join the King’s mass production workshops (that looks suspiciously similar to a big animation studio). Etc.

And yet, the two versions do not differ terribly, with the exception of the ending: while the 1953 version offers a rather silly solution, the 1980 version chooses ‘a message for youth’, which at least has some emotional weight. Other changes include a greater focus on the Palace/City (true protagonist of the film), the inclusion of a lengthy scene in which the King’s portrait is painted—which, given its execution, appears to have been created for the original version—a reworking of the wild beasts, who grow dull and compassionate by 1980, and a greater emphasis on the sequences of the King’s wedding and some prison-factory very à la Chaplin’s “Modern Times”.

In any case, there is one element where Paul Grimault’s perception appears to have become more refined over time: the name change of the film suggests that the director has realized that the only real character in his story is the King and the King alone (the Bird acts merely as a sort of host), a notable paradox in a work that loudly proclaims its love for democracy.

But the more striking difference lies in the visuals: whereas Grimault was able to secure the services of the original animators—and there were quite a few of them (Henri Lacam, Gabriel Allignet, Alberto Ruiz, Jean Vimenet)—the stylistic leap that can occur in a production revived thirty years later is, to some extent, avoided. But at times, the accusation of ‘excessive perfectionism’ does not hold water: many of the adjustments in the 1980 version are glaringly obvious. The plasticity of the original animation is somewhat lost. The wild beasts, in particular, retouched to suit the tastes of the 1970s Grimault, do not blend well with the rest. In this sense, many of the fixes, whilst occasionally resolving rather clumsy compromises of the original, do not work entirely either due to an artwork that simply does not measure up.

However, these are little details; and the “mistakes” (if we wish to regard them as such) cannot hide the fact that the film, in any of its versions, is a masterpiece.

As Hayao Miyazaki said: “It was whilst watching Paul Grimault’s ‘Le Roi et l’Oiseau’ that I realized we had to use space vertically. If you draw a village in great detail, it won’t come to life unless you introduce the vertical dimension. In a film, a complete upward trajectory is necessary for the story to take on its true dimension.”

So, if there were a chance to present it in a third version – combining the 1953 forgotten elements with the successes of 1980 – we should celebrate it as an opportunity to see this gem where it belongs: on the big screen.

And here we have a clear expression of what we might call the “French genius”, which consists of cleverly taking advantage of superficial disagreements between actors (in this case, filmmakers, audiences or historians) who nevertheless agree on the fundamentals. After all, releasing the same film twice (and in the name of Art, no less) shows some business acumen.

NOTE: An integral copy of the 1980 film can be seen on ok.ru – below is the trailer for the 1980 restoration:

Columbia really made some bizarre cartoons! This week’s selection in no exception.

But first — in brief Thunderbean news:

This is “reviews” week at CCS, the College for Creative Studies, where I teach. It’s a crazy busy week where we look at every students work, in teams of professors. My brain in generally mush afterwords, but watching a Columbia cartoon and talking a little about it was a nice break.

I can’t wait to get some quality time over some days just concentrating on Thunderbean things. “Cartoons for Victory” is the title getting the most attention at the moment here as we get it closer to finish. We’ll be talking about that title more in the coming weeks, along with some other projects that are coming together.

The last of a big batch of special discs just went out today, and the next ones are getting prepared. I’m especially happy with this batch of stuff, and the next ones are pretty enjoyable too. We’ve launched two new ones today, but I’m not sure how much longer we’ll do them. We’ve also opened ‘The Vault’ of the older special discs for a week. It’s been a lot of fun doing them.

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Now– this week’s cartoon!

The Crystal Gazer (1941) is a Columbia I hadn’t seen before scanning a print. It’s a spoof of live “Psychic” prediction shows, with Mel Blanc lending his voice (and some sound effects). The plot of cartoon consists of a show featuring “Famous Astrologist Professor Ja Ja Rajah”, who is almost the same character in design and demeanor that stars in the all time classic Columbia Cartoon The Cuckoo I.Q. My favorite summery of *that* cartoon comes from a review in the old Mindrot ‘zine that said a better title for it would be “Seven Minutes of Color Film”.

An audience member asks the question “Should I put Whipped Cream in My Potato Salad?” prompting the professor to go through a series of fairly uninspired convulsions until he gazes into a Crystal Ball, leading to a vision that is a much more interesting cartoon that it looked like it would be.

For some reason, his vision starts with him riding a camel in Egypt. They arrive at a tomb where mummies sing, play checkers, dance and make telephone calls. Mummies are hard to screw up, and this section of the cartoon makes the whole venture worth while, or at least makes it close to worth while. Please let me know if you agree or disagree!

Sadly, after that vision we return back to the original plot of the cartoon- but knowing Columbia it wouldn’t have been unlikely that they didn’t return to it.

All of that said, I’m glad Columbia kept making cartoons, even if they’re not on anyone’s favorite list. Heck, maybe this one is someone’s favorite.

Have a good week all!

When Make Mine Music opened in 1946, The New York Post called it “…a veritable vaudeville show, a three-ring circus, and grand opera thrown together into one technical masterpiece.”

It may be the best description for this film made during a difficult time for Walt Disney and his Studio. Between an animators’ strike, and America’s involvement in World War II, production at the Studio had been a challenge during most of the 1940s.

Walt kept animation production going during this period by producing lower-budgeted, easy-to-execute films, known as “package films,” which didn’t have a traditional plot but instead were a series of short subjects strung together during a feature-length running time.

One of these was Make Mine Music, with a common theme among the segments being that each was set to a particular piece of music. As each is so vastly different, the Post’s description of the film is appropriate.

The film plays with the Fantasia formula, opening like a concert complete with a program that reads: “Make Mine Music: A Musical Fantasy.”

From here, the film segues to the first section of the film, “The Martins and the Coys” (billed on the program as “A Rustic Ballad”), narrated by the singing group The King’s Men, as it tells the musical tale of two feuding mountain families.

After this, the Ken Darby Chorus performs the title song, “Blue Bayou.” The slow-paced music features accompanying visuals of a nighttime bayou as a bird takes flight, in a sequence that reuses animation intended for a sequel to 1940’s Fantasia, originally intended to accompany the musical composition “Clair de lune.”

Next up is Benny Goodman and his Orchestra with “All the Cats Join in.” Two “hepcat bobbysoxer” teens of the decade dance to the upbeat music as they get ready for a date, with animation introduced by a pencil that draws images that come to life.

Singer Andy Russell performs the next segment, “Without You,” a ballad, with sad, surreal images that transition into views of lonely woods and nighttime stars.

The following segment is one of the film’s most famous, “Casey at the Bat,” narrated as a “Musical Recital” by comedian Jerry Colonna, in his over-the-top style, as a re-telling of the “baseball poem” by author Ernest Thayer about the Mudville team and their star player. This segment was released later in 1946 as a stand-alone short subject and even spawned a sequel with Casey Bats Again, in 1954.

Singer Dinah Shore sings “Two Silhouettes,” the next segment, a “Ballade Ballet” featuring two ballet dancers in rotoscoped silhouette animation, performing in front of a stylized backdrop and assisted by two cherubic figures.

Next is arguably the most popular segment, “Peter and the Wolf,” narrated by the familiar, comforting voice of Disney stalwart Sterling Holloway, from the famous musical composition by conductor Sergei Prokofiev. This segment (sans narration) was also created to be an additional component to Disney’s Fantasia.

Set in Russia, the segment tells the tale of young Peter and his friends Sascha, a bird, Sonia the duck, and Ivan the cat, who venture off into the woods to hunt a wolf. A different musical instrument represents each character, with a distinct theme.

“Peter and the Wolf” was such a substantial segment that it has been shown on its own several times and even released as a record album (paired with “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice” on the flip side).

“Peter and the Wolf” is followed by another Benny Goodman number, “Since You’ve Been Gone,” which provides the backdrop for a march of anthropomorphized musical instruments.

The Andrews Sisters then perform the musical narration for “Johnny Fedora and Alice Blue Bonnet,” a sweet story of two hats who fall in love after meeting in a department store window.

The concluding segment is baritone singer Nelson Eddy and the story of “The Whale Who Wanted to Sing at the Met,” about a whale named Willie with incredible operatic talents and dreams. He is hunted by a music conductor who believes that the whale has swallowed an opera singer.

Although it contains a sad ending, this segment includes beautiful, lush animation, particularly where Willie sings as Pagliacci the Clown, and full opportunity is taken for sight gags involving the size and scale of Willie.

Directed by Jack Kinney, Clyde Geronimi, Hamilton Luske, Joshua Meador, and Robert Cormack, Make Mine Music features animation by Disney Legends Ward Kimball, Ollie Johnston, and Eric Larson, among others.

The artists balance the different styles. There’s the entertaining, overly caricatured design of “Casey,” with the main character’s jut-jaw, and a player who touches the base with his giant handlebar mustache. This is offset by scenes with such images in “Without You,” which play out like rain cascading down a window.

Make Mine Music has been shown on The Disney Channel and released on home video in 2000 (with “The Martins and the Coys” removed due to violence and gunplay concerns), and on Blu-ray in 2021, but as of this writing, the film is still not available on Disney+ (although it is available on Amazon Prime).

Make Mine Music had its premiere in New York City on April 20, 1946, and went into general release on August 15. As the film now celebrates 80 years, it’s the perfect time to revisit this “vaudeville show, three-ring circus, and grand opera” from a unique era in Disney history.

For more about the music of Make Mine Music, check out Greg Ehrbar’s 2016 article.

It took Felix the Cat 72 years to star in his only feature film. His creator (and, at times, sole animator), Otto Mesmer, did not live to see this event, nor did anyone else who brought various incarnations of Felix to animated life over the decades. However, the last person to usher Felix to reasonable success in 1958, Joe Oriolo, passed the reins on to his son Don, who paid tribute to Dad with Felix the Cat: The Movie.

If there was ever a labor of love, this 1989 animated film is it. Don Oriolo wrote the script, did some voice work, served as one of the producers, and, if the end credits are correct, even performed some of the music. Wow. The direction was by Tibor Hernadi (“Animation director” on The Time Masters). No less than six nations (primarily Hungary) contributed to the production.

Yet, the film had but one US theatrical showing (as the opening selection of the third Los Angeles Animation Celebration), and plans for a wider release ended when the movie’s distributor, New World Pictures, went belly-up. The picture went unseen until it appeared on DVD on August 29, 2002.

Felix is, alas, not a very good film, and most critics have been considerably harsher than that. The story, involving Felix’s adventures in an alternate dimension where he battles on the side of a beautiful princess against her evil uncle, the Duke of Zill, is disjointed and plagued by unnecessary scenes that push the plot aside. In one of them, we watch foxes (who get their own song!) prepare to urinate on Felix’s bag. They disappear after that. An interlude with tap-dancing mice goes on far too long. And how about the one-time appearance of a dragon that silently impersonates (I think) Marlon Brando?

The animation reflects the $9M budget and is almost universally floppy and choppy: mouth movements rarely match the dialogue, and facial expressions often do not correspond to what the characters are experiencing. The editing is atrocious. There are some very primitive CGI sequences of Felix’s head bookending the film. Most of Felix’s lines are like “Dad jokes” that would embarrass Dad. Some of the characters (particularly Madame Pearl and Pim) look like they came from different films.

The picture strongly reminded me of the 1986 film Cat City (another very bad Hungarian film) in its flawed design and execution, and I would not be surprised if Felix employed many of the same animators. However, Felix is the better film, and this leads us to why this movie is merely a semi-total disaster. Some redemptive comments are due here:

To begin with, the film harkens back to the 1958 TV version of the fabulous feline, and this is rather welcome. Felix has a magical bag of tricks that comes in quite handy. Series stalwarts The Professor and his brilliant nephew Poindexter are along for the ride (Rock Bottom must still be serving time). The Master Cylinder gets a cameo (on paper). The picture even ends with Felix signing off with “Right-e-o!” The closing theme (by Winston Sharples) is the same one featuring Ann Bennett’s singing. David Kolin, replacing the immortal Jack Mercer, does a credible job voicing Felix.

The main villain, the Duke of Zill, is perhaps the best-designed character the crew came up with, and he gets a fitting backstory. The Duke resembles a tricked-up version of Spider-Man villain Mysterio, and Peter Newman lends the bad guy a great voice.

But what are the real reasons to buy/rent/stream this Felix movie besides Boomer nostalgia? One, it’s a surreal, loopy ride featuring acid-trip design, hallucinatory color, and bonkers secondary character designs (especially in the land of Zill) that must have existed in the animators’ nightmares. This messed-up menagerie is even weirder than the nutty backgrounds and layouts in this picture.

Secondly, if seeing this movie piques anyone’s curiosity about Felix the Cat, it is worth sitting through. Whether they explore the 1958 series, the three 1936 shorts from Van Bueren Studios, or take a deep dive into the iconic black-and-white Felix cartoons from his heyday during the 1920s, rediscovering this animated idol is a worthy cause. Felix the Cat: The Movie may not have been the cat’s crowning glory, but at least it kept a legend alive.

A final installment of cartoons looking toward the new ways of present times, or bringing backwards characters of the past up to speed. We’ll deal with a couple of features, a Garfield special, a recent Mickey Mouse, and a lot of up-to-date action from the Looney Tunes gang.

Garfield Gets a Life (Film Roman, 5/8/91), a half-hour prime-time special, could more appropriately be called “Jon Gets a Life”, dealing with the boredom that is Jon’s existence, and its contagious effect upon Garfield as well. The most exciting thing Jon seems to do is organize his sock drawer – two of them – by size, color, materials, blends, and all neatly tucked-in. When not occupied with socks, Jon counts ceiling tiles while flat on his back – and Garfield takes to doing the same thing, as they compare counts between the ceilings in the bedroom and living room. Garfield (perhaps for lack of anything better to do) tries to break Jon out of his rut, remembering an old copy on Jon’s bookshelf of “How To Make Friends and Fool the Rest”. Jon spots a chapter on getting dates, and attempts to follow it to the letter. Efforts to pick up girls in the park, at the beach, in the laundromat and at the video store fail miserably. Jon almost has accidental luck at a singles club (Club Ticky Tacky), as, while badly reading aloud from his book just for practice the line, “Hey there, would you like to dance with me?”, an equally-bored girl at the bar overhears him, and half-heartedly responds, “Sure, why not?” “YES!!”, shouts Jon, escorting her onto the floor. But Jon quickly loses her, by throwing her into a couple of forceful spins that spiral her right off the dance floor, then breaking into his own solo elaborate disco number (predicting Goofy’s in An Extremely Goofy Movie). Patrons of the club momentarily stare at the display, but, as the number reaches its close, the house lights go up, and Jon stands alone in an empty club, with total silence except for Jon’s last footfalls. Nevertheless, Jon strikes a closing Jon Travolta-style pose, only to hear from the rafters the voice of the D.J, yelling, “Hey, jerk. Disco is DEAD!” “What?? When??”, reacts Jon, and trudges away with Garfield, complaining how you learn a new dance, and 14 years later, they change it. “Go figure” responds Garfield in characteristic underplay.

A television ad by a dweebish-looking guy for his school, Lorenzo’s School For the Personality Impaired, intrigues Garfield and Jon – especially when mentioning such characteristics of the average students he helps as counting ceiling tiles and thinking disco is still in. Jon and Garfield arrive at Lorenzo’s meager institution (a run-down building complete with broken and partially-boarded windows and cracking plaster). They know they’re in the right place when they find every student in attendance looking up to count the ceiling tiles. Lorenzo dispenses rather meaningless advice, such as extend a hand to the one next to you and say, “Hi, my name is so-and-so”. Most of the students quote him verbatim, never including in the sentence their own name. Another suggestion is to make people believe you can speak a foreign language, by only sounding like you do. He thus utters French-sounding gibberish meaning nothing, then teaches Canadian by merely adding the syllable, “eh?” every few sentences.

Jon’s handshake extension during the class causes him to make the acquaintance of a moderately pretty girl, who is as unsure of herself as Jon is, and certain that she is blowing making a good first impression. Jon and the girl find themselves equally matched in awkwardness and shyness, and begin to open up to each other about it, being themselves – and really hit things off. Garfield is both amazed and puzzled that this is possible, having never thought Jon to have the potential for striking up any serious relationship. The two decide they’ve had enough education for one day, and step out for a bite to eat, then spend the entire evening on Jon’s porch, getting to know each other – and all the time being themselves, without following any of their professor’s advice. Things get personal for Garfield when he overhears Jon, carried away in conversation with the girl, refer to him merely as “his cat”. “Yesterday, I had a name”, Garfield complains to himself, seeing his best buddy and confidant relationship with Jon slipping away. Garfield lapses into a dream of what will happen if Jon marries, a toddler arrives, and the abuse he will endure as the toddler grabs at him and chomps upon his tail. He marches outside, seizing Jon by the collar and trying to shake some sense into him. The girl, taking her first notice of Garfield, reaches out to pet him behind the ear. “She’s trying to get to you by getting to me”. Garfield warns in thought and pantomime – but a few scratches in just the right places, and even Garfield finds himself being won over, resting in her lap as she scratches his back above his tail. However, the girl has pushed her luck, and an old nemesis of hers arises – an allergic sneezing fit when she is around cats. The two humans are heartbroken at this development, but Jon stays faithful to Garfield, giving his pet a hug. Garfield remarks at the value of having seniority. The two humans realize they can’t be a serious part of each other’s lives, but promise to see each other from time to time. Garfield still wants to ensure that things will stay this way, by promising to himself that their meetings will be chaperoned – riding along with the couple as Jon drives her home, not inside the car, but stuck to the rear window by suction cups on his feet and hands, just like so many plush Garfield ornaments decorated real-life car windows of the period.

• “Garfield Gets a Life” is on Dailymotion

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My Generation G…G…Gap (Looney Tunes (unreleased, direct to video), Porky Pig, 3/31/04 – Dan Povenmire, dir.) – Hard to say if this one should have ever been produced. It was scrapped for theatrical release when box office on Looney Tunes: Back in Action failed to reach expectations (undeservedly). And it is definitely a departure for Porky, perhaps more jarring than Goofy’s 1950’s transformation to the “everyman”. Somehow, Porky is married? With a hip teenage daughter? (Where did Petunia fit into all of this, as she is never seen nor mentioned in the film.) Porky drives his daughter to her first rock concert, waiting outside the arena at a local coffee shop – where he sees a news story on TV about how out-of-control the concert tour has gotten at its previous venues, and sees a live shot from inside the area of his daughter wildly riding on the shoulders of a burly hunk. Porky spit-takes, and races for the arena, convinced that the performance is unsuitable for the likes of his young girl. A bulky gate attendant with a build reminiscent of construction worker Hercules from Bugs Bunny’s “Homeless Hare” refuses Porky entrance without a ticket, and even the influence of a talking Abe Lincoln on a five-dollar bill Porky offers the guard fails to impress him. Porky scolds Lincoln: “Y-y-you didn’t even try.” Yet, a couple of shapely girls get past the guard just on their good looks without any pass. Porky tries the same thing in drag, but just gets socked in the mush. Porky resorts to hiring a helicopter to lower him to the arena roof – however, the pilot is still giving him instructions when Porky jumps – and has not yet attached Porky’s safety cable. Porky falls through some high-tension wires, then crashes through the arena roof – in three dissected sections.

Inside, Porky lands inside an open guitar case next to the stage. The performance in progress has a rocker using guitars to smash everything on the stage – and Porky is the next “instrument” wielded. Bruised and battered, he is discovered by the guard. Running backstage, Porky ducks into wardrobe, and emerges wearing rocker’s garb, a mohawk wig, eye makeup resembling a member of Kiss, and two-foot tall platform shoes. Thinking he has spotted his daughter waiting around a dressing room backstage, Porky mistakenly demands that the young lady come home with him. She turns to reveal that she is a total stranger – and the other girls in the line would like to be taken home as well. Porky finds himself in the traditional predicament of all rockers – pursuit by an over-stimulated mob of women. He runs right into the guard, who fails to recognize him, and informs him that he should be on stage. Porky is deposited in the spotlight, while an almost stone-quiet audience tries to guess who he is. Porky tries to back away, but jostles a tall speaker, upon which someone has carelessly left a paper cup full of water. The water lands on a transformer, producing a short circuit, which makes its way up the cord of the microphone next to which Porky is standing. ZAP!! SIZZLE!! Porky engages in the most electrifying series of screams ever presented on stage, while a drummer in the back-up group behind him provides accompanying rhythmic beats. The whole stage blows up, and Porky is revealed next-to-naked. His daughter wails from the audience, “Daddy, how could you…” But the incident provides Porky with a new career, depicted in a mock TV commercial for a mail-away record album featuring 22 or so rock hits of other artists performed by a stuttering pig. As the list of hyphenated song titles scrolls across the screen, we fade out on Porky singing “B-b-b-bad to the bone.”

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Rabid Rider (Warner, Road Runner (CGI), 12/17/10 – Matthew O’Callaghan, dir.) – A late theatrical short, produced in CGI. Wile E. Coyote is rarely one to be intimidated by new advances in technology. But for once, a new innovation has him perplexed – mostly, as to what to do with it. Wile E. eagerly unpacks the crate of the Acme Hyper-Sonic Transport, and dons his protective safety crash helmet before mounting up. As Road Runner passes the boulder behind which he hides, Wile E. rolls into view – at a relative snail pace and in jerking and tenuous motion and direction, atop a self-balancing platform! The device makes sudden stops causing the coyote’s belly to jam into the handlebars, topples forward to smash his face into the ground and then rights itself again, rolls him face-first into a boulder, then shifts into reverse uncontrollably, taking Wile E. Past the camera, only to be knocked back into view as he is hit from behind by an oncoming truck. As Wile E. lies prone upon the pavement, his fingers nervously drumming, the conveyance rights itself and wheels its way up to his side, letting out a beeping signal to indicate that it is ready to go again.

Wile E. knows this thing needs more speed. Standing atop it, he attempts to lasso the Road Runner passing around the neck, hoping to be towed like a chariot. His toss misses, but catches the next best thing – the air-fin of a passing sports car. Wile E. is off to the races, but has to do some fancy pulling of the “reins” to swerve and avoid being hit by oncoming traffic in the other direction. He finds himself rolling faster than the car he is tethered to, and facing the reflective rear of the back of a tanker truck between himself and the bird. Wile E. manages to fight the balancing instincts of his conveyance, leaning backwards to do a “limbo” pass under the truck’s axles. Now in front of the truck and still proceeding at a good clip, he lets go of the rope, and extends his arms in attempt to reach the Road Runner’s neck. But, the road reaches one of those inevitable T-intersections at the edge of a cliff, and Wile E. and the platform fall into the canyon below. They do not hit the ground, but come to rest straddling a pair of power wires, with the platform mid-way between two poles. Wile E. shimmies over to join his platform, but their combined weight bends the poles together at the top until their transformers touch. ZOWIE! A well-fried coyote and his platform shoot up into the air, striking into the bottom of a rock ledge overhanging above, then roll down the cliff face, Wile E. giving us a look as if to say, “Not again.” He and the platform roll past the Road Runner below, and come to rest in an intersection between a road and a train track. The platform’s wheels are sandwiched in the track bed between the rails and the cross-ties, and the machine rocks back and forth in its confined space helplessly, as Wile E. sees the approach of a train’s headlight. The coyote wisely hops off the track and his vehicle to avoid the train, only to get hit by a crossing truck. As the shadow of the train passes the flattened Wile E. in the roadway, the platform somehow emerges from the incident unscathed, and beeps again to signal that it is charged and ready for more.

Wile E. has had enough of this troublesome contraption. Swinging it around himself several times, he hurls it off a cliff. The vehicle lands on a rock ledge, balanced on a fulcrum like a teeter-totter, with a massive boulder positioned on the other end. The boulder is propelled into the air, and lands mere feet behind the sulking coyote walking on a road. Wile E. is barely phased in his bad mood by the near-miss, but his bad luck isn’t over. A large delivery truck swerves to avoid collision with the boulder, and its trailer payload is thrown over the rock, landing again mere inches behind the fleeing coyote, and covering him in a cloud of dust as he falls to the ground. As the dust clears, a chorus of electronic beeps announces the rise from the ground, one by one, of an armada of self-balancing platforms carried by the truck, who line up on each side of the roadway like an advance guard for a royal procession. Who speeds down the middle of the rows, plowing over Wile E. in the process, but the Road Runner, aboard one of the platforms himself, uttering his “Beep beep” and riding off into the sunset, passing a canyon wall on which the words ‘That’s all, folks!” appear.

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Arthur Christmas (Aardman/Columbia/Sony, 11/23/11) attempts to bring the magical realm of Santa Claus into the modern hi-tech era. It also debunks a myth as to the everlasting nature of the man with the red suit and the white beard, who seems to have lived a good many lifetimes past the average human. There really wasn’t just one Santa, but several. In fact, the title has been passed down in the family for generations, the role of successor handed off twenty times since St. Nicholas to the most eligible of the clan, whenever one of those in charge reaches a stage of being past his prime.

The current Santa has already flown 70 missions. However, there’s been a lot of change to keep up with the demands of supplying toys to the entire world’s children in one night. No longer is the mission approached in the likes of a wooden sleigh. Instead, Santa’s vessel looks more like something out of Star Trek – the S-1, a giant, hovering behemoth of a space platform, complete with an underside of camouflaging cloaking panels to make it indistinguishable from the night sky as it moves into position to cover entire major cities. On a signal, an armada of elves drop on lines from the ship onto every rooftop, secure the area, and mass-unload the toys from panels in the bottom of the ship. Finding every which-way to enter into premises (one team is shown delivering presents to the president’s children in the White House by power-sawing a hole around a ceiling decoration of the Presidential seal), the elves scan sleeping children with a digital scanner that determines their percentage rating of naughty vs. nice before okaying the release of gifts from a supply chute. (One elf takes pity on a child who receives a borderline rating on the scanner, turning the device upon himself to register a more favorable rating and release the gifts.)

All is going well, and is monitored at a massive mission control base carved into the ice below the North Pole, until a child almost awakens to see the current Santa (who, more or less as a figurehead, delivers a few select toys personally). An emergency protocol is initiated to get Santa out of the touchy situation, and in the melee, a bicycle intended for a little girl falls from the ship and rests somewhere below undelivered. At mission control, two offspring of the current Santa become aware of the situation: one Steve, the elder brother and presumed next-in-line for the Santa title, currently in charge of mission control, and the younger Arthur, who has no dreams or realistic hopes of ever becoming Santa, and is a soft-spoken, sentimental type in charge of answering the letters to Santa. Arthur is distraught at the thought of the little girl who wrote for the bicycle facing complete disappointment on Christmas day when her bike doesn’t arrive, while Steve, more concerned for his own self-image and obtaining the family’s prestigious title of Santa the 21st, is not about to have it laid upon himself as being the first to allow the family’s perfect record of gift-giving to be spoiled. Steve talks his befuddled and confused Dad into classifying a one-in-a billion misdelivery as an acceptable margin of error, and Dad and Steve refuse Arthur’s request to send the S-1 out again to make the botched delivery. But Arthur will not rest until he sees that bike delivered – even if no one else will help him.

Arthur finds an unlikely source of assistance in the form of his cantankerous, headstrong, and a bit off-his-rocker Granddaddy, who was Santa before Arthur’s dad. Granddaddy claims he has a way to get Arthur to his destination to deliver the gift, and reveals out of hiding away in an ice cave something he’s been saving that no one else seems to know about – the original wooden sleigh previously used in his own heyday and by generations of Santas before him. Powered by magic dust distributed upon a team of reindeer, the “relic” can still make a top speed of 45,000 miles per hour, and maneuver under the hands of one trained in the reins to spin on a dime, streak through the skies like a comet, and fly to the moon and back if necessary (Granddaddy does so for Arthur, just for show). He remembers the good old days when the Clauses were the only humans who knew how to fly, and thinks of the present Santa (his own son) as a wimp who’d barely be able to control one of these babies. The Sleigh, in honor of the holiday, has been affectionately named “Evie”. Arthur experiences a white-knuckling but fascinating ride without the benefit of seat belts, and grows to have an equal admiration with Gramps for the ways of old, as Gramps shows him tricks like making a snowman out of cloud formations. But, a storyline we must have to support a feature-length CGI film, and a mishap places Gramps out of the driver’s seat and Arthur left holding the reins. Arthur does a good deal of globetrotting, arriving at the wrong destinations, losing the reindeer, and ultimately having the sleigh destroyed, while back at mission control, Dad and Steve finally get wind of Arthur’s secret mission, and embark on their own mission to rescue Arthur. Ultimately, all four surviving males of the Santa clan converge on the same location to try to right the wrong at the crack of dawn, but it is Arthur who, with his large heart (Steve in the course of the action discovering that he just doesn’t have a natural knack for getting along with children), receives the honor of placing the present under the tree. At Arthur’s suggestion, all of them hide behind a door, to witness the glee of the little girl when her present is opened. Dad remarks that in his 70 years, he’s always been too busy to see such an event firsthand – and realizes he should have made the time for it all this while. Even Steve is touched, and, with his blessing, allows Dad to pass the honor of the Santa title to – Arthur. By the next year, Arthur is at the helm of the S-1, but with a few changes. Its name has been changed to “Evie” in honor of the magic sleigh. And its power source is now the hooves of five thousand reindeer!

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Tokyo Go (Disney, Mickey Mouse Cartoons (TV), 7/12/13 – Paul Rudish, dir.) – Another of Mickey’s frequent international episodes from this series, this time set in Japan, providing plenty of opportunity for imaginative and colorful background art. Mickey plays a typical Japanese commuter, facing the day-to-day hustle and bustle of trying to get to work from the congested urban setting of a busy railway station, and facing the current rage of commuter technology, the bullet train. He purchases a ticket for the blue line, then attempts to follow the colored lines on the station floor to his train’s departure zone. Unfortunately, the blue line on the floor intersects at right angles to a red line, and a mob of pedestrian cross-traffic sweeps up Mickey, pressing him onward toward the red train instead of the blue one. As bad or worse than New York subways, Mickey is tightly crammed into the train doorway by a station guard, so that when the doors closed, Mickey is plastered between the door’s glass windows and someone’s butt. Mickey pops out of the collar of the passenger’s coat to get a breath of the meager air supply inside the car as the train takes off, with enough inertia around a curve to send shock waves to the street below, piling four cars one on top of the other. Mickey looks around, seeing the blue train out the windows running at equal speed on another track – then also sees a sign at the end of his car reading in both English and Japanese, “Exit”. Mickey slips his way through people’s pantlegs, briefcases, and collars, attempting to make his way to the exit door through the sardine-can of humanity. His pants are punctured by the spiked heels of a gang of punk teens, but he manages to pass over them by swinging from the hand-holder handles in the ceiling of the car like Tarzan. But one passenger is unavoidable – a Sumo, whose girth blocks the whole car. Mickey has to peel off his trousers, revealing a Sumo’s pant-bandana underneath. The Sumo meets his challenge, also peeling down to the same bandana, and the two circle one another for combat. They both charge one another – but Mickey ducks at the last second between the Sumo’s legs. The behemoth crashes into the remaining passengers at the end of the car, both knocking himself out and clearing a path so that Mickey can escape through the exit.

Now, how to reach the proper train? The blue line is still speeding on a parallel track, but the speed of the trains makes any attempt to cross to the other seem impossible. Mickey is nearly blown away merely climbing onto the roof of the red train, and plays a dangerous game of dodging oncoming low signs and signals which protrude over the train roof as it passes them. Mickey shimmies every which way to miss being hit, and at one point even has to temporarily detach his ears to avoid disaster. More barriers in the form of poles or walls pass between him and the blue train to prevent a safe crossing. Finally, the blue track veers away, descending at an angle to a lower level, where its track passes under a bridge of the red line to cross at a right angle. Mickey’s last chance. In slow motion like a Japanese anime film, Mickey takes a daring leap from the bridge, passing a flock of ducks on the way down, and miraculously lands successfully upon the blue train’s roof. (How could he not be swept off or bounce given the blue train’s equal speed? But this is, after all, a cartoon.) In a matter of moments, the blue train screeches to a halt at its destination, and Mickey hurries from the local rail platform to a small park with a miniature red barn, entering the structure and flipping over a door sign in the window to read “Open”, then punching a time clock which finds him right on time. His job? The engineer of a Tokyo Disney duplicate of the “Casey Jr.” circus train ride known from Fantasyland in the States. Mickey displays a contented preference for the leisurely pace of this mode of travel, breathing a relaxed sigh as he circles the course with a load of happy children in tow.

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World Wide Wabbit (Warner, Wabbit (Bugs Bunny), 9/22/15) – Yosemite Sam’s been in prison for 20 years, but finally tunnels his way out into the big city and freedom. “I’m free, I’m free…I’m broke”, he observes from his empty pants pockets. Conveniently, he has come up just outside the doors of a bank – the easy answer to his cash problems. He observes he has no firepower, but, setting up a running gag for the film, realizes that his pointing fingers pack as much ability to shoot up his surroundings as a pair of pistols. Thus, he marches into the bank, telling everyone to reach for the skies. The modern bank, however, is something absolutely new to him – no tellers, vault, or long lines, just Bugs at an ATM machine. So how do you hold the place up? Bugs tries to explain to him that everything’s gone digital – lots of ones and zeroes. Sam states he wants lots of bills with ones on them – followed by a lot of zeroes. Bugs continues that there’s nothing here to give, as its all on the Internet. “Okay – Hand over the Internet!!”, screams Sam. “Oh, boy”, mutters Bugs, realizing he’s dealing with a hopeless boob. Bugs again begins by informing Sam that the Internet isn’t something you just had over, and is hard to explain. He asks Sam to imagine a big delivery tube. “A big tube – got it!”. jumps Sam to conclusions, then checks outside for a kid’s drinking straw, an inner tube floating at a pool party, and even a girl’s tube top. “Eh, no”, cautions Bugs before he can touch it. Sam finally spots the biggest tube he’s ever seen, and runs into a subway tunnel, to be quickly run down by a train.

Bugs explains again that “tube” was merely a metaphor, and that digital information is in the cloud. Of course, Sam commandeers a hot air balloon to reach it, and Bugs makes sure he promptly falls out of its basket. Sam orders Bugs at trigger-finger point to take him to the Internet. Bugs leads him through a dark ventilation shaft, into a room where a game of turning on and off a pull-string light switch results in an unexplained change of locale and/or costumes with every pull of the switch (including lion’s dens, train tunnels, and even a gold room to which Sam just can’t return by turning the switch on and off again). Enough shenanigans, declares Sam, shooting away the pull string with a shot from his finger. Bugs finally tells him that the Internet is directly above them. Sam climbs a stepladder and saws a hole in the ceiling, then climbs up. “I’m on the Internet”, he shouts with jubilation – until he looks at his surroundings, and discovers he’s made his way right back into his jail cell, with a mob of police standing ready to capture him. As the sounds of police brutality echo from the hole above Bugs, Bugs climbs the stepladder himself, sticking a cell phone with camera up through the hole, and declaring “You’re on the Internet now, Doc.” As the live video records, the groggy voice of Sam is heard to say from the beating, “I’m up to a million hits already.”

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Hareplane Mode (Warner, Wabbit (Bugs Bunny), 10/15/15) – Bugs is crossing the street, when Yosemite Sam careens down the road, texting while driving. The result is inevitable, with Sam’s car a wreck, and Bugs thrown onto the sidewalk. Sam has no concern for the victim he just collided with – only for his Smart phone, which bounced out of his convertible onto the pavement. Sam blames the rabbit for carelessly walking into the road when he could see Sam was texting, and threatens to sue when he notices a hairline crack in the screen of the phone. “I’m gonna sue the pants off ya”, he shouts, until Bugs points out he’s not wearing any pants – and also points to a billboard, advertising a new model phone available today. “Ya done me a favor”, Sam acknowledges in making him need a new phone, and Sam approaches the line in front of the “Phone Home” store, shoving all others to one side to be first in line. Who should be behind the counter in the store but Bugs, disguised as a typical teenage sales clerk, ready to seek revenge on this menace to society. “Gimme, gimme, gimme”, insists Sam, while Bugs deluges him in paperwork to sign and other red tape. Bugs demonstrates new security features, like a self-defense mode available at the push of a button, causing a gorilla fist to emerge from the phone screen and sock Sam in the jaw. Bugs sets a ringtone to a setting marked “Lion attack”. It goes off, emitting the sounds of a purring kitten. “That don’t sound like no lion attack”, complains Sam – until it signals a real lion to maul him. Bugs suggests switching to vibrator mode, but Sam insists it be nice and strong so he doesn’t miss any calls. Bugs sets the vibrator to “Apocalypse”. At a board meeting, an incoming call vibrates Sam right out of a skyscraper window to a 40-story drop. His mere leaning against a tree and a building when on the ground during phone rings brings down on his head a bee hive and a grand piano.

Sam returns to the store, demanding to return the phone. Bugs states be can’t understand why Sam is having issues – “That never happens with modern technology.” Bugs convinces Sam to keep the phone or be faced with the shame of using an older model, and resets Sam’s vibration lower. But Bugs isn’t through. That evening, he calls Sam, impersonating someone informing Sam that he’s won a grand sweepstakes prize, but interrupting the conversation with voice impressions of static, as if the signal is breaking up. Sam tries desperately to keep the connection going, first moving the phone all around the room for a stronger signal, then outside, then into the desert, and next the mountains. He finally re-establishes the call, shouting “Hello, hello…”, and brings down upon himself an avalanche. Then, the previous ring tone gets reactivated, and Sam is mauled by lions again. A bedraggled Sam returns to the store, again demanding a refund. Bugs pretends to be willing, but holds up the phone, dripping from melted snow from the avalanche, and states that he can’t take the phone back due to water damage. Sam insists that there’s no damage and he can prove the thing is working right, but everything he presses activates the gorilla punch, until he finally knocks himself out. Removing his disguise, Bugs remarks that this new model still had a few “Bugs” in it, then turns to the audience as if another customer, closing as he did in “Rabbit of Seville”: “Next!”

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More than I can write about comfortably with my DVD temporarily mislaid and out of reach is Disney’s Ralph Breaks the Internet (11/21/18). A complicated tale finds Wreck-It Ralph and child racer Vanellope von Schweetz, two characters from old arcade games, in a dilemma when Vanellope’s video game, “Sugar Rush”, is rendered on the blink by Ralph’s helpful meddling in attempting to liven up the game for Vanellope by building her a new digital road. The steering wheel of the game becomes broken, and is only available as a vintage part at high cost in the resale market on the Internet. To keep the game from being scrapped by the arcade owner, Ralph and Vanellope travel through a Wi-Fi router to the world of the internet, structured like a magical city, in search of the replacement wheel and enough digital bucks to buy it. The mission, however, becomes rather unnecessary, as Vanellope discovers the existence of an online urban street racing game where everything is wild and unpredictable instead of the repetitive and tame race courses she has been used to, and decides she’d like to stay. Ralph feels his trust and friendship have been betrayed, and his own insecurity is built upon by a villainous character who creates clone duplicates of Ralph, merging into a colossal mega-monster. Ralph ultimately conquers the monster by conquering his own insecurities, realizing Vanellope is wise enough to make her own decisions, and he and the little girl part company as friends, staying in touch long-distance via video/email.

The film is also remembered for a memorable, if self-promoting, incident where Vanellope, who is considered a princess in her Sugar Rush game, encounters a Disney website, and meets all the famous princesses of past Disney classics, rendered in CGI. There are some funny bits, like Cinderella defending herself from the intruder by breaking one of her glass slippers and wielding the broken half like a bottle in a barroom. There is even a crossover from Pixar’s “Brave” of Princess Merida, who speaks in a heavy Scottish dialect which the others admit no one can understand, as one princess adds, “She’s from the other studio.” By the end of the sequence, Vanellope has all the princesses thinking like her, and each wearing similar knit casual shirts like Vanellope instead of their usual gowns. I remember seeing a complete set of dolls from the sequence in the special shirts for sale at a Disney store for a high but not exorbitant price based upon the sheer number of dolls in the set. It was tempting but out of my reach, and I wonder how many people managed to acquire it (the only copy I have noticed intact on line selling for $179 bucks – not a bad rate of investment return).

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Virtual Mortality (Warner, Looney Tunes Cartoons (Bugs Bunny), 11/25/21 – David Gemmill, dir.) – After all these years, Elmer is determined as ever to know the feeling of victory – of finally catching that wascally wabbit. His latest efforts have him axe-swinging over Bugs’ rabbit hole (his latest cartons don’t allow him to use a shotgun – but is axe-swinging any less violent?). Between swings, Bugs asks if he’ll ever give up. Not until he’s felt victory – just once. An idea hatches in Bugs’ head, appearing in the form of a light bulb – but a swing of the axe fractures the bulb’s glass. Nevertheless, the idea remains in Bugs’s noggin, and he runs with it. He and Elmer could go on like this all day, with Elmer accomplishing nothing. Or, Elmer could achieve the feeling of victory – right now. “I’m wistening…”, says a skeptical Elmer. Bugs reminds Elmer that they are now living a modern era of technological marvels, and demonstrates what he means by disappearing into his rabbit hole to tinker loudly with some tools within. Bugs emerges from the hole carrying an old football helmet, fastened to which are a set of yellow safety goggles, and a snorkel. Elmer asks what it is, and Bugs displays it as a virtual reality helmet. With this, Elmer can experience the virtual reality of capturing him – something that in all likelihood will never occur in the real world. Still not sure what to believe, Elmer is at least willing to try the device on. Bugs “activates the simulation function”, by clunking Elmer a resounding blow on the back of the helmet with a hammer. As Elmer’s blurred vision comes into focus through the goggles, he can’t believe the clarity and detail he sees – of course, of the real forest before him. But Bugs reminds him he is viewing a virtual world that “ain’t real”. To prove the point, he hands Elmer a lit “virtual bomb”. “Wow! It wooks so dangewous!” marvels Elmer. Elmer asides to the audience that if this was real, he’d be freaking out about now. But since it’s virtual, he can be fearless. KA-BOOM! Now Elmer marvels at how real the virtual pain feels.

Bugs giggles to himself at how good a setup that was, and too bad its over so soon. But the rabbit hasn’t counted on Elmer’s recuperative powers, and in a few moments, Elmer has him tied up in rope, thinking he has “virtually caught” the wabbit, and now gets to virtually cook him and find out how good he virtually tastes. As Bugs is twirled on a spit over an open fire, he realizes things are being carried a bit too far. So, in his usual manner, he bluffs, convincing Elmer to not settle for such a small prey in this virtual world, but to go for an even bigger “virtual rabbit” – like the one over there. Slipping out of his bonds, he points out a grizzly bear eating honey from a hive, with his back facing Elmer. Zipping around behind the honey tree, Bugs extends one hand out to simulate, with two fingers, long ears protruding from the bear’s head. Elmer takes the bait, and approaches the bear, grabbing his fur and ordering him to come along quietly. When the beast doesn’t respond, Elmer kicks him. “I’m talking to you”, Elmer shouts, then reminds the beast that this is virtual reality, and Elmer’s in charge. The bear comes face to face with Elmer and snarls. Elmer again marvels at how vicious-looking these virtual wabbits are. Soon, he is experiencing that remarkable virtual pain again.

Elmer walks wobbly over to Bugs, stating that he thinks he’s had enough of the virtual world. But Bugs convinces him not to be a quitter, and to experience what it would be like to virtually conquer his biggest fears. What are the things that frighten Elmer most in the world. He answers, fear of heights, and his mother. Bugs hands Elmer a “virtual” cel phone, calling up Mom, and Elmer, again reminded that this “ain’t real”, tells off his Mom in no uncertain terms, that he’s through having her pick out clothes for him at the store, and also through eating his vegetables – so gets “virtually” cut out of Mama’s will. “Congratulations” says Bugs, shaking Elmer’s hand in close-up, for conquering both his fears. Elmer is confused, as he hasn’t conquered his fear of heights. “Ya could’a fooled me, Doc”, says Bugs, noting how well Elmer has taken to virtual sky diving. The camera pulls back, showing both of them somehow in the middle of a free-fall. But only Bugs is wearing a parachute. Elmer slams into the ground, while Bugs uses his chute to make a graceful landing. Bugs finally asks for an opinion whether Elmer enjoys better virtual reality, or hunting in genuine reality. “Neither”, responds Elmer matter-of-factly. “I prefer metaphysical reality.” Elmer assumes a lotus position, floats upwards a few feet off the ground, and makes a departure from the cartoon through a worm hole. A puzzled Bugs looks at the audience, and closes with the observation, “Huh, I’m more existential myself, but different strokes for different folks.”

This series of articles will no doubt need supplementation as time goes on, and new trends, fads, music styles, or other changes roll around worthy of satire and comedy. Any ideas as to something worthy and modern that hasn’t made the medium of animation yet? You could have the inspiration for the LOL classic of tomorrow. Share your suggestions – – or better yet, get cracking on your own animated productions!

A few more this week from Hanna-Barbera, then more bullfighting action from UPA, Terrytoons, the Disney Afternoon, and even from Japan.

Smurf Me No Flowers (The Smurfs, 11/27/82). Lazy Smurf, true to his name, loves to spend the day performing no work, and snoozing away. Oddly, he’s experiencing a problem he’s never faced before – inability to doze off, no matter what position, and no matter where he tries to sleep. Experimenting with new sleeping locales in the underbrush of Smurfette’s garden, inside Baker Smurf’s cupboards, and even down the village well, is driving the other Smurf’s crazy with fright at discovering his wide-awake eyes in the darkness. Brainy Smurf suggests Lazy see Papa Smurf for some sort of magical cure. But even Papa Smurf claims to have nothing for Lazy in his bag of tricks. The best cure he knows for sleeplessness is good old fashioned exercise. Exercise? Not a permissible word in Lazy’s vocabulary. Lazy leaves Papa Smurf’s home with a feeling of hopelessness, just as Vanity Smurf bursts in, panicking at the condition of a withering plant in a pot, and hoping that the wrinkles in the plant’s leaves aren’t catching. Papa tells him to leave the plant with him to see if there’s anything he can do. Meanwhile, Lazy breaks the news to Brainy outside that Papa had no magical solution. Brainy is unconvinced that these words could have come from Papa, and advances to Papa’s door to speak to their leader himself. But before entering the doorway, he overhears the voice of Papa Smurf, remarking “If only he’d come to me sooner. It looks like this is the end. I’d say two more days, at the most.” Of course, he is talking to himself about the plant. Brainy, however, assumes the worst – that Lazy is not long for this Smurf.

Brainy spreads news of the tragedy to everyone except Lazy and Papa Smurf. The Smurfs plan to make Lazy’s last days as happy as possible, starting by throwing him a going-away party – hopefully without letting him know he is going away. All hope for secrecy dies quickly, when a Smurf’s ode to Lazy causes him and others to break down in tears, and Clumsy Smurf blurts out the bad news, amplified by Brainy repeating similar phrases in trying to shut him up. Lazy gets it, and his first instinct is to retreat into solitude. His continuing inability to sleep results in a change of plans. He resolves to use his last two days wisely – by doing great things he was always too tired to do. Ride roaring rapids. Conquer the highest mountain. And tame a fierce wild beast. The other Smurfs tag along in hopes of dissuading him, or at least keeping his numbered days from dwindling in number prematurely. Lazy accomplishes the first two tasks, while his friends take the lumps in a wrecked canoe and caught in a rolling snowball. As for the beast, Lazy selects a menacing-looking bull in a cow pasture. The Smurfs get an idea to prevent another disaster, and divert Lazy for a few moments with the suggestion that he needs a few more slices of Baker’s cake to strengthen himself before taking on his foe. In the meanwhile, the Smurfs perform a switcheroo, doctoring and dolling up a cow to serve as the bull’s substitute. Lazy returns, carrying a large red autumn leaf to serve as a cape. He gets some slow responsive action by waving it at the cow, and the cow passes in plodding, non-threatening manner, while Smurfs seated on the cowpasture fence shout “Ole”. Lazy takes bows between passes to his public. The noise of the event is heard by Papa Smurf, who has remained for the day inside his home, tending to the sick plant, and achieving wonders that seem to ensure the plant’s survival. Carrying the plant along to deliver to Vanity, Papa finds the village deserted, and follows the sounds of the cheers to the cowpasture. Of course, the misunderstanding is quickly cleared up, to everyone’s surprise – particularly Lazy, who stammers, “Then what am I battling this fierce beast for?” Lazy turns to run, but the other Smurfs laugh and tell him of the substitution they made. However, a snort of hot breath above their heads tells them the danger isn’t over – the real bull has returned. The Smurfs scatter, every Smurf for themself, as the bull charges, but is stopped by a smack of his head on the pasture fence. By the time they reach the village, Lazy is found – fast asleep. Papa remarks that he told him some good exercise would cure his problem. However, exercise has also been a sure cure for everyone else’s ability to doze, too, and Papa finds the village’s entire population exhausted in the square and snoring everywhere. Papa smiles, and turns to Vanity’s plant, remarking, “Well, little friend, it looks like you and I eat alone tonight.”

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Just Rambling Along (from “The Tom and Jerry Kids Show”, 10/31/92) – Mice have large families. (For example, witness, all those cousins of Herman the Mouse we knew for years at Famous.) We’ve been introduced to Jerry the Mouse’s cousins and uncles since 1951. His family further expanded in the Tom and Jerry Kids Show with the introduction of Slowpoke Antonio – a character who seemed to descend (or steal) in equal parts from Jerry’s Uncle Pecos (“Pecos Pest”), and Speedy Gonzales’s cousin Slowpoke Rodriguez (“Mexicali Shmoes”/“Mexican Boarders”). What, cross-pollination between the products of two rival studios? Next thing you know, some genealogist will find a direct bloodline link between Jerry and Pixie and Dixie!

Slowpoke differed primarily from his namesake at Warner Brothers by speaking in a Western twang, singing in off-key country yodeling style, and being an expert in fancy lariat work in the rodeo. His connection to Uncle Pecos became painfully evident in his first appearance in the series, where he completely lifts Pecos’s reach-out-of-the-TV ending to hogtie Tom. This time, Slowpoke is given a starring cartoon of his own, and for reasons unknown, has traveled to sunny Spain, believing there is a rodeo playing locally in which he wants to enter the bulldogging events. Of course, he erroneously enters the local bull ring through the matadors’ entrance. Just before reaching the ring, he encounters a Senorita and her Mamacita mouse in a box seat located within a flower pot. The Senorita asks if he is the matador who will fight the bull. Slowpoke claims he doesn’t know what this “matador” stuff is (a writing inconsistency, as, at a later point of the film, he utters verbal challenges of “Ole” and “Toro”, and adds “That’s matador talk”), but boasts that he can throw any bull in this here parts. The snorting breath of a bull’s muzzle suddenly blasts at him, as the bull has overheard the insulting claims of the little “turista”, and denies that he can be thrown. Slowpoke puts a stop to the “rude interruption”, by plugging the bull’s nostrils with two corks, and stating that he doesn’t like being in a draft. As Slowpoke enters the ring, the bull gallops toward him at full speed. Slowpoke grabs onto the bull’s nose ring, and attempts to stop him (though in fact being pushed several times across the arena), claiming this ain’t no way to start a rodeo. Slowpoke pulls out his lariat, and with a great time of only a couple of seconds, has the bull on his back and hogtied at the hooves. Slowpoke tells the cantankerous bovine to get back to his pen and not come out until it’s his turn.

The bull makes an ungraceful exit bound in rope, but somehow breaks loose and re-emerges, ready for another charge. Slowpoke is butted into the air, landing on the bull’s back. This suits Slowpoke fine, as he always loves the bucking bronco event. He performs a wild ride, staying upon the bull bareback. Then, gag material begins to get highly derivative of several past cartoons. One gag has Slowpoke opening the bull’s mouth, to play his teeth like a piano keyboard (Tex Avery’s “Bad Luck Blackie”). Slowpoke produces a branding iron, and, as the bull hides behind a wooden barrier, brands him right through the wood (derived from Pixie and Dixie’s “Cousin Tex”). A tug on a triple-looped lariat around the bull turns the bull into a link of sausages (“Popalong Popeye”). Slowpoke finally adapts to toreador cape, and plants an anvil behind it (“Bully For Bugs”, derivative of “The Grey-Hounded Hare”). And the bull can’t stand Slowpoke’s singing (“El Kabong Strikes Again”). Writers (or shall we call them “researchers”?) must have been really hoping the viewing kids had never seen other cartoons before to hope to get away with this many gag thefts unnoticed. Yet, in fairness, the animation is of reasonably high quality, commensurate with the obviously larger budgets H-B was able to obtain for this show, pacing is energetic and more in tune with the classic theatrical days, and, if you can ignore the fact that you’ve seen almost all of it before, it doesn’t play badly. Slowpoke ends the film serenading the Senorita, who acknowledges that she thinks he’s a great bullfighter – if only she could say the same for his singing.

• No online prints available of “Just Rambling Along”. If you find one, let us know.

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A late entry nominally-billed as Hanna-Barbera product by Cartoon Network was Johnny Bravo’s Did You See a Bull Run By Here? (7/28/97). It’s a bit of a weak finish to the H-B bullfighting legacy, without much of a plotline. While at the Pamplona running of the bulls trying to pick up Senoritas, Johnny winds up in the way, has his shirt snagged by a charging bull, and is dragged into the bull ring. He still tries to put the make upon a shapely American girl in the stands, but someone hands him a cape, saying he is going to need it standing in the ring. Johnny doesn’t know what it’s for, and throws it over his shoulder, playing cavalier and spouting poetry to the lady in improvised Shakespeare fashion. He is tapped on the shoulder by the hoof of the bull, who says its nothing personal, and agrees that violence isn’t the answer, yet knows the rules. Johnny’s got the cape, so they gotta fight. Johnny gets butted into the air three different times (once as himself, once playing matador, and once attacking the bull with kung fu moves. All his flights into the air result in crashing into the dust below, leaving three identical craters stretched end to end at arms-length. Johnny says it’s getting personal. The bull meanwhile lounges between rounds on a lawn chair with a martini, gets a manicure, and flirts with the American girl, trying to tell her a funny joke. Someone passes the bull a phone in the middle of his flirtation. “Talk to me”, he grunts. A voice says, “Look behind you.” It is Johnny, wearing an oversize red boxing glove. With one punch, he K.O.’s the bull. The American girl leaps into the ring, checking on the bull’s condition, and tells Johnny, “Well, I hope you’re happy.” It seems losing bulls in these parts are eaten by the crowd, and their hooves turned into ash trays. As the folks in the stands raise their knives and forks, and the dazed bull sings a chorus of “Won’t You Come Home, Bill Bailey”, Johnny provides a distraction, by simply pointing to the sky and stating, “Look up there.” While the crowd looks, the girl drives into the arena with a convertible, and she, Johnny and the bull drive away, leaving the crowd asking whether they should order Chinese. The girl turns out to be a Hollywood producer, and signs up the bull for a movie contract, but only on the bull’s condition that Johnny also be signed as his comedy partner. Johnny ends the cartoon in a successful career as the bull’s stooge, remarking to the camera that a guy’s gotta make a living.

• A flipped version of “Did You See a Bull Run By Here?” is on a block of Johnny Bravo cartoons on Dailymotion, beginning at 1:14:23.

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Turning back the clock again to the 1950’s, UPA’s The Boing Boing Show included a bullfighting episode entitled The Matador and the Troubadour (circa 1956?). Only a foreign-language print without subtitles is currently available online, so I can only give details beyond the visuals from memory of a prior screening recorded on VHS which I cannot readily lay hands upon. It tells a simple tale of a village where the local matador reigns supreme in the eyes of the villagers – and especially, the ladies – in popularity, while a small, lonely troubadour strums his guitar alone in the streets, virtually unnoticed (except by a rather plain and homely village girl, who is the only one charmed by his plaintiff ballads). The troubadour believes he has all the moves and grace to match the matador, and indeed is shown in a side-by-side performance behind the matador’s back, matching his every move in miniature. Thus, the troubadour begins training in secret to learn all the passes of the matador, with the local girl assisting by charging at him with a set of bull horns attached to the head of a wheelbarrow. The film attempts to be slightly educational, naming in Spanish several of the passes he perfects, but ending with something that sounds like “El Paseo Ridiculoso” – a move that gets the Troubadour completely wrapped up from head to toe within his own cape.

The day finally comes when the Troubadour presents himself for a tryout at the bull ring. The Matador, in attendance at one side of the arena, accompanied by a beautiful Senorita, scoffs at the amateur upstart, as does his girl. The bull they release is so mean, he wears a patch over one eye like a pirate. The Troubadour makes a gallant try, but repeatedly gets mowed down by the bull. Even the bull starts to take pity on him as he lays in the dust of the arena, propping him up with his muzzle so that the Troubadour can continue the fight. Finally, the Troubadour repeats his “Paseo Ridiculoso”, swishing his cape repeatedly from one side of the bull to the other, and winds the bull up in fabric, using the cape to hogtie him upside down as if in a rodeo. Cheers go up from the crowd. The matador in the stands utters a half-hearted “Ole”, but is surprised when his Senorita abandons him, and appears in the ring, offering her hand to the Troubadour for a kiss. The Troubadour is about to deliver the kiss, but then has second thoughts. If this girl will so easily dump the matador, would she not someday possibly do the same to him? Is she worth it? The Troubadour concludes, no – and so, without delivering the kiss, releases her hand, bows to her respectfully, and exits the arena. Where does he go? Back into the village, to sit next to the plain and homely girl, who smiles, offers him his old guitar which she has saved, and faithfully sits quietly with him, to listen entranced to his melodies. True beauty runs farther within than skin deep.

• A German-language print of “The Matador and the Troubadour”, at least showing-off the visuals and the music, can be found on Youtube titled “Zu Gast bei Paulchens Trickverwandten – Der kleine Troubadour” on the channel of Joey Bridgehouse at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fu2wnezvjSM

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A whole article has been devoted by the columns of Dr. Toon on this site to the story and history of Toei Animation’s feature-length Saiyuuki, or Alakazam the Great (8/14/60) (as known to American audiences), and its checkered editing and translation in attempt to make its material palatable to the U.S. market. I thus won’t go into its sometimes unfathomable plot about a magical monkey king, his fall from grace by challenging the gods, and his lengthy pilgrimage with a ragtag band of friends to achieve humility. However, it is odd that it has been forgotten by the readership here, as its climactic sequence develops into a full-blown bullfight with an evil bull-demon who resorts to his roots, transforming into a humongous and pure-animal version of the bovine beast for a savage showdown with Alakazam. Alakazam himself produces a red cape, and adds something no other animated depictions of the sport have included – the decorated banderillas, spear-like poles, used to puncture the bull’s shoulder muscles and weaken him. To make things a little more magical, the battle occurs in mid-air, both characters defying gravity (Alakazam doing so by taking up his matador positions while standing atop a floating cloud, while the bull needs no cloud to gallop airborne at will), with both of them hovering over a volcanic lava pit. The bull action is rather traditional to the moves of the ring, with graceful passes, and multiple spears placed into the bull’s back. (It’s hard to tell if the animation shows primarily red paper streamers upon the spears, or if there is some suggestion of bloodletting from the wounds.) It seems unclear what is the fatal blow or cause that finally sends the bull tumbling from the sky into the lava pit. Strangely, one of Alakazam’s companions, a large pig in a kimono who provides most of the comic relief, is in possession of a magic fan which can freeze things in its path. He chooses at this moment to wave the fan to stop the lava flow, freezing the lava and the mountain peak in ice. So we may never really know if the bull demon burned to a crisp in the volcanic molten rock, or merely was placed into a deep freeze.

The full feature of “Alakazam the Great” is on You Tube. Below is an 11-minute highlight reel including the bullfight:

NEXT WEEK: We’ll wrap a cape around this subject, with some more Disney, and contributions from WB, The Simpsons, Dreamworks, and a feature.

• A perfect print of “When Mice Were Men” is on You Tube.

Now Gadget can complete her project – a mechanical toreador! Mounted on a wheeled base, the device also features flip-down anchoring boards with metal spikes at the ends, to allow the machine to hold its ground when needed. Its waist consists of a large coiled spring, giving it flexibility during the passes, and a broom handle out of the torso serves to hold out a red tablecloth as a torero’s cape. Everything is operated from several stations within the machine, by pulleys, ropes, and levers. The first charge brought on by waving the cape repeats the old standby gag of positioning the cape in front of a large boulder. The bull is dazed, but not down. Pass number two relies upon the spring-waist, tossing the bull backwards on the rebound, but having almost an equally-jarring effect upon the Rangers within. Plans A and B having not worked quite as Gadget hoped, she asks the others to stall for time, while she works out the coordinates for a plan C with a slide rule. The robot toreador and the rangers take a bit of a beating in the meanwhile, but manage to regain a standing position, while the bull rubs his horns together to sharpen them, ready to finish the job. Planting one anchor of the toreador in the ground, and leaning just so to one side, Gadget induces a side pass that spins the toreador device around at the waist by its mainspring, catching the bull with it into a spiral, then reversing the force of the wound-up spring, to launch the bull upwards into the bell tower of the mission, where he becomes solidly wedged inside to tower’s huge bell. The rangers leave him there, getting the bull wagon rolling downhill toward the village, to arrive just in time to crash, breaking open the wagon pen lock to release the other bulls in time to save the fiesta. El Emenopio (whom Dale, who never can get the name right, refers to as “El Lemonpie-o”) stumbles back into town after having somehow gotten free of the tower, but is so groggy, Monty is able to knock him to the ground with just a flick of one finger upon his nose. The mice clamor around Monty, and carry El Monte Grande in a victory parade upon their shoulders. Dale grumbles at Monty taking all the credit, noting that the rest of them did as much as he did. But a small child in her mother’s arms extends Dale a kiss on the cheek, thanking “El Dale Grande” for saving the day, bringing a quick end to Dale’s complaining, as he blushes and responds bashfully, “Gosh, it was nothin’.”

Chip, Gadget, and Zipper console Monty, and assure him that, with their unified help, they can better the odds against the villain. But there’s still the matter of Dale. Dale is still outside, thinking the bull is paying possum and just trying to mess up his show of heroism. Dale tries to lasso the bull and drag him off with a rope, but still can’t budge him. Chip emerges, trying to get Dale to follow them inside, and insisting that Dale can’t do the job all by himself. The two chipmunks get into one of their usual verbal debates, while the bull comes to. It is not long before they are both cornered against a wall. Gadget meanwhile has been engaging in her own specialty – trying to construct a mechanical contraption out of the debris in the storage shed, with Monty’s help. They discover upon looking outside that their help may be too little and too late to save their chipmunk friends. But one team member is neither too little nor too late. Little Zipper the fly hits upon an idea, and zips straight into one of the bull’s ears. The bull becomes entirely distracted, pawing at his ear and trying to hit his head on the side with the opposite hoof to get the proverbial bee out of his bonnet. The diversion does the trick, and Chip and Dale join the others inside the shed as Zipper also flies through the crack in the door, leaving the gang in temporary safety.

The mice’s present plight has resulted from the unexpected return of El Emenopio, days before the festival, making no attempt to attack of interfere with the humans, but singling out the mice for destruction and punishment. A phase two of the bull’s plans is quickly revealed, as the time arrives for the bulls to run – only to leave the populace gazing upon an empty street. The bulls have disappeared! The Rescue Rangers rise to the occasion to conduct investigation, Monterey Jack hesitantly bringing up the rear, as if none-too-anxious to get involved in the situation. The trail of inquiry leads to the corrals of a hacienda where the bulls would usually be maintained – but none to be found. Only fresh wagon tracks, leading several miles away to the gates of an empty mission – and hoofprints pulling it, of humongous size. Monty can tell in an instant that only one animal could have made those prints – El Emenopio. Sure enough, when they enter the mission yard, the missing bulls are immediately spotted in plain sight, locked in a wagon bed, and who should be awaiting their arrival but Monty’s old adversary. El Emenopio snorts his challenge, stating that he knew destroying the mice’s homes and stealing the bulls would bring Monty back – so he can now take sweet revenge. Instead of answering the challenge with bravado, Monty, knowing well that Dale has been itching to get into the action, relinquishes responsibility to Dale and offers him the chance to be the hero. Dale advances on the bull, who gives him virtually no notice, his eyes still glued on Monty. Dale tries to grab the bull’s tail to throw him like in the flashback, then grabs upon his horn in attempt to bulldog him – all with no effect nor recognition from the bull. Seeing that the bull remains unhampered, Monty directs a full-speed retreat of the remaining rangers through a crack in the door of an old building storing a small pile of long-neglected tools and debris, including an old broom, splintered wood, springs, and other bric-a-brac. The bull crashes his head into the wooden door, temporarily knocking himself cold. Explanations are in order from Monty, who finally fills in all but Dale on the details of the past. What the villagers thought they saw several years ago was at a distance. In reality, Monty had just been wandering along the road next to the wall overlooking the bay, after having scouted up one of his favorite pieces of smelly cheese. Upon catching sight of El Emenopio trashing the town, Monty had turned to run – smacking right into the wagon of a mouse clothing vendor. In rolling through the merchandise, Monty had accidentally come up with the toreador cap and suit, and with the red cape dangling on his tail. The bull charged the red cape, and crashed into the wall as in the legend. But instead of throwing the bull into the fishing trawler, El Emenopio’s downfall came from standing up upon reviving, and slipping by placing one hoof upon the squishy wad of cheese Monty had dropped on the pavement during his own tumble. So the legend had been born – from mis-reporting of what had occurred – and Monty was the only one who knew he was in fact no match for the bull’s ferocity.

Upon arrival at the village in the Ranger Plane, the rangers are surprised to see nothing out of the ordinary among the town’s human population, who are busy gathering and decorating the place for the village’s biggest annual festival – the running of the bulls. Upon turning into a smaller back alley, a different sight awaits them. The small pottery, crates, and other objects that the local mice use as their homes have been well trampled everywhere. The rodent residents come out of hiding among the rubble, and shout praise that “El Monte Grande” has returned to answer their call. The other rangers are genuinely surprised and impressed at the renown of Monty – but the usual braggadocio of the largest ranger seems to have disappeared from him, and only the locals will reveal the story of how Monty became so “Grande”. In a flashback sequence told by them, we learn that several years back, during a prior running of the bulls, the fiercest bull in all Spain, El Emenopio, went without an invitation. The slighted bovine stormed into town despite the lack of welcome, and began tearing up the place, frightening away both the others bulls and the humans in his determined effort to bring a halt to the festival. According to the legend, only one stood his ground against the invader. None other than Monty, wearing mouse-sized toreador hat, yellow suit, and flashing red cape. A wave of the cape, and the bull is lured into smashing face-first into a rock wall bordering the bay. Monty is then shown grabbing the bull by the tail, swinging him around in the air in the manner of Mighty Mouse in “Throwing the Bull”, and tossing the bull into the fish-filled tank of a trawler heading out to sea. As the scene returns to the present, and Dale expresses hero-worship of Monty’s feats, Monte remains tight-lipped and exhibiting a visible degree of embarrassment, and remarks that there’s a good deal of luck involved in any heroic endeavor.

When Mice Were Men (Disney, Chip ‘n’ Dale’s Rescue Rangers, 11/17/89), presents a typical high-quality script for its extended half-hour length. Monterey Jack is usually the first one to tell (many times over) of his tales of past exploits as a daring world-wide adventurer – and Dale the first one to provide an audience as an avid listener. But there’s one episode from Monterey’s past as to which he’s been entirely hush-hush – even though it earned him the reputation of a local hero. The incident cones to light when Monterey receives a letter from Trampleonia, Spain, desperately seeking his help. Though they are told nothing of the details by the letter (or by Monterey), the other rangers volunteer to accompany Monty as a team to the colorful Spanish village to investigate. Dale in particular is eager to team up with Monty, hoping for a chance to share in the glory of participating in a fearless rescue.

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Deputy remains clinging to the matador’s waist, informing him that bullfighting is un-legal in this country, and that he is under arrest. The matador jabs Deputy in the gut with his elbow, causing Deputy to lose his grip and fall. Deputy lands hard on the diving board, and is sprung back up again, passing the matador, and snagging away his cape in the process. Now with no parachute, the matador falls into the drink. He utters what seem to be curse words at Deputy in Spanish, while Deputy, now floating down himself with the cape, retorts back, “Well, the same to you, fella!” Deputy lands on the ground under the cape, and the matador leaps upon him, pounding viciously upon the cape to deliver Deputy a hidden beating. The bull reacts with shock at the sight of seeing someone beating up on his friend, and begins to snort and paw the ground. Muskie remarks, “I thought you were afraid to fight, Mr. Bull.” The bovine remarks, “Oh, no. I am not cheeken. I simply did not wish to fight – – until NOW!” The bull charges, knocking the matador into a tree so hard, the trunk is nearly snapped in half, and the matador sports a black eye. But the matador is pleased. “So, you have decided to fight”, and holds out his cape in traditional manner, shouting “Toro, Toro.” The bull charges again, and the matador makes a sweeping move and reversal of direction to let the bull pass. “Surprise”, says the bull, who, instead of passing, has put on the brakes, and is standing directly behind the matador’s rear end. POW! Deputy covers his eyes – almost, stating “I can’t bear to look – Well, maybe a little.” The bull returns, carrying the battered bullfighter on one horn, speared through his trousers seat. “You want a news flash? I have just discovered I like this bullfighting, Senor Deputy.” “No, no!”, shouts the matador, darting away in retreat, leaving a patch of his pants on the bull’s horn. “Come back, you cheeken bullfighter”, shouts the bull, as they both disappear in the direction of Mexico. Vincent asks whether Deputy thinks they’ll make it back to their own country. “Si si, Vince. They’ll make it, I theeeenk. That’s foreign talk.”

Muskie and Vincent usher the bull into the watermelon patch for hiding. The matador soon joins them, telling the “chicken” to come out, wherever he is. Deputy follows, but is knocked back by the matador tossing a watermelon at him from his sword tip. The bull sees merit in this strategy, and launches two watermelons at the matador from his horns. Muskie and Vincent lead the bull off in search of a better hiding place, with the bull thanking them, “Muchas gracias”. Vincent doesn’t have the hang of the language yet, and responds, “Oh, yeah, we’ll get ya’ much grass, too.” They hide together in the waters of the creek, in close proximity to a diving board. The matador steps out on the board to look in the water, just as Deputy catches him by the waist. Both Deputy and the matador bounce off of the board, with the matador landing seat first – on the bull’s submerged horns. Springing high into the air, Deputy and the matador begin to sail slowly back to earth, with the matador’s cape billowing out like a parachute to suspend them. (Is this where Tennessee Tuxedo later got the idea in his opening credits?) The bull comments “Ees fun for everyone here, si?” Muskie responds, “Yeah, I see.”

Chicken Bull (3/30/63) is a fairly-short late season episode of The Deputy Dawg Show from Terrytoons, but packs plenty of action and gags into its running time of only 4:06. Muskie awakens from slumber with Deputy and Van Gopher at their creek fishing hole, to observe a sight the likes of which the South has never seen – a bull in a small sombrero, floating to shore while rowing with the aid of an inner tube. The bull claims to have been paddling for nineteen days, and states he is seeking political asylum. “Nobody by that name around here”, responds Deputy. Clarifying that he merely wishes to stay in this country, the bull is told by Deputy he can stay as long as he wants to. But it seems the bull will stay hidden in a tree stump, as a matador appears in pursuit of the bull, addressing Deputy at sword-point with inquiry as to the bull’s whereabouts. Deputy demands that he remove that pig-sticker from his chest – please – and finds out that the charge against the bull is running away from the bull ring. The matador refers to him as a “chicken bull”, causing the bull to give away his position with the response, “I am not chicken. I just do not weesh to fight.” The matador sticks his sword point into a hole in the stump, forcing the bull into the open, while Deputy hops onto the end of the matador’s cape to prevent his pursuit. “He doesn’t have to fight unless he wants to”, says Deputy. “That’s what you theenk, gringo”, says the matador, pulling the cape out from under Deputy’s feet for a backwards flip of the lawman.

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The Disney and Pixar Studios have recently given us a bit of an over-saturation of feature animation spotlighting one of nature’s reputedly most industrious critters. At least one of such kind appears in a prominent part in Zootopia 2, while a swarm of them form the principal animal cast of Hoppers. As I have not yet been able to acquire home media versions of these films to review, I am not up to speed on them, and they will not be further discussed in this series. However, it might be said that this recent cinema trend is setting us up for the Year of the Beaver – so I thought it might be fun to trace the buck-toothed, flat-tailed character’s history in animation, and see how these character-actors of nature have fared in the dam-dest of situations, starting from the earliest days of sound.

(A note here is in order. While in the process of writing this first installment, which I had actually been percolating the research for as of at least a year ago, I happened to discover by chance online that another author, in anticipation of the “Hoppers” premiere, has been thinking along the same lines, and attempted a brief survey of the same subject on Cartoon Brew. I swear this was a case of coincidental independent creation. Nevertheless, in reviewing the other article, I observed that most of its material consisted of title-dropping and some clips without much discussion of cartoon content, and (as in the case of our recent coverage of bullfighting cartoons) many on-subject films were omitted from the title list. I thus proceed full steam ahead with the present project, to add some depth as to the gags and ideas presented in the subject films, and to fill in a number of gaps.)

Correct me if I’m wrong. It’s rather surprising that I seem to have come up empty in locating any verified appearances of a beaver in any known surviving silent cartoon. You would think Paul Terry’s Aesop’s Fables would be loaded with them somewhere – but they don’t seem to even turn up in natural settings where you’d expect all varieties of animals to be represented, such as “If Noah Lived Today” or “Amateur Night On the Ark”. Maybe the primitive pencils at the Terry studio couldn’t hit on a model design for the creature they felt comfortable with. Similarly, Max Fleischer missed his chance to include the species in his first Talkartoon, Noah’s Lark. It thus appears that Disney (as he often did in those days) got the jump on everybody, including the characters in one of his earliest Silly Symphonies, Autumn (Columbia, 2/13/30 – Ub Iwerks, dir.) (noticeably overlooked by the Cartoon Brew coverage, as were nearly all of this week’s films).

Part of a four-episode quad-rilogy, themed about the four seasons of the year (though one might say the follow-up, Night feels like it makes the series a set of five). All of the films are relatively plotless, concentrating on well-synchronized cavorting to a lively Carl Stalling score. The first half of this one deals with various animals gathering their stores for Winter while the leaves fall. Squirrels do most of the heavy lifting, while scavenger crows raid the squirrel’s hollow tree homes and swipe corn, storing it away inside the pantlegs of a farm scarecrow who isn’t scaring anyone. A skunk tries to roll a large pumpkin into a tree, but when it doesn’t fit, gives it a running tackle to push it through, only resulting in the fragile pumpkin shell cracking and depositing its innards all over him. A porcupine has a better method of harvesting, shaking a fruit tree and catching the falling fruit on the ends of his quills (a gag later repeated in Father Noah’s Ark, discussed below). Now comes a brief sequence for the beavers, changing subject.

The beavers dance atop a dam under construction in the foreground, tamping down lumber into its structure with their tails, while several other small groups of beavers are seen in the stream, constructing beaver dens with entrances below water. Two beavers dance together in synchronized rhythm along the bank, then chew down a small tree, which topples onto the head of one of them. In the later climax of the film, as the first cold blasts of winter wind are felt, one beaver calls an alarm to the others, and one-by-one, several beavers dive into the water and are seen as bulges and vibrations within the structure of a beaver den, having entered it from below. A stranger appears – a misguided duck, who doesn’t have the good sense to fly south, and instead also dives under the water, attempting to join the beavers in their comfy abode. He is quickly and rudely ejected, swimming away with complaining quacks. The skunk looks for shelter, but gets hit with a back of porcupine quills from inside one tree already occupied – so moves into another one, sending all of its furry occupants scattering for another tree next door. The crows get the final shot, taking up residence inside the hollow clothing of the scarecrow. One small crow is left out, and kicks the pantleg of the trousers, hoping for access. In an ending which nearly duplicates that of “The Skeleton Dance”, the bony foot of one of the crows reaches out from the drop-seat of the trousers, yanks the little crow inside, then re-buttons the drop-seat.

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Minus Iwerks (who by this time had moved on to another animation studio), Disney’s beavers make a comeback in The Busy Beavers (Columbia, Silly Symphony, 6/22/31 – Burt Gillett, dir.). Obviously, with the beavers taking center stage, there’s a lot more room for action and gags in this one. It’s rather comical also to note that in both of these early cartoons, the sound engineers seem to have no idea what a beaver should sound like (their natural sounds are more like grunts), so decide to use what sounds like a squeaky toy to emit puppy-dog like high-pitched barks. This does have the advantage of permitting quick one-note tones that fit easily into the punctuated rhythms of an average cartoon score, but must still bring howls from anyone who’s studied the behavior of the animals in the wild. The sound effect also proved rather interchangeable – I swear I’ve heard the same “voice” given to foxes and bear cubs in productions from various studios, not to mention used in its proper place for Bosko’s pup at the end of early Looney Tunes. (Who was that pup anyway? Baby Bruno?)

The film opens with the usual construction under way of a dam and beaver dens – though with broader scope that the previous film’s opening shot, panning back and forth across the river full of busy workers. A first gag has one beaver curl up his tail to form a place to carry a load of lumber, then hold a small cylindrical stump between his hands. The beaver loading the lumber on takes hold of the other beaver’s rear feet, balancing him upon the held stump, and carts the lumber to the worksite, using the first beaver as a living wheelbarrow. Another beaver searches for just the right lumber in what seems to be a woodpile, but finds within a sleeping moose, who stands to reveal the beaver trapped as a passenger in his antlers. Another pair of beavers mix a muddy mortar in a hollow tree stump, one beaver loading up his cheeks with water from a nearby pond to spit into the stump, while the second mixes the solution in the stump with his tail. Then, a line of beavers arrives as hod-carriers, using large leaves held aloft atop Y-shaped tree branches as their tools to carry the mud to the dam, emptied into them by the tail of the mixing beaver.

More heavy construction occurs elsewhere. One beaver hangs by his tail from the limbs of a flexible sapling, whole another tugs at a lower branch like a crane operator, maneuvering the higher beaver into position to chomp upon and transport cut logs from a pile to an assembly line. One by one, the logs are threaded between two husky beavers, who combine with their sharp teeth to hone each log down into an elongated conical shape. Then, the shaped cones are flipped by beavers’ tails into the shallow water, point down, where they are hammered into place by the tails of two more beavers to serve as pilings. (I’m not aware that a dam requires pilings – are they also building an auxiliary pier?) In the woods, a team of two cutting beavers moves along, making short work of felling trees marked with X’s, while a scout beaver proceeds ahead of them, choosing just the right trees of strong grade for marking and felling like a lumber crew boss. Two large worm-like creatures in one tree save their home by spotting the freshly-chalked X left as a marker, and rubbing it off before the cutting crew spots it. Some beavers approach the cutting task solo. One, who might be the laziest of this beaver colony, is large and lethargic, casually cutting a very puny sapling and slowly walking away with it toward the dam, in a gait that suggests he is in no mood to exert himself. Eclipsed behind him is a much smaller beaver who is all energy, and fells an older-looking tall pine while an owl is still perched on its branch. Single-handedly, the young beaver pushes the heavy tree down a slope and into the river, then propels the tree downstream by spinning his tail as an outboard motor, tugging on the owl’s tail as if a ship’s whistle cord to pass a slower-moving log team of beavers who is rowing their lumber with tail action like the crew of a scull in a college boating race. As the young beaver’s log hits the riverbank, rolling the beaver off and up onto land to collide with a rooted tree, a lightning flash illuminates the sky, and the first drops of rain begin to fall.

In one of those elaborate long-cycles of animation that only Disney seemed capable of carrying out successfully in those days, a full shot of the river and just-completed dam shows the entire beaver community scurrying for the safety of their dens. The little beaver is bringing up the rear, and is the only one to spot that the construction project has not gone quite according to plan. The earthen-packed base of the dam has sprung a small leak, with a spout of the newly-arrived rain water shooting out. The beaver begins to play the role of the Dutch boy at the dike, plugging the hole with one paw, only to have another hole develop elsewhere. One paw after another, and even his face, are used to block the holes, but he soon finds himself short on number of appendages to hold back the current. Cleverly, he spies several small sticks protruding from the dam edge, and grabs them up, throwing them like darts to plug each of the previous holes – only to find that they had already been serving a blocking purpose in their original position, as a delayed spout of even more forceful water bursts from where he plucked the sticks out. In desperation, the beaver sits in the hole, providing a temporary plug, until his tail is chomped upon by the jaws of a snapping turtle swimming in the waters on the backside of the dam. The turtle is pulled through as the beaver leaps out of the hole in pain, and the beaver makes due by propping the turtle’s shell up against the hole in the dam to do the plugging job, the beaver bracing the turtle into permanent position by wedging a stick between the turtle’s chest and the dry river bottom.

Troubles are not over. A dark rain cloud above bursts as a lightning bolt tugs at a zipper in its bottom, dropping enough rain to form a massive wall of water in an area about a mile above the dam. A couple of wonderful shots show the progression of the flood that develops in the hills down the river, particularly a tracking shot just ahead of the flow as it careens around a continuing curve, taking out trees protruding into the river bed in 3-D style detail as it goes. The little beaver, now standing atop the dam edge, watches in horror as the leading edge of the flood waters reaches the beaver dens, nearly swamping them, and subjecting the dens to a beating from the floating logs passing in the waters. The beaver hops down into the river bed on the front side of the dam, and tries to hide in its shadow from the oncoming rush of water and debris. The water pounds repeatedly upon the dam’s backside, then suddenly breaks through, seemingly destroying the dam’s entire middle expanse – until the water recedes somewhat, showing that the beaver has been left on a small island of safety in the river’s middle, only a sliver of the dam center still standing to offer him protection.

With the other beavers still having their hands full within the dens, little beaver is forced to come to the rescue. He races for the tallest and largest pine along the riverbank, and like a buzzsaw chews deeper and deeper into its trunk, about 90% of the way across. The tree begins to tremble, and the beaver does an about-face to get out of the way, nearly getting trapped when the sagging trunk briefly catches his tail. He pulls out just in time to let the tree fall across the river, but is right in the path of its collapse, as the felled tree lands in perfect position to cover the complete expanse of the river width, proving to have dense-enough foliage to stop the flood water in its tracks. (Unlikely, given the general amount of space between branches of the average tree.) Dozens of birds emerge from the greenery and fly away from the fallen forest giant. In one of the earliest Disney moments where we are led to believe a character has passed, there is no further movement from the tree for a few seconds, and the musical tone turns somber as the camera slowly closes in on the tree’s uppermost limbs. Suddenly, the tension is relieved, as the smiling face of the little beaver, safe and sound, pops out of the greenery, wearing a bird’s nest as a hat. The other beavers, now safe in the still waters surrounding their dens, dance for the little one in celebration. The little beaver smiles and bows to his adoring fans, and takes off the nest as if tipping his hat to his public. His moment of glory is briefly marred by the egg in the nest choosing this moment to hatch, allowing a featherless baby to repeatedly utter “Cuckoo” at him, for the iris out.

Were this cartoon produced later, without the need for music synchronization timing to eat up footage and slow general pacing, the plot/gag material for this early outing was actually quite strong, and full of typical Disney innovation for a first cartoon focusing on a new subject idea. Though the picture hasn’t achieved an everlasting spot as a timeless classic in the Disney hall of fame, it deserves a second appraisal. And it seems a “dam” sure bet it was remembered by at least some folk in Chuck Jones’s unit in the 1940’s, as its story structure bears substantial similarity to and seems the direct inspiration for Chuck’s own classic, “The Eager Beaver”, to be discussed in later pages of this series. It’s easy to imagine how much of this cartoon’s material could have been directly interpolated by Jones into his own film had scripts been swapped, with Jones probably achieving just as lively results as his own film from the Disney gags.

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Beavers almost miss the boat in Disney’s major animal adventure, Father Noah’s Ark (UA, Silly Symphony, 4/8/33 – Wilfred Jackson, dir.). They are never seen involved in the initial construction process for the ark, nor in woodland group shots, not in the stampede racing for the ark, nor on the boarding gangplank. And they certainly didn’t tag along with the pair of skunks who make the voyage on the roof of the ship. Yet, somehow, they are seen in the third-to-last shot of the film, disembarking. The male and female beavers march down the gangplank, side by side, each one carrying a new youngster along on its tail. Guess they stayed busy on the trip, even if they missed being on the passenger list and traveled as stowaways.

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Either competing studios were blown away by the Disney efforts above, or just for unknown reasons were slow to adopt the beaver into their animation models for various forest-related cartoons of the period, as, for a few more years, no beavers seem to turn up in cartoons I’ve been able to discover. I again could be overlooking something, as reference to beavers rarely turns up in the titles of episodes, so if anyone remembers any other early beavers, feel free to comment. Harman and Ising seem to have missed their opportunities entirely, choosing not to include beavers in such possible vehicles as “Ain’t Nature Grand?”, “The Trees’ Knees”, and “Bosko’s Woodland Daze”. But, as Leon Schlesinger began to shift the Merrie Melodies series to color, we get Pop Goes Your Heart (Warner, 2-strip Technicolor, 12/8/34 – Isadore (Friz) Freleng, dir.). In essence, this is Friz’s idea of a Silly Symphony, considerably behind the times, and resembling something Disney might have produced several years before. It is another plotless romp in nature, with the likes of humming birds and humming bees, a papa grasshopper teaching his young ones to spit with chewing tobacco, turtles learning to swim by flipping over on their backs and stroking with reeds like a rowing crew, and some harp-stylist spiders playing the title tune on the strands of their web, while worms inside two apples simulate the limbs of a pair of dancers, and a trio of croaking frogs sings the lyric. (The song, by the way, was a semi-hit from Dick Powell’s feature, “Happiness Ahead”.)

About two-thirds of the way into the film, our attention shifts to a community of beavers, engaged in the usual dam and den building. Two beavers, however, prove that a beaver’s life shouldn’t be all work and no play, engaging in some recreation between shifts, finding their tails to be of natural use in an intense game of tennis, using them as racquets to hit a ball (where did they get it?) over a net of cobwebs. A bear comes lumbering through the woods, trying to let out intimidating roars, but having his first come out like a kitten’s meow – causing him to spray his throat with an atomizer to correct his tone. He first begins following one of the turtles too closely, only provoking the amphibian to bite a painful snap upon his nose. The bear thus turns to easier prey, chasing the beavers. The beavers duck into a hollow tree, and the bear sticks his head into the trunk to snarl at them, but can proceed no further. One beaver sneaks out of a hole in the upper trunk, then administers a light spanking to the bear’s rear with his tail. At the top of the tree, another beaver chomps at an overhanging limb, dropping a bombshell of a hanging bee hive upon the bear’s back. The hive bursts open, plastering the bear with honey and attracting the bees to swarm upon him. The bear runs for it, colliding with the fence of a farmer’s field and tumbling over the top of it into a pasture. With the gooey honey mixed into his fur, the bear is a magnet for the dry grass, and rolls down an incline, developing a growing coating of grass around his entire body in the manner of a rolling snowball. At the base of the hill, a farmer works with a hay-baling machine. He can’t tell the difference between a bear covered in grass and a haystack, so tosses the bear into the machine with his pitchfork. The bear emerges with torso encased in a bale of hay, and exits at a gallop over the hills, leaving the farmer to scratch his head in puzzlement.

• “Pop Goes Your Heart” is on Dailymotion

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Though Ub Iwerks may have invented the animated beaver, he didn’t find much opportunity to use him in productions from his own cartoon studio. What appears to be the only such instance was a brief cameo shot in Iwerks’s wintertime classic, Jack Frost (ComiColor, 12/24/34). A forest full of various animals opens the first shots of the film, cavorting in a public game of leap frog (no, Flip is not a participant). A small bear is the first to notice an observer on a tree limb, with the mere utterance of his name drawing the undivided attention of the forest folk. A magical elf, by the name of Jack Frost, has appeared, carrying a paintbrush and artist’s palette, with which he performs magic by changing objects’ color and appearance to render them harbingers of approaching Autumn. He is seen painting the green leaves into orange and brown hues, and calls down an advance warning that summer’s gone, and Old Man Winter will be knocking at their door. Better get their food and nuts stored away. A dancing quartet of beavers responds, “Thanks, Mr. Jackie for your advice. We’ll hurry home to our wives”, while various squirrels complete the rhyming couplet by stashing nuts in their trees, and stating that they’ll “have their cupboard filled with supplies, when Old Man Winter Arrives.” That’s all the beavers get to do. The rest of the film follows the misadventures of a determined grizzly bear cub, who thinks he’s too tough to have to worry about winter cold thanks to his furry coat, and doesn’t want to hibernate like his parents. When the cub ventures out into the forest, Old Man Winter locks him away inside a hollow log with a row of icicle bars to block his exit. But Frost takes pity on the disobedient cub, and uses his paint magic to change the ice bars into peppermint sticks, allowing the cub to lick his way to an escape. Jack flies the cub home, tucks him in to sleep, then writes in frost upon the window as he exits, “Finis”.

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Beavers also don’t get a lot to do in Van Beuren’s The Hunting Season (RKO, Rainbow Parade, 8/9/35 – Burt Gillett/Tom Palmer, dir.). This was in essence the first starring vehicle for the budding character of Molly Moo Cow, who had first appeared as a guest nemesis in the color Toddle Tale, “The Picnic Panic”, and who even as of this production had still not received a name. The beavers are oddly the first to be spotlighted in the film (Gillett by this time well-acquainted with animating them), building a dam and tamping down mud with their tails in a serene forest scene, shared with squirrels gathering nuts, a mother bird tending to two young ones in a nest, and two ducks swimming in circles in the river. Enter Molly, just randomly venturing through the woods. She decides to take a dip in the stream, and tests the water with her hoof and tail, which seems to be a bit colder than is to her liking. The ducks pull a prank upon her, tugging at her tail to pull her abruptly into the water. Molly counters the prank by sticking her head underwater and blowing bubbles that float the ducks off of the water surface into the air, pop, and deposit the ducks onto her back. Little by little, the joking relationship makes her and the ducks fast friends. Meanwhile, a human hunter prepares one of his shotguns at a nearby campsite, and strides into the area. Spotting the same serene forest scene we started the film with, he soon wreaks havoc upon it with his shotgun full of buckshot. He fires upon the bird family, shooting away the branch upon which the nest rests, causing mom to have to rescue in mid-air her falling flightless chicks. He blasts at the squirrels’ tree, piercing a gaping hole in the trunk, out of which pours all the nuts and the squirrels as well. And he takes pot-shots at the fleeing ducks in mid-air. Yet he takes no shots at the beavers! I guess he’s not in the market for trappers’ pelts. Molly gathers up the two ducks as they fall from the sky, at first mourning them, but finding them to be all right, as one of them rings her cow bell. They inform her what just happened, and Molly carries them to the hunter’s campsite, where they pick up a crate full of ammunition and a small arsenal of the hunter’s other shotguns, all threaded upon Molly’s tail. Together, they race back to the forest, where they deposit the weaponry for the others to see, inform them of a plan for revenge, and distribute shotguns and ammo to each of the forest residents. The hunter enters a clearing, looking for the fallen ducks but finding only a handful of feathers on the ground, while the camera pulls back, revealing the forest army surrounding him from all sides. This appears to be the first of many instances in which multiple studios would find use for beavers in “Give him the works” sequences of mass forest retaliation. Everyone opens fire upon the hunter from all directions. The beavers play their part in only one scene, apparently stocked for gunpowder but not for bullets, so they load their rifle with marsh reeds, which don’t have much lethal effect, but spear-off the hunter’s jacket, then tickle him like crazy under the armpits and in the tummy. The ducks decide to launch pumpkins off the end of their gun barrel, leaving the hunter wearing the shell of one like a helmet, with two more pumpkin shells rolling around his ankles like a set of wheels. The ducks next launch a bee hive, with end results similar to the bear’s retreat in “Pop Goes Your Heart”. Molly and the ducks march back to the rest of the forest folk in triumph, but the ducks drop their rifle, causing it to accidentally discharge, leaving Molly awkwardly scurrying up a tree, to moo to the camera for the fade out.

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Porky in the North Woods (Warner, Porky Pig, 12/19/36, Frank Tash[lin], dir.) features a lot of beaver involvement. Porky is ranger of a game preserve (he calls it a game refuge), where there is (as declared by an endless display of signs posted in the forest) no hunting, no fishing, no trapping, no fires, and no, no, a thousand times NO! But one shadowy figure, who is seen through half the picture only as a silhouette on the snow while heard speaking in a French-Canadian accent, seems determined to ignore, and break, every rule. He shoots down the No Hunting signs, catches fish, starts campfires carelessly left burning, and lays strong steel traps throughout the woods. Two playful young beavers are engaged in a game of leap frog, propelling each other forward by flips of their tails under the other’s feet. They encounter a bright shiny apple hanging from a thread draped over a tree limb. One’s pulling upon the string triggers one of the jagged traps behind him to clamp upon his tail. He yells to his brother to go get Porky to help. Some historians, including Leonard Maltin, have incorrectly given credit to Tashlin’s work on the later “Porky’s Romance” as an innovation in the cutting and timing of action in super-speed. They neglect to mention that Tashlin was already experimenting with high speed and rapid-fire cutting at least as early as the battle finale of “Little Beau Porky” in mid-1936, and here in the beaver sequence, easily as finely timed as Petunia’s high-speed run after candy in the later acclaimed film. Beaver #2 zips out of frame, and in movement deliberately blurred by speed lines, traverses six scenic backgrounds in perspective in under four seconds! Just to make sure nobody blinked and missed it, the beaver screeches to a stop, realizing he’s forgotten something. At the same lickety-split tempo, he runs the course in reverse, to nab the coveted apple for his meal, before repeating the action a third time in his quest to locate Porky.

When Porky hears the news, he comes a-running, prying open the cruel trap holding beaver #1. The beaver’s tail is bent in a zig-zag, and the beaver frets that he hopes it isn’t a permanent wave. But Porky’s worries are only beginning, because the beavers aren’t the only victims. Everywhere he looks, he spots more traps, with more animals caught in them. A rabbit is caught by the ears. A fox by his bushy tail. Yes, even a skunk by his striped rear appendage, which Porky has to free while holding his breath with a clothespin on his nose. Each of the animals suffers the same zig-zag creasing from the traps’ jaws as did the beaver. So Porky sets up what resembles a laundry business in his ranger’s cabin, though his services are free of charge. A seemingly-endless queue of victimized animals waits their turn, as Porky performs miracles with a towel and hot flat iron, ironing smooth the ridges left in the animals’ anatomies by the traps. There is one, however, who is displeased at this turn of events. The mystery trapper, who can easily see the tell-tale signs of Porky’s and the animals’ footprints around each of his empty traps. Someone has confiscated all his prizes, and he wants revenge.

The trapper is finally revealed as one Jean Batiste – a large, burly, lumberjack-style dog. He easily traces the tracks back to the ranger station, and walks in on the line waiting for Porky’s ironing. Grabbing the iron, he uses it without the aid of insulating towel directly on Porky’s tail, straightening it like a dart, then sticks the rigid tail into the table woodwork, suspending Porky above it, to be punched back and forth like a punching bag. He throws Porky across the room, his tail again piercing the wood of the cabin wall like a dart, placing Porky’s rear end over the escaping hot steam of a whistling tea kettle atop Porky’s stove. Then, Batiste pulls out a sled dog whip, and removes one of his snowshoes. He lassoes Porky with the whip, pulls him out of the wall and back to him, then smacks Porky with the snowshoe, bouncing him off the wall like a tennis ball, and playing a painful one-man tennis game with Porky taking all the hits. Beaver #2 sees all this happening from the doorway, and again retraces his previous steps through the six scenic backgrounds at super-speed, finally coming to a stop below a fuzzy hanging object above, which he pulls. It is the goatee-like fur hanging from the throat of a giant moose, who bellows out a low-pitched wail as an alarm of distress to the forest. In several shots of fine animation detail, rows of bears come charging out of caves, skunks from within trees, a parade of snapping turtles tapping a beat on their shells with drumsticks as a marching band, and of course, hundreds of beavers from dens in the river bed. They converge on the cabin just as Batiste has succeeded in knocking Porky cold. Jean prepares to leave the cabin, but quickly spots the approaching stampede, and tries to bolt the door. No matter. The animals smash it down. Jean speeds out of a rear exit on skis. It’s time to “give him the works” again. Two bears launch the beaver twins at him via crosscut saw catapults, and they slap his head around with their tails as well as wooden sticks. The turtles slide between Jean’s skis, beating his bottom with clubs as they pass under. More beavers launch a barrage of small logs at the back of Jean’s head via slingshots rigged into the antlers of moose. The skunks also launch fitting weapons from their tails – smelly, rotten eggs. Finally, the beaver twins pull the old vine-across-the-path trick, tripping Jean and launching him skyward and off the mountain slope. Jean begins to descend, upside down, and his skis act like whirling propeller blades, spiraling him into a twist, so that he screws himself firmly into the snow-covered ground below, only his ankles and skis left protruding from the snow. The revived Porky, who seems to have recuperated entirely, joins the animals in cheers of victory – then smile at observing what the beaver twins are up to. They have taken advantage of Jean’s downfall and present position, by converting his inverted skis on Jean’s ankles into their new playground attraction – a see-saw (an ending likely “borrowed” from Morty and Ferdie’s similar see-saw atop Mickey Mouse’s head in Mickey’s Steam-Roller of a few seasons back).

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Little Hiawatha (Disney/UA, Silly Symphony, 5/15/37 – David Hand, dir.) is a forest masterpiece that certainly earned director David Hand the future right to be supervising director of “Bambi”. It tells the tale of Longfellow’s mighty Indian warrior – when he was just starting out as a tiny boy, out for his first day of solo hunting in the woods. He is capable enough in rowing a canoe, but has a lot to learn when it comes to bringing back prize game. Try as he might, he can’t get close enough to the animals to take a shot with his small bow and arrow, as they keep running out of range. The only two creatures who stay still long enough for him to aim are a grasshopper (who proves himself the better marksman by spitting in Hiawatha’s face), and a tiny baby bunny, who is too inexperienced and becomes cornered atop a tree stump. Hiawatha shouts, “Yippee” and aims his bow. The bunny, however, turns on him a set of what Charlie Dog at Warner Brothers would have called the “big, soulful eyes”. Hiawatha starts losing his nerve to go through with it, sniffles, and sheds a single tear. He then gets hold of himself, and decides to make it a fair fight, reaching into his Indian trousers (which, by the way, someone really needs to buy him a belt for – as the running gag of the film has his pants falling down at least seven times!) and pulling out a matching bow and arrow with which he arms the bunny. Positioning himself and the bunny back-to-back, he paces off five steps in duel fashion, turns, and pulls back his bowstring to fire. The bunny, however, is no opponent, having no idea what to do with the weapon, which drops out of his trembling hands. Frustrated, Hiawatha kicks at the dirt, shoos the bunny away to his waiting parents, then breaks his bows and arrows across his knee. He’s given up picking on the little guy. This reaction brings cheers from the creatures of the woodland, embarrassing Hiawatha, who shyly backs out of the scene.

Hiawatha’s day seems to be entirely spoiled, until something catches his keen eye – large paw prints in the soft earth. Bear tracks! Forgetting his lack of weapons, Hiawatha’s tracking instincts take over, and he bends an ear to the ground to listen for vibrations of movement, then follows the trail of tracks deeper into the woods. Though the tracks seem large, the one that made them is by far not the largest of his species – a bear cub, whom Hiawatha comes up upon nose-to-nose. Hiawatha becomes excited, and seems to think he can bring this one back alive with his two “bear” hands, so pursues the cub further into the woods. He spots the cub hiding behind what seems a large brown rock, and climbs atop the rock to obtain a position of advantage over his opponent. Until the “rock” moves. We are never made aware whether it’s the mother or the father – but with an angry bear, does it really make a difference? The character model for the beast is gorgeous in detail, expressiveness, and ferocity – the most memorable design in the film – and was never surpassed until the ultra-realistic grizzly who battled Copper in The Fox and the Hound. Disney would fall back upon the same design for several films to follow, including Good Scouts, The Pointer, and Donald’s Vacation.

But where do beavers come into the picture? Right about now. The forest animals can see Hiawatha is in trouble, and decide to repay the act of kindness Hiawatha showed them. Thus begins another elaborate “give him the works” master plan to slow up the bear. Several beavers rally the forest creatures with an alarm, beat out in rhythms upon a hollow log with their tails. A squad of raccoons pull down a long vine from the branches of a tree and stretch it across the bear’s path to trip him up. The beavers are ahead at the bank of a stream, floating a log up to the shoreline for Hiawatha to climb upon as he reaches the water. The beavers paddle him a short distance into the stream, hoping to leave the bear high and dry. But they are not fast enough, and the beast leaps into the water, getting his front paws upon the end of the log, and flipping Hiawatha into the air and onto the trunk of a nearby tall tree. The bear continues swimming and reaches the base of the tree, swiftly climbing up after his target. The beavers shift to plan “B”, and a trio of them quickly gnaw away at the base of the tree. The tall pine begins to topple, with the bear clinging to the trunk for dear life. Hiawatha also clings above him, but begins slipping as the tree’s angle changes in its fall. A family of opossums are prepared for this, and hanging by their tails from several tress, grab Hiawatha before he can fall, swinging him from tree to tree like living vines might be used by Tarzan.

At a ledge closest to the last tree waits a deer, who has put her head though some vines connecting two long branches of wood, trailing the branches behind her in the fashion of an Indian travois. Hiawatha is tossed onto the branches, and begins to be towed through the woods with the swiftness of the deer who pulls him. And not a moment too soon, as the fallen bear has climbed out of a canyon, and gives chase once again. The beavers get back into the act, felling over a half-dozen trees into the bear’s path, but narrowly miss their attempts to conk the bear on the dome with them. The deer develops a good lead on the bear, allowing for some rabbits to carry out a masterstroke of deception. As the deer passes them, taking Hiawatha on one path leading back to the river, the rabbits get under, then uproot, a small shrub, shifting its position to block view of Hiawatha’s path, and exposing a second path that leads off to nowhere in the distant hills. The bear, seeing only one visible thoroughfare, assumes he is on the right track, and continues on at full speed into the mountains, presumably never to be seen again. Meanwhile, the deer makes it back to the lower riverbank where Hiawatha left his canoe, and two turtles act as stepping stones so that Hiawatha can board his vessel. For the return trip, Hiawatha won’t even have to raise a paddle. The beaver trio reappear, and from the rear end of the canoe, dip their tails in the water, one to serve as rudder, two to serve as oars, slowly but majestically propelling Hiawatha homeward, who stands proudly with arms folded at the helm of the canoe, while his animal fans “watch him as a friend departing”. The narrator adds, “And the beaver called him, brother.” And, brother, that’s enough for a first installment.

• “Little Hiawatha” is on Internet Archive.

NEXT WEEK: We’ll get busy with more beavers from the ‘30’s and ‘40’s.

And so we come down to the Moment of Truth – a final look at the animated world of bullfighting. Disney, Warner, Film Roman, and Dreamworks all contribute short chapters from recent decades – plus, extended coverage of a notable feature film with a heavy emphasis on the bullfighting angle.

The Pain In Spain (Disney, Timon and Pumbaa, 11/3/95) – In their worldly travels that set the theme for their television series, our heroes wind up in España. A billboard in the countryside advertises an upcoming bullfight in the big city featuring El Toro – a bull so mean, the sign includes a scoreboard to keep track of the number of matadors he has gored. Timon gets into a bragging mode, boasting of what he could do if he were to face Toro himself. To demonstrate, Timon dives into their traveling suitcase and comes up dressed in a matador suit. He asks Pumbaa to use those useless tusks and charge at him. Pumbaa does one better, having just happened to pack in the suitcase for just such an occasion a bull costume to wear. Timon asks Pumbaa to go way back before starting his charge – so far back, that Pumbaa disappears beyond the horizon, and has to call Timon from a pay phone to ask if this is far enough. Pumbaa takes a few paces backwards to rev up his feet motors – and repeats the mistake of Ferdinand, backing into the sharp needles of a cactus. As with his Disney bull predecessor, Pumbaa charges with such force as to mow Timon down, and repeatedly trample him about six or seven times on repeated passes. (Timon sees miniature bull horns circling around his head, like so many tweeting bords.) Also as with Ferdinand, Pumbaa’s moves are observed by two bullfighting scouts, who capture and cart Pumbaa away as the new attraction for the bull ring – news that is not taken well by El Toro, who is given the heave-ho from his employment as nothing but a has-been, and swears revenge.

Timon learns where Pumbaa has been taken, by the heavens giving him “a sign” – in the form of a new billboard poster plastered right over him, announcing Pumbaa’s debut. “A brave bull?”, remarks Timon, making a bad joke despite his lack of an audience, that Pumbaa is really nothing but a “cow-ward”. Timon trails Pumbaa to the bull ring, and sneaks past the guards of the bull’s dressing room by being launched by the blades of a ceiling fan through an open transom window. Reunited with Pumbaa, Timon asks why he didn’t just take off the costume and explain he’s a warthog? Pumbaa cries, “The zipper’s stuck!” The only unguarded door of the room leads straight into the arena, posing a definite problem. A sign inside the door reads, “Wash hands before goring”, and a bowl of water and red cloth towels are provided in the room for such purpose. Timon picks up a towel, and states he’s got an idea. Pumbaa asks if his idea is to use the towel as a cape, perform an act for the crowd as bull and matador, then make their escape while the crowd is cheering. Timon sarcastically responds to Pumbaa’s stealing of his thunder, “No”, and that his idea was to locate a fairy to sprinkle pixie dust on the towel so that they could fly away upon it into the heavens. Pumbaa states he thinks that idea is a little far-fetched, and that his own idea of what Timon was thinking sounds better. Timon can only give a look of “Why me?” disgust to the camera.

Timon makes a flamboyant entrance into the ring in matador suit, and entertains the crowd with bad stand-up comedy lines about bulls while Pumbaa prepares for his own entrance. But Pumbaa’s entrance will be delayed – by the return of El Toro, who has “beefed” himself up for the event with a crash body-building course to prove he is still the champion. He attempts to dispose of Pumbaa by flushing him down a toilet, then appears in the ring. Timon isn’t quite sure what hit him, and thinks his pal is overacting – until Pumbaa escapes the plumbing and charges in to try to save his friend. Timon goes through the usual delayed reaction at finding himself in the ring with two bulls, and then Timon’s question, “If you’re Pumbaa, then what Pumbaa is THAT Pumbaa?”. The answer is obvious. Our heroes find themselves cornered, and Toro charges from a long distance, allowing for him to engage in transportation changes every time the camera cuts away to view him – from drag racer to diesel truck to streamlined train to Nasa rocket. Pumbaa finally convinces Timon to fight, reminding him of his boasts and that “You’re the brave one.” Timon asks just how he should do it – perform a flamenco dance? This is precisely what he ultimately does, bamboozling the bull similarly to Bugs Bunny’s impromptu dancing in “Bully for Bugs”, while planting snapping mousetraps on his nostrils, smashing clanging cymbals upon his snout, and having Pumbaa blast him in the face with the sour notes of a tuba. Timon backs the bull away from him, using a plunger to prod him instead of a sword, while Pumbaa rolls a cannon up behind the bull, Timon using the plunger end to stuff the bull inside. The cannon is fired, and the toilet plumbing is pushed into the ring, allowing the bull to land in the same predicament in which he had placed Pumbaa. The film quickly comes to a close as our heroes bow before the crowd and are strewn with flowers, Pumbaa shouting, “Ole”.

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Bull Running on Empty (Warner, The Sylvester and Tweety Mysteries, 11/11/95) is sadly perhaps one of the weakest episodes of this series I have encountered. Made in an early season when one episode spanned the entire half-hour, it provides us with material that would have felt labored in running length even had it been cut to 10 to 12 minutes. Tweety and Hector seem to be given virtually nothing to do (although Tweety inexplicably comes up with a pair of thermal binoculars to give Granny to ultimately locate the stolen item), and Sylvester performs only two functions: mimic for one sequence his “scaredy cat” behavior from the classic cartoon of the same name in observing and keeping out of harms’ way the rest of the gang from the systematic destruction of Granny’s hotel room by saws appearing in the floorboards – and spending the entire remainder of the cartoon running from the bulls of Pamplona. (Sylvester complains, “I’ve heard of a running gag, but this is ridiculous.”) The “mystery”, when unraveled, makes no sense (and not in a funny cartoony way – just isn’t thought out in any manner). A museum artifact known as the Pamplona Periscope is missing, stolen from a hole cut or gnawed through the wooden base of its display case, leading to a crawl space in which only rats seem to reside. A caretaker of the bull ring seems to have had his apartment ransacked, and the ring is left locked, leaving the bulls running in the annual festival with no destination to run to (and free to endlessly pursue Sylvester). Attempts are made to keep Granny out of the way, by sawing her entire hotel room out of the building, then later locking her in the Pamplona public library. All of this boils down to the revealing of a supposedly old (and smelly) adversary of Granny’s – a crook living in the sewers called the Spanish Mole, who has used trained rats to commit theft of the Periscope and his other dirty work. A mere butt from Sylvester’s pack of bulls brings him to justice. It seems that he had disguised himself as the town’s bull ring caretaker for years, living under their noses (yet no one seems to have previously noticed his smell). And just when it seems Granny will reveal the Mole’s master plan to the populace, posing to them the questions why he waited until now to pull his crime, and why he locked the bull ring, Granny performs the ultimate cop-out to reveal how little the writers have thought this through, remarking, “Beats the heck out of me. I was hoping you’d fill me in.” For the quick half-smile this line delivers, it hardly justifies the existence of this episode.

Very few gags instill any life into this lame venture. One decent laugh is the museum curator’s telephone call from a restroom phone to “The World’s Greatest Detective”, a caricature of Sam Spade who is too busy playing tiddly winks with pennies to respond to the call for help. So instead, the curator takes note of graffiti on the restroom tile, one providing a telephone number and reading, “For a good detective, call Granny.” Granny somehow arrives in Spain via a second-hand rocket car, which jets them there in record time, but continues to sputter with knocks and pings after the ignition key is turned off, Granny remarking that it’ll stop – eventually. Of course, upon escaping from Granny’s runaway hotel room, Sylvester winds up with a red blanket, and an alarm clock ready to go off, waking the bulls from exhausted slumber for another day of chasing Sylvester. The bulls ultimately charge through the locked door of the bull ring in seeking out Sylvester, and Tweety and Hector provide Sylvester with a red jogging suit, ensuring that the running will continue round and round the arena ad infinitum.

• An angled print of “Bull Running on Empty” is on Dailymotion

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Critters (Warner, Batman, 9/18/98) – One Enoch Brown (affectionately, “Farmer Brown”), an old-timer of country stock who looks and talks like he stepped out of “American Gothic”, but is in reality a highly-skilled biochemist, puts on a presentation with his attractive young country daughter (whom Bullock later refers to as “Elly Mae” for her resemblance to Donna Douglas of The Beverly Hillbillies) at an agricultural expo. Brown presents his solution to world hunger – growth hormones, which have produced a cattle specimen of proportions worthy to provide a meal to King Kong. The bovine is startled by flash photography in the same manner as the legendary ape, and breaks loose, with Commissioner Gordon and Bruce Wayne present in the front row. Bruce finds the creature chasing him, and pulls down a large red theater curtain, which drapes over the beast’s eyes like a cape, causing him to crash into the wall and stun himself, while Brown administers a sedative to leave him dreaming of green pastures. Gordon praises Bruce for his quick thinking, but Bruce covers for his uncharacteristic bravery, informing the Commissioner that he only pulled down the curtain to try to escape through the window.

Brown receives an injunction to cease his experiments and remove all live specimens from Gotham. Brown protests that this will mean financial ruin, but the judge responds, “You should have thought of that before you started creating these monsters.” Brown exits the courtroom, muttering, “I’ll give them monsters.” Before long, the city receives a “trial run” of giant aphids (or are they some form of mantis?), genetically altered to be immune to insecticide, but self-destructing to provide a warning. Then, a massed attack of Pterodactyl-like giant chickens, and a rampaging cow and bull bigger than the previous prototype. Batgirl and Robin, on prowl patrol in the batmobile, find themselves in the middle of the stampede. “Holy cow”, utters Robin, as Batgirl responds, “You had to say it.” Batgirl leads the cow into a construction yard, then lassos its legs with a batarang and rope, tripping it into a vat of cement mix. The bull of course invades a china shop, but is lured out by Robin waving his cape in matador fashion and shouting “Hey, Ferdinand.” The bull gives chase, as Robin leaps through the plate glass of a building window, and the bull tries to do the same, getting his head caught within the concrete framing. Batgirl assists, commandeering a garbage truck and driving it up against the bull’s hindquarters to prevent it from extricating itself. Robin looks out upon the scene from an upstairs window, and can’t resist the remark, “That’s a lot of bull.”

Of course, Brown is behind it all, operating from a new secret island lair outside the city limits. He demands a payoff of 50 million in unmarked bills, or the bugs come back for good. Batman and the Commissioner pull a switch, with most of the bills consisting of blank paper, and one of Batman’s homing devices concealed on the stack. The showdown at the island lair contains no further bullfighting, but attempts to place the bat-trio and Bullock in a silo which is really a rocket for launching into Gotham the hive of mutant bugs. Batman not only tricks one of the insects into ripping open the rocket door so as to allow for an escape of the heroes, but aims the armored car in which the money drop-off was made on a collision course with the rocket doorway before liftoff, sabotaging its flight and killing-off the bugs in the explosion. Brown and his daughter are arrested for an anticipated prison term of 10 to 20, with Bullock offering them the encouraging word that maybe he can find them a nice prison farm.

• Batman’s “Critters” is on DailyMotion

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Pokey Mom (Film Roman, The Simpsons, 1/14/01) is one of two Simpsons episodes to include bullfighting. The setup for this one is both brief and odd. While driving hope from an apron festival, Homer spots a sign advertising a prison rodeo at a local penitentiary. The Simpsons attend the event in a front row of the grandstands, watching various inmates get thrown violently in the events. Among them is a prisoner who gets thrown and wedged into the fence on another side of the arena by a bucking bull. Marge wonders where the rodeo clowns are to keep the bull away from the helpless prisoner. They are still in the dressing rooms, fussing over their clown makeup. So Marge flails her arms wildly, trying to attract the bull’s attention away from the inmate. The waving has no effect. Homer calmly informs Marge that to get a bull’s attention, you need to wave something red at them. So, he picks up Lisa in her red dress, and dangles her precariously over the railing, waving her as a ready target for the bull’s wrath. But Homer isn’t a cruel parent, and pulls Lisa back to her seat as the bull’s charge toward them begins. Now, Homer says, all they need to do is wave something in calming blue at the beast to quiet him down. Homer reaches for Bart, but is aghast to find that Bart is not wearing a blue shirt. This is hardly a surprise, as Bart, who always wears red, points out, “Dad, I don’t even OWN a blue shirt.” The bull continues unabated, smashing into the grandstand, knocking Homer over the railing, then head-butting Homer halfway across the prison yard into the side of a guard tower. Unaware of what caused the impact vibration, the guard above responds reflexively, launching a volley of tear gas bombs into the stands, and dispersing the crowd.

The remainder of the show diverts entirely from the subject of bullfighting, splitting into two separate stories. Marge attempts to rehabilitate a prisoner she discovers has natural artistic talent, while Homer attempts to rehabilitate a battered back resulting from the accident. He is referred to a chiropractor who provide only temporary relief, and wants Homer to return for multiple weekly visits over the next three years. Homer discovers a better solution by accidentally falling backwards over the side of a tipped trash can – which instantly sets his vertebrae into proper position. Seeing possibilities in this easy cure, Homer opens his own chiropractic practice, without a license, administering the same treatment to every one of his patients, with miracle results. That is, until two mysterious men express an interest in buying into Homer’s idea, but turn out to be rival chiropractors, who destroy his trash can.

• The best I can find on “Pokey Mom” is a time-compressed vertical set of clips with audio and superimposed narration, on Youtube. Or you can watch it on Disney+.

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Million Dollar Abie (4/2/06) is another roundabout script that seems to throw together several short and disparate ideas to fill out a half-hour timeslot. Homer sets his mind to spearheading a campaign to bring the NFL’s latest expansion team to Springfield. The campaign works as if by a miracle, and a new stadium is built, the whole town painted in the jersey colors of the soon-to-be Springfield Meltdowns, and all the streets renamed for various football terms and phrases. This renaming disorients the NFL commissioner in finding directions to the stadium to publicly sign the contract, his old road map only showing the street’s old names. He stops at the Simpsons’ house to phone for directions, finding Grandpa Abe to be the only one home who did not go to the stadium. Grandpa becomes mistakenly convinced that the stranger is a hoodlum intending to rob the house and prey on the elderly – so knocks the commissioner out with a blow from a golf club, and keeps him tied and gagged in a chair until late in the evening, when everyone at the stadium has given up waiting and gone home. The family arrives to discover Abe’s blunder, and release the commissioner, only to hear him swear that he will never return to this crazy town – and neither will the expansion team.

Abe is treated as an outcast by the town for losing the franchise. Another resident of the retirement home suggests he visit a physician specializing in assisted suicides, to put himself out of his misery, as well as satisfy the urges of the town to kill him. Grandpa ultimately consents to death by a suicide computer (looking much like a giant smart phone) to cut off his vital systems. Things do not go according to plan, as the police break in for a raid two minutes before Abe is to expire, announcing that the assisted suicide law has been repealed. The doctor swears, “I’ll kill you” – that is, once the repealing law is itself repealed. Grandpa revives in an emptied room, and thinks he’s dead. He wanders around in a hospital gown, ignoring busy crosstown traffic and taking other risks, believing he has nothing to fear. However, he spots the Simpson family in a restaurant, and thinks Homer or Bart went berserk and killed them all in a murder spree. They inform him that he is not really dead, and are shocked to find that he nearly suicided. But Abe declares he’s through with thoughts of suicide, observing that these few moments when he felt there was nothing to fear were the happiest moments of his life. He resolves to spend the rest of his life in such fearless manner. So, when a town meeting is called to figure out what to do with the empty football stadium, and the proposal is raised to turn it into a bullfighting arena, Abe volunteers to be the town’s first matador.

Abe trains in the backyard, using as a bull Bart on a bicycle with a set of horns strapped to the bicycle basket. Abe is too fast for Bart, but Homer is not, and nearly gets speared in the rear while bending over, then turns around to walk right into the horn points, catching him painfully at a key spot between the lower limbs. Lisa, as usual, is completely opposed to the idea – not so much for Grandpa’s safety, but because of the pointless slaughter of helpless bulls. She serenades her pleas for an end to the plan outside the stadium, self-accompanied on Spanish guitar, while the townsfolk merely admire her as cute but ignore altogether her message. Grandpa makes his debut in full matador garb, performs multiple “Veronica” cape passes, and tires the bull out, who lays on the dirt prone and exhausted, while Grandpa, with only momentary hesitancy, follows the crowd’s verdict of “thumbs down” to the bull, and with only the bloodletting kept offscreen, finishes the beast. That night, Grandpa stands admiring himself in the mirror, while Lisa enters, asking him how he could do it. Grandpa explains that for the first time in his life, people were cheering him for what he did, driving him to follow through. Lisa remarks, “I was cheering for you all the time, Grandpa – till now.” As she exits, Grandpa contemplates how she always knows what to say to get to him. At the next bullfight, Grandpa’s performance remains the same as the debut, with the bull again falling to the dirt in exhaustion. But this time, when Grandpa pulls his sword, he tosses it away across the arena, leaving it sticking in the arena fence, then walks to the corrida gates, opening both the main exit and the door holding back all the remaining bulls. Springfield experiences its first-ever running of the bulls, as they stampede down Main Street and everywhere they can find anything red or anyone engaged in selling meat. Only Abe and Lisa rise above the situation, in lawn chairs suspended in mid-air by helium-filled toy balloons. Lisa congratulates Grandpa on turning over a new leaf – but Grandpa’s woes may not be over yet, as two bulls rise into the sky on either side, also suspended by balloons. “Uh oh” moans Grandpa, for an abrupt cut to credits.

There is also a brief “couch gag” bit, with horned couches charging the family like a running of the bulls, from Season 25, episode 16.

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What Goes Around (Dreamworks, The Penguins of Madagascar, 9/19/09) – The Penguins leave the zoo on a secret mission to replace the dolly of a little girl (which they have accidentally caused to be lost down a sewer grating at the zoo). Rico just happens to possess an identical doll as one of his private treasures, and is sweet-talked by Skipper into sacrificing it to prevent the thought of the never-ending weepy-eyes of the little girl. But once the mission is accomplished and the substitute doll left for the little girl to find, the problem remains of returning home cross-town to the zoo – particularly when a psychotic male animal control officer with high-tech capture van spots them on the street, and declaring them strays, says “They’re mine.” (This character may be said to predict the equally determined French female officer who would later appear in Madagascar 3: Europe’s Most Wanted.)

Throughout the episode, Rico feels dejected that his own dolly was sacrificed to make the girl happy. Private keeps reassuring him that good deeds don’t go unrewarded, and that what goes around, comes around. Yet, the penguins’ luck seems to keep going from bad to worse as the control officer remains hot on their trail. The penguins seem finally cornered, with the van blocking their path to the zoo. The officer wise-cracks that he knows why penguins are from the antarctic – they can’t take the heat. This angers Rico, who coughs up, from his never-ending belly full of useful objects and supplies, a bullfighter’s hat and red cape. He waves the cape before the van, taunting its driver to advance. The van charges Rico at full speed, but the penguin nimbly dodges, again and again, creating a needed diversion. Meanwhile, the other penguins swing down on ropes as the van passes, each of them armed with a monkey wrench. When the van pauses briefly at the end of each charge, the penguins use their wrenches to loosen bolts in the hubs of the van’s wheels. By its final charge, the van’s wheels fall off, capsizing the vehicle on its side. Rico mutters one word of clear dialog: “Ole!”

While the remainder of the film features no bullfighting, a final stand by the control officer at the zoo gates leads the penguins to notice he is standing just under a pipe connected to the zoo’s sewer line, prompting Rico to spit out a tool large enough to sever the pipe, in hopes of deluging the officer with the pipe’s foul contents. Yet nothing comes out as the pipe is cut. The officer lassos the birds, and calls the office to arrange for a nice tight-fitting cage for the four of them. Then, a rumbling and whistling is heard by Skipper. Looking up, the pipe is vibrating in threatening fashion, and Kowalski realizes something has been blocking the pipe, and it’s gonna blow. Out shoots, with the speed of a bullet, the lost dolly of the little girl, right in the officer’s face. As the doll bounces back, landing at the feet of Rico, the long-anticipated sewer water spews all over the helpless control officer, placing him out of commission. The penguins are able to return to headquarters safely, while the animal control officer is dragged away for causing seven blocks of destruction in his wake, and his remarks about wild penguins treated as the frantic ravings of a lunatic. And Rico hugs his new dolly in replacement of the one he gave up, proving that the universe eventually catches up in providing the return good luck for a deed well done.

• “What Goes Around” can be found, with last shot clipped, at DailyMotion.

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There have been two fairly recent features built on The Day of the Dead. I am not truly into the ins and outs of such cultural mythos, nor can say that I quite understand it. (For example, both films carry a message that to be forgotten by the living is to bring an end to your afterlife. A sentimental idea, but does this mean that no one’s afterlife extends beyond the next generation or so who knew them personally? Or do passed-down stories count as being “remembered”? Furthermore, Pixar’s “Coco” places importance upon having a photograph. So what happened to souls before the invention of the camera? Honestly, these films’ explanations get as mixed-up as details of the life and origins of Santa Claus.) Yet, despite Pixar’s higher budget and more sophisticated technical know-how, I am surprised to say I give the edge in a comparison-test of the two projects to The Book of Life (Fox/Reel FX Animation, 10/17/14). Perhaps it could be said that the simpler visual style of this film has a certain UPA-ish attraction for stylistic and innovative design, making excellent use of color and Mexican art-inspired imagery in both costume and set design. The fashioning of nearly all of its characters as portrayed by wooden puppets from a chest of museum artifacts, together with the transformation of these deliberately-blocky designs into stylized skeletal versions as they visit the realms of the dead, is also quite creative and surprisingly well-executed, not looking cheap despite being an obvious money-saver in computer modeling. Plus, its storyline plays, and homages, more to themes traditional to Mexican cinema than the Pixar film did, and gives us characters who, even if bordering upon traditional stereotypical roles, tweak the stereotypes enough with updated attitudes and humor, and play the roles with enough emotion and soul, to make them more engaging and memorable than the Pixar cast. And, there are enough laughs and plot twists to maintain viewer interest throughout its length, with no real lags (something I found not always true of “Coco”). The effort, while not rising to the level of blockbuster in box office, was financially and artistically viable, doubling its original investment, and earning positive reviews and a Golden Globe nomination. If memory determines the length of afterlife, we can only hope that those who have seen it will keep this film alive considerably long after Coco has fallen to the dust of the forgotten.

The storyline follows a tale related by a shapely museum curator in an exhibit of Mexican cultural artifacts, penned into the Book of Life, an ever-changing magical volume containing the life stories of every soul, of a legendary wager between La Muerte, a skeletal but alluring female spirit who presides over the festive land of the remembered, and her erstwhile paramour, Xibalba, ruler of the deeper and danker land of the forgotten, where those not remembered go to crumble into dust. (Xibalba may be said to be the only character directly derivative from another studio’s work – but perhaps this is a good thing, as he is almost a “dead” ringer for the entertaining Hades from Disney’s “Hercules”). Xibalba wants out of his present job, and wants to swap realms with La Muerte. He apparently got stuck with his job by losing a previous wager, and, knowing La Muerte’s weakness for a good bet, offers another one. Two random child youths (Juaquin and Manolo) are observed on Earth, both sweet upon the same Senorita (Maria). Each of the gambling spirits chooses a boy as their champion, with the bet to see which one will marry Maria. If Xibalba’s boy (Juaquin) wins, realms are swapped between the spirits. If La Muerte’s Manolo wins, Xibalba agrees to stop meddling in human life forever (his only enjoyable pastime). Of course, Xibalba isn’t above cheating.

Juaquin aspires to be a soldier and hero like his military ancestors and living father, while Manolo is a gentler kind, torn between his love of playing soulful guitar and his family’s (the Sanchezes) generations-old legacy of being champions (and becoming quickly deceased) in the bull ring. Manolo is fine at learning the moves of the cape – but when to comes to the sword, sees no justification as to why the bull must be killed. Papa and Grandma Sanchez insist upon the old ways, and will show no regret for the conduct of generations of Sanchezes in slaying El Toro in the ring, living by a family motto – “a Sanchez never apologizes.” Maria, an intelligent and spirited girl, likes them both, but seems to show a bit of a edge toward Manolo, who holds more of the key to touching her heart than the brave but slightly self-centered Juaquin and his attempts to impress her with boisterousness and bravado. Even Xibalba soon sees this edge quickly, and decides to even the score, by somehow obtaining custody of a glowing green medal possessing magical protective powers for its possessor, either lost or stolen from a dreaded Mexican bandit cheiftan named El Chakal, and slipping it to Juaquin in a trade while wearing a human disguise. Thus, Juaquin’s success in the future battles he will face is assured.

Time passes, and the three youths grow to maturity, with Maria returning to the village after an extended tutelage in Spain, a natural and self-assured beauty. Juaquin has carved out an impressive military career for himself, with a chest decorated in medals of bravery (though keeping concealed within his uniform the “lucky” green medal obtained long ago). Manolo has been garbed as a matador, but still plays the guitar he had received as a going-away gift from Maria, with a carved inscription on the side telling him to always play from the heart. It is the day of Manolo’s first public bullfight. But, despite his elders’ insistence that he use the sword in the ring as intended, Manolo cannot bring himself to finish the bull, angering the crowd and disgracing the Sanchez name. Only Maria remains behind as the arena empties, the only one appreciating that he stood his moral ground, and listens in the shadows as he consoles himself with a plaintiff soliloquy on guitar. On the opposite battlefront, Juaquin surprises her with an engagement ring and a proposal, but lets slip enough verbal hints that his idea of an ideal married life is for the woman to devote herself solely to pleasing her husband, that Maria realizes he has retained the worst aspects of his self-centered nature. Though her father tries to give consent to Juaquin in advance of her own word, aimed more personally at keeping Juaquin around the village to protect against the bandit attacks of El Chakal, Maria will not give Juaquin an answer, though not locking him out of her life entirely with a no, hoping for the sake of their old friendship that maybe someday he’ll wise up and change his ways.

Though utterly disappointed in his son’s performance in the bull ring, Manolo’s father, hearing of Juaquin’s inability to obtain an immediate yes from Maria, convinces Manolo to at least act like a Sanchez by fighting to win the favor of his lady love. Manolo thus serenades at Maria’s window, and asks her to meet him secretly at dawn at a scenic vista on the outskirts of town. Overhearing this and other developments of the day in the shadows is Xibalba, checking in on his bet. He senses disaster if the romantic meeting takes place, and (in what could be said to be another borrowing of a story element from a Disney feature, this time “Aladdin”), transforms a snake-shaped walking staff into a living venomous reptile, to “take care of things”. As dawn breaks and finds the prospective lovers bonding, the snake does its work, biting Maria on the leg before Manolo can defend her. Maria is carried lifeless in Manolo’s arms to her father, and Manolo is blamed for once again not rising to the occasion as a man should have. Manolo remains on the spot, pouring out his emotions in a solo song to the skies at wishing to follow Maria. Who should appear in the same human disguise as before but Xibalba, who asks if he really, from the heart, wants to follow her to the land of the dead. Manolo answers yes, and Xibalba responds, “Done”. The snake reappears, biting Manolo twice.

We are transported with Manolo to the happy land of the remembered, where every day is fiesta – but especially today, being the Day of the Dead. A skeletal but recognizable Manolo is united with the entire deceased family line of the Sanchezes, most of whom perished in the ring, but still brag of their exploits. They are disappointed in Manolo, but not in a hard-handed way, and generally accept him, together with the loving arms of Manolo’s deceased Mama, who seems to be the one from which he inherited his soulful heart. But where is Maria? No one seems to know or have seen her. Suggestion is made to see La Muerte about it – but who instead is discovered to be sitting in her throne but Xibalba! Xibalba reveals the stakes of his bet, and declares that La Muerte is now down in permanent exile within the land of the forgotten. Manolo demands to know how Xibalba could have won the bet with Maria dead. Xibalba reveals that his snake requires two bites to make death permanent – only one bite has the “Snow White” effect of a sleeping death, revivable by a love’s first kiss. And Juaquin placed a kiss upon the lifeless form of Maria, bringing her back to life! Although Maria does not truly return the love of Juaquin’s kiss, upon learning of the death of Manolo, she has given her consent to Juaquin to please her father and the town and provide them with a protector against the bandits. So, Xibalba has claimed a win of the bet early, and La Muerte, unknowing of Xibalba’s cheating, has lived up to her side of the bargain. Manolo thus embarks on an unprecedented trek to the land of the forgotten, never survived (or perhaps we should say, accomplished) by any former mortal’s soul from the land of the remembered before his or her time. After facing several harrowing challenges, including a labyrinth with three rolling boulders of the Indiana Jones variety of crushing weight, Manolo is deemed pure of heart and worthy enough to gain entrance past the underworld’s gatekeeper spirit. La Muerte is tipped off, and she and Xibalba do a good job of spitting fire with words and tearing hair between themselves, until Manolo reminds them that this is getting him nowhere in trying to set things right for himself and Maria. The need to return to Earth becomes even more magnified when word reaches them that back at the village, a battle has taken place between Juaquin and some of El Chakal’s men, who have discovered in the battle Juaquin’s possession of the glowing green medal. Chakal has sworn death to the whole village in effort to retrieve the amulet – in which event the Sanchez clan would lose all remembrance among the living (but what about the spectators who knew of their fame in the bull ring?), and descend to the crumbling ranks of the forgotten. Manolo asks to be sent back to Earth, which both La Muerte and Xibalba at first declare out of the question. However, realizing their gambling spirit from their tales of deception, Manolo proposes a wager of his own – that he will face any challenge Xibalba can think up in return for the chance to go back. (It is not entirely clear what would be the penalty if he loses, that he would not already face when his village forgets him.) Xibalba thus zaps into existence a ghostly bull ring, with the Sanchez spirits and other skeletons in attendance, and poses the challenge to Manolo – to fight the spirits of every bull the Sanchez clan slaughtered over the years, all at once. Manolo knows this is likely to be more than he ever thought to bargain for – but with a ring of fire encircling him within the arena, he has little choice but to lift cape and sword, and face the onslaught.

The skeletal bull spirits are released. (It is quite unclear how one is supposed to finish a bull who is already dead – but we can only presume that the sword provided is somehow capable of accomplishing the task in traditional fashion.) Manolo performs not without natural fear, but nevertheless handsomely, in accomplishing pass after pass with his capework as bulls charge him every second from one direction or another. Seeing Manolo doing well, Xibalba ups the odds his own way, by amassing all the bull spirits into one giant, monster bovine towering several stories above Manolo. Manolo continues to perform amazing passes and capework, finally succeeding in causing the bull to crash into an arena wall, temporarily stunned and out cold. The Sanchezes (now including the soul of Manolo’s father, who has just arrived in the underworld by falling as one of the first victims to El Chakal and his bandits above) shout for Manolo to finish the beast. Manolo’s sword, as well as his guitar, have fallen into the dirt in the center of the arena during the battle. As Manolo reaches for the sword, his own reflection in the blade tells him once again that this is simply not his way – and instead, he reaches for the guitar. No, he does not sing off-key like El Kabong. Instead, he composes on the spot a sincere melody from the heart, admitting to all the amassed bull spirits that his family was wrong to have uselessly spilled their blood in the arena, and seeking within their heart forgiveness, through his own heartfelt apology. The bull is disbelieving at first, and butts Manolo and the guitar halfway across the arena. But Manolo still does not fight, and picks up the guitar to resume the apology. The beast charges again until he is nose to nose with Manolo – but hears the song’s words, stops short of collision, and allows Manolo to gently touch the bull’s face with one hand. The bull spirits become pacified, and the massed bull evaporates into what appear to be a flurry of wind-swept autumn leaves, the last one falling to rest in the palm of Manolo’s hand, having the shape of the outline of a heart. Manolo has won the challenge, yet stayed true to his ideals. The spirit of Manolo’s father repeats the old adage to him that “ A Sanchez never apologizes – until now.” A reconciliation occurs between father and son, and Manolo receives the right to return to Earth.

I won’t cover all the details of the final battle, which get a little tricky and leaves the subject of bullfighting. Suffice it to say that Juaquin loses his protective medal to the bandit, exposing that his courage was based on artificial help. Maria stands alone to rally the remaining townsfolk against what seem hopeless odds – but Manolo returns to everyone’s amazement, and stands up to Chakal, stating that he will fight. Chakal laughs uproariously, “You and what army?” An army does indeed arrive – the entire Sanchez clan reincarnated (La Muerte and Xibalba appearing and explaining that this being the Day of the Dead, they have some creative leeway). A battle royal takes place, with Manolo stealing away the magic green medal, which changes hands several times, fortunately being in Manolo’s hands when he and the bandit fall in a fatal blow to the bandit, but from which Manolo miraculously survives. Manolo tosses the amulet to Xibalba, to ensure it will not again fall into mortal hands. Manolo marries Maria, but the bride’s bouquet is caught by Juaquin, giving sign that he won’t be far behind to the alter among the local women. Even a reconciliation takes place between the formerly-bickering La Muerte and Xibalba, as the finale shot reveals that the museum guide telling the tale has really been La Muerte in disguise all the time, and Xibalba takes her in a final romantic embrace for the fade out.

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Al Rojo Vivo (translation: “Red Hot”) (Disney, Mickey Mouse Cartoons (TV), 3/27/15 – Dave Wasson, dir.) – A Mickey episode with dialog entirely in Spanish, set in Pamplona, Spain for another running of the bulls. Mickey and Minnie watch on the sidelines, dressed in special white outfits of local design for the occasion – that is, until the wide – er, rear – of Pete looms in front of them to block their view. When Mickey politely asks that Pete step aside, all he receives is a kick in the gut from Pete’s peg leg, landing him in a barrel, and rolling him out into the middle of the street, where he receives a good trampling by a wave of bulls and the members of the crowd running ahead of them. Minnie is hung helplessly by her skirt upon a lamppost, while Pete tries to steal kisses from her. Mickey is peeved, and turns red from head to toe – not a good thing when you are in the middle of a bull run. One of the bulls who has passed him looks over his shoulder, stops, and his eyes turn as red as the color of Mickey’s anatomy. Minnie shouts a warning to Mickey, and the mouse turns white again – this time from fright. The color change is not soon enough to stop the advance of the raging bull, and Mickey flees for his life through the crowd, who parts a wide path for Mickey and the bull to pass.

Mickey ducks behind a parked van. However, its color is “Rojo!” (red). The bull’s horns emerge, right through the vehicle’s side. Mickey seeks refuge behind a flower cart – also full of “rojo” flowers. More destruction. Wherever Mickey runs, his surroundings seem to provide such objects as a red motor scooter, a red guitar, etc., and finally a whole neighborhood where almost everything seems to be red. Mickey spots one place in the neighborhood not red – a white door – so performs a transformation act, pulling off his black ears and blending into the scenery in camouflage fashion, while the over-stimulated bull tears up everything else in sight. The bull finally departs, and Mickey returns to his old, casual whistling self. But not for long, as it seems that part of the local festivities include a block-wide food fight – with red tomatoes! Mickey is plastered from head to toe with the dripping redness. The bull returns on cue, chasing Mickey through what seems a tidal wave of tomato juice resulting from the fight. He looks down at himself, to also remark with shock, “Rojo!”, as he too is now dripping red everywhere. Before the bull can ponder the question whether he should charge upon himself, who should backtrack to catch up with him but the herd of other bulls. Mickey and the first bull now race side by side, fleeing from the stampede of angry bovines behind them. Finally, Mickey decides he’s had enough, slams on the brakes, and holds up a cautionary hand to the “red bull” beside him to pause for a moment. Pulling out a large red handkerchief from his pocket, Mickey quickly wipes off the tomato goo from his own person, and then from the bull, restoring them to natural colors. The confused bulls behind them skid to a halt, realizing they have nothing more to charge at. Mickey grabs up all of their tails, and gives the herd a few small judo flips to show them who’s boss, then provides the herd with a new target, tossing the tomato-soaked handkerchief onto Pete. Riding atop the head of the lead bull, Mickey order a charge, and the herd knocks Pete for a loop that sails him entirely out of a long shot of the city skyline. Mickey accepts the applause and cheers of the crowd, and releases Minnie, who plants a kiss on his cheek. The bulls all stand behind them, cheering Mickey as their temporary friend. Mickey begins to blush from the kiss, which might be bad enough as the color red begins to flush through his cheeks. But even worse, the pants of his white outfit fall down, revealing that he is wearing his traditional red pants underneath! A scream from Mickey at knowing what’s to come, and a quick cut to credits.

Adios for now, amigos!

Watching Cartoon Network in the 1990’s was a treat, but watching in the midnight hours was like being a part of a secret club. A club where animation that didn’t look or act like anything else was the secret password. Each day and year offered different packaged anthologies and curated blocks to experience. Curated showings included Late Night Black & White which contained early 20th century American animation, ToonHeads explored the history of the golden age of American animation, and early Toonami showed off anime. But one in particular has left an outsized impact; O, Canada! This half hour block showed off a compilation of classic animated short films from the Great White North. Unbeknownst to me at the time they were all a product of the the National Film Board of Canada’s animation division, a government sponsored animation powerhouse which modestly came out of the mission to “help Canadians in all parts of Canada to understand the ways of living and the problems of Canadians in other parts”. You too may have seen shorts produced by the board if you attended early Spike & Mike programs or watched any International Animation Day programs. Still in operation today, the NFB’s long history is intricately important to animation, both creating works and giving space to artists across many disciplines and exposing generations of audiences the world over to the lives of experiences of Canadians.

Last November animation historian Charles Solomon, author of many fantastic animation history books, but most recently The Man Who Leapt Through Film: The Art of Mamoru Hosoda (2022) and the upcoming The Art of Cartoon Saloon: 25 Years: The Official Retrospective of the Award-Winning Irish Animation Studio behind The Secret of Kells, Wolfwalkers, and Song of the Sea (July, 2026), has published through Harry N. Abrams a thorough and explorative history of the NFB in, Animation for the People: An Illustrated History of the National Film Board of Canada.

This book is divided into seven chapters and subsequently the history of the film board into roughly decade chunks – from the creation of the NFB and first leadership by John Grierson and the creation of the animation division led by Norman McLaren in 1943, to as recent as the end of the COVID Pandemic in 2022. Each chapter explores notable films and the history of the artists who have made their presence felt through their art.

The artistic and aesthetic variation over 80 years from the NFB is simply staggering. There are so many different types of animation that it may be useful to have an internet browser open to the National Film Board’s fantastic streaming website as you read through. The work of Norman McLaren and the artists around his orbit like Evelyn Lambart, René Jodoin (who would eventually lead a French animation division for the NFB), and Grant Munro, would come to characterize the early output, but the willingness of everyone on staff to learn from what was happening across the film world, often modestly and novelly evolving the craft, became a characteristic of the organization itself. Lotte Reiniger’s presence in the 70s working on her final film, The Child and the Enchantments, is a powerful example of how renowned the board had become as a space for artists. Technology would often be integrated and explored for its artistic potential, often beating other institutions in using new methods years before others would create, like Peter Foldès using a computer in the 1974 short, Hunger. Solomon often points out how the NFB leans into using new technologies that can promote the capabilities of the individual artist, especially pointing out the unique capacities of pinscreen animation and its creators, Alexandre Alexeïeff and Claire Parker.

Another aspect that Solomon often points back to throughout the text, which ran through McLaren’s intention for the studio, was that the NFB allows and encourages artists to operate as their own independent creator – that the space the NFB created was a space with modest tools to create educational, informative, and artistic expressions that would otherwise not have been. While not opposed to group projects, the preference to give individual artists the space, through legislative governance, to create their own specific vision cannot be overlooked. The hypothetical has always existed, what if we could give artists the opportunity to create within a certain amount of freedom and eight decades of awards and nominations show us what can be accomplished.

The history of the National Film Board is complicated for many reasons – its lengthy history, the vast number of artists who helped cultivate its diverse and overwhelming output, the financial and political challenges to its structure – but Solomon does a fantastic job guiding us through the history one step at a time. The text is written letting readers piece together broader significance and applications, but doesn’t fall prey to the banal of meaningless figures and dates. We move quickly through topics as if moving through a curated hall; each page is full of photos, animated artifacts, and objects with Soloman gleefully pointing out each artist’s creation’s curiosities, uniqueness, and lineages. When important, Solomon will explore the government structures that provided the foundation for the board or political challenges, but the focus is on the myriad of fantastic animation and the people who made it.

The last two decades of the NFB have been marked by progression and instability. As Solomon explains, the constant attack from within the Canadian government has hurt the capabilities of the board, but unionization, gender parity, and new distribution models have helped bolster the ways in which the organization treats the artists that help make it what it is. What will the NFB produce in the next eight decades? If history has anything to say, then we will be shown thoughtfully animated, razor sharp, and authentically Canadian animated shorts for years to come.

Animation for the People: An Illustrated History of the National Film Board of Canada is written by Charles Solomon and is published through Harry N. Abrams and is available now.

Please dive in and enjoy the complete Animation History Bibliography section of the Cartoon Research website. See you next month with another round up of animation book news and reviews!

If you celebrate the 50th anniversary of The First Easter Rabbit this spring, prepare for an “earworm.” The song “There’s That Rabbit” (written by Jules Bass and Maury Laws) will play in your head on repeat. It opens the special from Rankin/Bass, the Studio synonymous with beloved TV Christmas specials.

Following in the footsteps of favorites like Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman, The First Easter Rabbit, directed by Arthur Rankin, Jr. and Jules Bass, shares many familiar plot elements. Just as those specials tell the story of how a holiday legend came to be, so too does this one, highlighting the Easter Rabbit. The special features an appropriately themed song, a narrator, and even an appearance by Santa Claus, making it instantly recognizable as a Rankin/Bass production.

Instead of their usual stop-motion “Animagic,” Rankin/Bass uses traditional 2D animation here.

Though telling an Easter story, the special opens at Christmas. The narrator, G.B., a well-dressed rabbit, introduces Stuffy, a stuffed rabbit gifted to a young girl named Glinda. When Glinda contracts Scarlet Fever, her family must destroy her toys to stop the disease’s spread.

Happiness returns as Calliope, a sprite, saves Stuffy, bringing him to life and assigning him a mission: to become the First Easter Rabbit. Stuffy travels to Easter Valley—a North Pole section warmed by the magical Golden Easter Lily—where he meets Santa Claus, who assists him.

Three other rabbits—Spats, Flops, and Whiskers—help Stuffy reach Easter Valley and assist him there.

Zero, the evil ice wizard, and his sidekick Bruce, a snowball, aim to stop Easter. Zero wants to create a blizzard in Easter Valley and steal the Golden Easter Lily. With his friends and Santa, Stuffy sets out to save Easter.

The main character of Stuffy is voiced by Tony Award-winning Broadway musical veteran Robert Morse. “Robert appeared in three Rankin/Bass TV specials,” said Rick Goldschmidt, official Rankin/Bass historian/biographer and author of such books as The Enchanted World of Rankin/Bass. “Jack Frost is probably his best-known appearance. He was ecstatic to get my 15th-anniversary edition of The Enchanted World of Rankin/Bass, so much so that he called me on Christmas morning. He said the memories of working with Arthur and Jules were great. I think he understood the magic in the specials; that extra something that really can’t be described.”

Don Messick voices Whiskers and Bruce; Stan Freberg plays Flops; Joan Gardner is Calliope; and Paul Frees gives voice to Zero, Spats, and Santa Claus.

Continuing the tradition of memorable narrators, none other than Burl Ives returns to a Rankin/Bass special to provide the voice of G.B., who guides the audience through the story of The First Easter Rabbit. “I became great friends with Burl’s widow, and she was proud of his work in this as G.B.,” noted Rick. “I also thought it was cool that he returned in the vest, watch, et cetera. – a nod to his appearance as Sam in Rudolph.”

The animation showcases Paul Coker, Jr.’s distinctive design, familiar from the Studio’s other specials like Frosty the Snowman (1969). Coker, a Mad magazine and Hallmark contributor, gave the special a style reminiscent of vintage greeting cards.

In addition to “There’s That Rabbit,” the special also includes “Easter Parade,” the familiar holiday standard by Irving Berlin, which features in the finale and is complemented nicely by springtime color.

The First Easter Rabbit aired on NBC on April 9, 1976. It was written by Julian P. Gardner (a pseudonym for Jules Bass) and based loosely on the popular book, The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams. With their take on the story, Rankin/Bass continues the tradition established by their other holiday specials. Here, they not only provide an “origin story” for another iconic holiday figure, but with “There’s That Rabbit,” they offer an earworm of a song that may linger with you through Mother’s Day.

For more about the music in this special – check Greg Ehrbar’s post about that by Clicking Here! Another Rankin/Bass Easter special celebrates a milestone this year and will be featured next week.

Rock & Rule is a cult animated film from 1983 that blended rock music, science fiction, and adult storytelling long before audiences were ready for it. In Los Angeles, film screenings are everywhere, but every so often, a truly special event comes along. Cinefamily’s 2015 “Animation Breakdown” series delivered exactly that by reuniting the creative minds behind this overlooked cult classic.

Initially released in 1983, Rock & Rule feels like a secret handshake among animation fans. Many people have heard of it. Far fewer have actually seen it. That’s what made this reunion screening so meaningful—especially for anyone interested in animation that dared to push past expectations.

Seeing Rock & Rule When It First Hit Theaters

I first saw Rock & Rule when it was originally released in 1983—and I loved it.

What I remember most clearly, though, wasn’t just the film. It was the audience. Or rather, the lack of one. I was the only person in the theater.

At the time, it felt odd. Here was a movie that combined animation and rock & roll, two things that felt rebellious and exciting. Yet it couldn’t seem to find its audience. The reason was simple: in the early 1980s, animation was still widely viewed as something only for children. If it was animated, it was assumed to be harmless, cheerful, and preferably merchandisable.

Rock & Rule was none of those things.

It was dark, loud, stylish, and unapologetically strange. Because of that, it lived in a cultural no-man’s land—too animated for adults to take seriously and too intense for family audiences. Films like Rock & Rule didn’t fail because they lacked quality. They struggled because they arrived before the audience was ready.

In many ways, the movie was searching for people who didn’t quite exist yet.

Adult Animation Before It Had a Home

Rock & Rule wasn’t alone.

Every so often, a new animated film by Ralph Bakshi would be released. Each one pushed against the same wall. They’d arrive, challenge expectations, and then quietly fade away—at least, that’s how it felt at the time.

For me, movies like Wizards were a gift. They were bold, surreal, and unapologetic. Watching them felt like discovering a secret channel on late-night television—proof that animation didn’t have to talk down to its audience.

Still, these films rarely found wide acceptance. There simply wasn’t a clear cultural space for adult-oriented animation yet. The marketing didn’t know what to do with them. The audience didn’t know what they were “allowed” to like. And so many of these films floated just outside the mainstream, waiting.

Looking back, it’s clear that Rock & Rule, Wizards, and similar films were all pointing toward the same idea: animation didn’t need to grow up—it needed permission to be taken seriously.

A Cult Animated Film That Time Almost Forgot

Set in a wildly imaginative, post-apocalyptic America, Rock & Rule drops viewers into a world where flying cars cruise through “Nuke York,” humans have evolved into rodent-like hybrids, and immortality can be achieved by stealing another person’s voice.

It’s strange. It’s loud. And it commits fully to its weirdness.

The story follows Mok, an aging rock star determined to secure his place in history by any means necessary. That includes kidnapping Angel, a young singer whose voice may hold the key to his immortality. Her bandmates are drugged, chaos spreads across the countryside, and the film barrels through mutant nightclubs and shadowy alleyways with complete confidence.

Subtlety was clearly not on the agenda—and that’s part of the charm.

A Soundtrack That Defines an Era

One of Rock & Rule’s greatest strengths is its early-’80s rock soundtrack, which is inseparable from the film’s identity. Featuring performances by Cheap Trick, Debbie Harry, and Iggy Pop, the music doesn’t simply accompany the animation—it fuels it. Pulsing synths, gritty vocals, and moody atmospheres give the film an urgency that still feels alive today. This isn’t background music; it’s a mission statement.

Animation Far Ahead of Its Time

Visually, Rock & Rule still stands out decades later. Produced by Nelvana Animation and directed by Clive A. Smith, the film embraces exaggerated designs, expressive movement, and experimental lighting at a time when animation was expected to stay safely within familiar boundaries.

Today, in an era where adult animation is everywhere, Rock & Rule feels less like an oddity and more like a rough draft of the future.

A Reunion That Put the Film in Context

What made the 2015 Cinefamily screening especially meaningful was hearing directly from the artists behind the film. Hosted by Phil Lord, co-director of The LEGO Movie, the conversation underscored just how influential Rock & Rule had been—often quietly—on later generations of animators.

Joining him were Rock & Rule and Nelvana veterans Tom Sito, Lenora Hume, Darlie Brewster, and David Scott Smith, who reflected on a time when making a film like this required a fair amount of creative bravery, and a willingness to work without guarantees that an audience would show up.

Before the screening, DJs Alec Hodgeman and John Puppo from KXLU’s “Fistful of Vinyl” set the tone with music that perfectly matched the film’s rebellious DNA.

Why Rock & Rule Matters More Now Than Ever

Watching Rock & Rule again—this time embraced by a full house—felt surreal compared to that nearly empty theater in 1983.

The audience finally arrived.

Films like Rock & Rule and Wizards didn’t fail. They simply waited. They helped carve a path for animation as a medium capable of adult storytelling long before it became acceptable to say so out loud.

Cinefamily’s “Animation Breakdown” series didn’t just revisit a forgotten film. It restored its context. And it served as a reminder that sometimes art doesn’t miss its moment—it arrives early and patiently waits for the rest of us to catch up.