Release Date: July 11th, 1942
Series: Looney Tunes
Director: Bob Clampett
Story: Warren Foster
Animation: Sid Sutherland
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Mel Blanc (Old Narrator, Calf, Baby Turtle, Mailman, Firefly, Caterpillar, Turtle, Dog, Turkey), Sara Berner (Cow, Mrs. Pigeon), Kent Rogers (Woodpecker, Dive Bomber Pigeon), Thurl Ravenscroft (Carrier Pigeon), The Sportsmen Quartet (Swallows)
(You may view the cartoon here!)
As Clampett and his contemporaries continuously fill their quota for the 1942 release schedule, the cartoons themselves grow more and more advanced. One of those advancements, as has been hinted in prior reviews, has been the full adoption of color cartoons. There's still about a year and a half until the cartoons would fully commit to color--not barring the Private SNAFU and Mr. Hook cartoons--but it's clear that sticking to monochrome for economic reasons was becoming less of a priority. Wacky Blackout, being the second to last black and white short by the Clampett unit, is proof of that change.
Black and white shorts were cheaper and more quick to produce. Thus, they could get away with more topical references--Norm McCabe, now responsible for being the sole black and white unit, was well acquainted with this weight; his cartoons were littered with wartime and topical references as a consequence. This short follows the same sort of mindset; another spot-gag short in the books, the short (as its name implies) centers on gags related to the war and, in this specific instance, blackouts.
A blackout, for those unaware, were preventative measures taken against an air raid. If an air raid warden suspected an oncoming attack, they would mandate that all sources of light be extinguished until the threat was over. Blackout drills were a regular occurrence all throughout the war. Consequently, lampoons of said drills were just as regular in wartime era cartoons. If there was a certain procedure to be followed--drafting, blackouts, aluminum collecting, food and gas rationing--then it was guaranteed to be made fun of in cartoons or film alike.
The opening titles may ironically and amusingly be the most memorable aspect of the entire cartoon. In the initial title card, a stick figure of an air raid warden is seen reacting to a particularly promiscuous woman who ever so carelessly disobeys the blackout ordinance. Indicated exclamation lines from the warden adds onto the playfulness innate in the stick figure drawings and promiscuous implications--perhaps the lines are a reflection of his surprise at the woman's negligence to obey the ordinance, rather than his surprise of a free peep show.
Of course, this is a cartoon made by the king of sophomoric humor, and so the latter is confirmed in the next slide crediting the artists. Now, an entire crowd has gathered around this impromptu peep show, including a dog, cat, and even a mouse. Posing of the wardens is lax, unguarded, furthered through a handful of discarded flashlights. Sharp eyes will note that even the dog is wagging his tail. Likewise, the woman has changed positions, indicating that she is a flesh and blood stick person rather than just mere decoration.
The ability to communicate so much through so little is to be applauded. As far as stick drawings go, these are full of life, appeal, and intent--all the more impressive when realizing that everyone's faces are completely obscured. So much emotion and life is communicated in spite of this. Juvenile, playful, and motivated, these credits all demonstrate some of Clampett's greatest strengths. An intoxicating whimsy prevails.
Thus, it remains rather unfortunate that the same isn't communicated throughout the entire cartoon. Nevertheless, there is promise of some novelty and fun, and novelty, we most certainly get--it isn't Robert C. Bruce who opens the cartoons with his familiar, velvety strains and warm condescension, but Mel Blanc playing the role of an old coot.
Our narrator is creaky voiced, hokey, cornpone, pontificating atop a gorgeously rendered background pan. Such is one of the strengths of this cartoon: its atmosphere. Clearly recovering from all the steam and money that went into producing Bugs Bunny Gets the Boid, Blackout wears its economy on its sleeve a bit more obtusely. Thankfully, the cartoons have gotten to the point where this economy can still result in some rather gorgeous visuals. If looking at this long, sprawling pan is a way to save money, ogling at the differences in dark and light values and even the textures (note the solidity of the wood on the covered bridge against the airbrushed trees or reflections in the water), then by all means, skimp away.
Through these opening hazy, lazy farm environments, Clampett instills a coziness that is cemented through the narratorial ramblings of the old man. His language is very deliberate, using phrases such as "you people", "I reckon" and "us here". "I want you to know that we're prepared fer any emergency. Yes sir, jus' like the city folks," is soothing, warm, comforting in its association with the old man's voice. Old age connotes wisdom, which connotes security--if this old coot, who has likely lived through multiple wars, feels secure and reassuring, then so should we. A very deliberate antithesis to the condescension Bruce utilized so well in his deliveries for comedic effect. Blanc's hokey old man voice is amusing, but seems to comfort first and foremost.
Tensions were obviously high at the time of the short's release. They had been for years as the war boiled to a climax overseas, but with the U.S. now directly involved, those fears became a lot more personal. Thus, it was imperative for the public to be encouraged and reassured how they could be. Similar to how the cartoons of the Depression sought to uplift through bright, happy musicals and fantasies of never ending riches, the cartoons did the same through messages of encouragement and perseverance, promises of defeating the enemy, and just plain reassurance that everything will work out. Negatives to such propaganda cartoons will unsparingly be put on display in the coming cartoon reviews, but for now, this short capitalizes on optimism and reassurance.
Our first order of reassurance comes from asserting the narrator's claims of the farm folk being prepared. Via a classic Clampett truck-in and cross dissolve, the camera settles on a farmer practicing putting out some fires. Both he and his equally trained dog boast rather uncannily realistic designs. So much so that the designs seem to have some trouble being converted to motion; the action isn't rotoscoped, but is incredibly limited to the farmer barely moving. His dog remains perfectly still. Remaining true to the chiseled, structured construction sacrifices a realism in movement, and ends up looking awkward and confusing.
Likely, these designs were a way to "ease in" to the cartoon. Start off with the realistic, chiseled designs, and slowly devolve into the normalcy of lunacy as the cartoon progresses. Of course, another benefit of doing so is, again, economy. It's easier to only animate the dog's mouth in the close-up of him putting out the fire ("a full-blooded Spitz" being the punny explanation for his peculiar means of extinguishing fires) and keep the rest of his body on a rigid, unmoving, independent layer in the name of realism.
Such a contrast does have potential to be funny; excessive realism in juxtaposition (or even working with) to the usual "cartoony" standard is a quick and easy way to get laughs, but there isn't much here that suggests this is the comedic intent. Instead, confusion dominates.
Nevertheless, Clampett compensates through the heart of the gag itself: the dog putting out the flames with his spitting. Lobs of spit are rubbery and obtuse for clarity. They arc and fly out in varying directions, encouraging visual interest--the same is true for some lobs of spit being fired in succession in the same direction, others only extinguishing a flame in one fell swoop. Sound designer Treg Brown brilliantly connotes a necessary whimsy through his own rubbery spitting sounds. While not the first nor even most clever use of the Spitz pun, the actual animation of his spitting is lively and attempts to compensate for the aforementioned weaknesses.
A fade to black segues to the next scene, in which the camera finds itself in the interior of the barn. With it is a mama cow, locked in a rather laborious chewing cycle of her hay. Our narratorial farmer utilizes this opportunity to wax poetically about the drastic increase of milk production, even complimenting her on her unfathomable quota of 5,000 quarts per day: "'at seems like a lotta milk, but five thousan' quarts is what she gives..."
Yet again, this gabbing about milk production is another loophole in the name of economy; the same chewing cycle ensues all throughout.
As sedentary as this scene may be, it may also be one of the riskiest in the entire cartoon. One of the notorious no-no's of the Hays Code is the exposure of cow udders. Many a cartoon cow has been sentenced to the strict confines of a skirt, so as to protect the young and innocent from the grave sight of seeing an udder. So, of course, Clampett is happy to disobey by not only showing the cow with her udders, but having them locked and painted on a completely different cel layer.
Another means of economy (though practical, as there isn't any need to animate her lower body) that aggressively teases the censors just the same. Her udders are rendered in comparatively meticulous detail, which, of course, calls immediate attention to their presence. Perhaps it slipped by due to its relevance regarding the discussion of war. Surely it would be most unpatriotic to censor this cow's udders and discredit the 5,000 quarts a day she provides so generously for the American public.
Especially given that the subject seems to be a sore (sorry) one for her: "'Gives' nothing! They come in and take it from me!"
Given the tameness of the animation thus far, with Mama being locked in an interminable chewing cycle, Rod Scribner's presence as the designated animator isn't immediately known until Mama directly confronts the audience. When she does, however, Scribner certainly makes up for lost time. With the acting confined solely to her face, he compensates by making her expression vivid, distorted, moving her head in all directions. Further attention is confronted to such acting by pulling the camera close on her face, both to disguise the lack of bodily movement and as a way to make her above comment to the audience seem more snarky and personal.
Dramatic sobbing ensues. Clampett almost seems to linger on this for a beat or two too many, but soon reveals this is out of necessity. Otherwise, the smash cut to a calf--equally exaggerated in its Scribner-esque design sense--lamenting in a snarky, Brooklyn accent: "What a peh-foah-mance!". Lingering so long on the crying Mama (which isn't all that long, but is injected with a bit of a pause that slows the momentum) warrants the reaction more.
Scribner's exaggeration on the calf is, realistically, a bit arbitrarily abundant in its energy; the calf appears as if he's giving a performance himself through his detailed teeth, wide mouth and neckly extrusions. Regardless, from mother and child alike, Scribner's drawings entertain. Any feelings of awkwardness are moreso down to minor directorial decisions, such as the awkward pause as the Mama cries or the abruptness of the calf's smash cut (which could instead be softened by a camera panning to him instead.)
Nevertheless, Clampett and the narrator alike move swiftly onward. Next enters a meeting of the minds between an old narrator and an old cat. As mentioned earlier, the age and implied wisdom of the narrator is partially to soothe fears of the audiences and offer reassurance--this is explicitly capitalized upon in the cat's introduction, who the narrator introduces as having been alive for the past three wars: "Why, he's been around fer the last three wars an' he knows 'at this'un'll turn out alright, too."
Sure enough, Carl Stalling's choice of musical accompaniment is the abolitionist anthem of "Battle Cry of Freedom" (which, ironically, became so popular that the Confederacy adapted their own version of the song) to put the cat's age in perspective. Civil War veterans were still alive in 1942, though very few--creating this connotation that the cat's been around since the Civil War era obviously paints a picture of his age, which is most notably conveyed through his frail, bony design and movements.
Said movements are largely lifted from Clampett's Farm Frolics, with the mouse's sleepy, lugubrious movements now imparted onto the cat. Both even produce the same whining, descending violin squeak as they nod their heads in accordance to the narrator's speech. As far as Clampett's standards go, the reuse is rather subtle and transformative; the "economy" would have been much more egregious if he retooled the cat's animation instead. Likewise, theatrical audiences would have been clueless to the reupholstering. Acting decisions like the cat's gangly head waggling as he lifts it off of the ground fit the context rather well; in Frolics, the movement was a sleepy flourish, whereas it works here to connote the cat's age and difficulty moving his body. In spite of this, he seems content.
The narrator's reassuring, creaky spiel and the cat's amicable reciprocation of his words are interrupted through a series of harsh knocking sounds. When the cat flinches in response, Carl Stalling's music does the same through a brief music-sting. His accompaniment drops out to favor the cat's violin-slide inducing nod, encouraging a relative silence. Thus, the disruption of these enigmatic knocking sounds is made more apparent.
Clampett doesn't relay any hints to the source of the noise this noise until the last second, encouraging the audience to be more engaged through this brief confusion. Hollow, rapid knocking sounds seems to have little relevance in the topic of an old, decrepit yet sage cat.
That's because they don't A swift camera pan to the right reveals a woodpecker--though the upstanding comb on its head confusingly and amusingly indicates otherwise--living up to its namesake. His pecking is timed on one's, with the animation itself following an array of distortions such as multiples or caricaturing his head as a mere streak of drybrush. Thus, his energy feels more spry, lithe, and young, supporting the narrator's cooing over the "teeny little woodpecker".
Through such verbiage and animation, an air of innocence and juvenility is conveyed in accordance to the bird. A vulnerability. All remain the case as he hops down the tree and preoccupies himself with a stick, prompting the narrator to tie it back to the wartime theming and gush over how he'd make a good riveter when he grows up.
Such observations are important to note, given that this entire introduction is established only for the sole purpose of refutation. As it so turns out, the woodpecker-chicken hybrid is actually quite the little hellion; he has the distinction of being the first of many to caricature the Mean Widdle Kid from The Red Skelton Show. Tweety, who would originate from Clampett, is perhaps the most famous caricature of the character to date, even if his radio origins were quick to go out the wayside when adopted by Friz Freleng.
For our purposes here, Kent Rogers' vocal mannerisms as the "innocent" little woodpecker immediately give the caricature away as soon as he opens his mouth. The broken baby talk speech ("Look at the cat's tail" is now "Loo' at da tat's tai-yuhll!"), the juvenile, squeaking voice, the ever identifiable phraseology of "I dood it". The reference is confined entirely to Rogers' performance, as there is no way for the audience to have anticipated the pull before this. Spontaneity of the caricature is what makes it so compelling.
Stalling's pensive, furtive music score as the woodpecker contemplates pecking the cat's tail perfectly encapsulates Rogers' thick, warm, dopey performance. In spite of the inherent silliness to his voice, there is a real contemplative innocence in his voice. Of course, the woodpecker is anything but, given that he's seconds away from violently pulverizing the poor, vulnerable old cat's tail. Yet, like the caricature itself being a bit of a surprise, this mischief isn't immediately obvious.
Rogers is great casting on Clampett's part. Blanc's child voices and own slew of Mean Widdle Kid voices are funny, but seldom utilized to convey anything but insincerity. Rogers is able to blend in with the crowd more. Likewise, celebrity voice impressions was a specialty of his, making him a prime subject for this role. Rogers' voice is more unassuming, as he isn't nearly as well known as Blanc. Thus, this sense of leading the audience on through cutesy antics and novel voices makes the resulting scene all the more strong and secure.
Even the draftsmanship and animation of the woodpecker is solid and constructed. Close-up shots of characters often require a certain solid hand, which is certainly dealt here. An amusingly innocent vacancy surrounds the woodpecker's movements and animation--particularly the thousand yard stare as he greatly contemplates the consequences of his actions ("Id I do... I'd det a whippin'..."). Yet, again, it is urgent to stress how remarkably un-disingenuous this entire arrangement feels. The audience is increasingly motivated to laugh at the circumstances, but the crux of the humor and amusement is largely saved until the "breakout", in which the bird eviscerates the cat's tail.
Slow, meticulous movement to caricature the woodpecker's ponderances quickly shift to rapid pecking in an incredibly effective escalation. Animated on ones, the transition to such violence is about as surprising as the violence itself. Yet again, Brown's hollow pecking sound effects render the action tangibe; the same is true of the old cat, whose Blanc-ian scream obligingly deafens the ears of many.
Clampett refrains from jumping to the cat immediately and prioritizing his reaction. Rather, staying fixated on the woodpecker emphasizes the act of him pecking, which is arguably more painful than seeing the cat's own pained expression. Audiences are encouraged to infer the cat's pain for themselves based off of the context provided, which is powerful in its own way. Not to mention economical.
Stagnant staging is also out of necessity: rather than cutting to the cat, the cat comes to the scene by way of crashing down onto the ground and occupying the entire layout. Just as the woodpecker's transition from thinking to pecking was rapid, so is the cat's arrival--there are only two frames before impact. No gradually increasing shadow to hint at his presence, no descending whistle to caricature his fall. He doesn't even receive the dignity of an antic or follow-through when he falls. Instead, he merely vibrates into a stiff, crotchety settle, matching the stiff, crotchety expression on his face. Startled reactions from the woodpecker--including a split-second shiver take, which is a charmingly antiquated fixture to demonstrate fear--are the only context clues to herald his arrival, as well as the refusal to cut to a new scene.
In all, this close-up is very well handled. Similar praises regarding the solidity of construction and draftsmanship are to be directed to the cat just as they were the woodpecker. If there is any nitpicking to be had, it's that the animation of him contemptuously squeezing a fist full of dirt doesn't align with the ground plane. Indicated dirt lines overlap with his spindly elbow.
The next scene is a bit of an oddity in its auteur. Former Clampett unit animator Vive Risto is the hand responsible for this corn-gobbling turkey, fattening up in preparation for Thanksgiving (as tipped off by our sentimental codger of a narrator). Risto had since been moved to Norm McCabe's unit with the rest of the now former Clampett unit. Nevertheless, the impact lines that emit when the turkey's stomach bounces off the ground with each exorbitant swallow, as well as the thick, sagging eyebrows on the turkey in the impending expressions of worriment seem to solidify Risto's presence.
He may have had some down time in the McCabe unit and needed some extra work--it's likely the same mystery and circumstances surrounding the presence of Gil Turner and Dick Bickenbach, two Freleng unit mainstays who never crossed paths with the Clampett unit, were in Clampett's Nutty News. Risto's appearance is especially fascinating to note for this reason. Unlike Turner and Bickenbach, Risto's presence marks a bit of a reunion between Clampett and Risto. Especially given that this is a black and white Clampett cartoon, which had been Risto's home for the past few years.
At least, ready to eat if they're not wise to their demise. Upon the narrator's remarks of "When he reaches twen'y pounds, he'll be ready for the oven", the turkey mimics the same words in a hushed, startled whisper. Panicked realization is made more personal as he stares directly towards the camera while doing so, almost guilting the audience for fantasizing about eating such a voluptuous turkey. His sudden humanity is a great contrast and cleverly refutes the dripping sentimentality of the scene, while enforcing it just in the same way. We may laugh at the turkeys and their self awareness, but that won't stop us from eating them.
So, of course, the next logical step is to burn off as much weight as quickly as possible. Risto's animation of the turkey's panic seems elevated in comparison to his past work for Clampett. Though not exactly an animator who excelled at capturing a sense of motion, the motion of the turkey spitting out the corn and flailing helplessly is tight, believably frenetic, and flows rather well. The turkey recoils his head back to spit, with drybrushing connecting the smooth, flowing arc. Rapidity in the timing and such smooth, connected arcs weren't really present in his prior work for Clampett; even the design of the turkey itself feels abnormally chiseled for Risto's standards, who was a giveaway through his simplified, rubbery animation.
This isn't to imply that he was a bad animator before this scene, or that this scene is drastically different from the work that preceded this. Rather, it's a commentary on how Clampett has really come into his own as a director since adopting the Avery unit. It's clear that he's developed a stronger vision for how he wants his cartoons to look and move, and is more eager to encourage his animators to reach that standard.
With all of the hubbub behind us, Clampett now transitions to a comparatively sedentary scene. Nothing gets more sedentary than a pair of unhatched turtle eggs meticulously arranged in a single line. Given that this short utilizes so many static expository shots such as this one in introducing a scene, Clampett and his layout artists direct their focus to making these shots appealing. A satisfying symmetry prevails with one half dominated by tall, overgrown grass and shrubbery, the other open and barren to clearly indicate the eggs. The same applies for the variance in values; the dark shadows of the weeds and the lightness of the exposed ground and eggs all contribute to the balanced harmony touted by the layout.
Yet again, Clampett asserts his cleverness. Following the narrator's prattling about the eggs, a rapid, hollow clicking sound is heard off-screen. Given the camera's staid focus on the eggs, audiences are momentarily tricked into thinking it’s the sound of the eggs hatching... only to be trailed by a familiarly piercing yowl.
Suspicions are thereby confirmed as the woodpecker-chicken hybrid rushes into the scene with a great burst of vigor--so much so that he almost zips off the screen entirely, having to backtrack and navigate to a stop in front of the middlemost egg. Wacky Blackout isn't energetic in the same way as something like The Wacky Wabbit may be energetic, but it certainly has pockets of bursts that display just how much Clampett has evolved. Having a character skid to a stop, sacrificing a few seconds of run-time in the name of loose, aimless scrambling animation, may not have been a consideration he'd take during the brunt of his burn-out.
Such energy is furthered by the camera immediately cutting closer on the woodpecker once he stops. It's jarring, it's jolting, the flow of the scene is deliberately interrupted. Functionally, it's a nuisance, and that's exactly why Clampett does it. Like the woodpecker pointing to himself and gleefully exclaiming "I dood it again!", it commands attention. An innocent, playful, but jarring confrontation. More praises are to be directed towards Rogers and the real, childlike earnest in his voice.
And that's the extent of the tangent. Viewers will note that the woodpecker exits screen left rather than right, which is the exact direction from which he came--such connotes that he'll strike a third time. His skidding escape was not out of basic survival instincts, but, rather, to take the time and gloat to the viewer before indulging in more hijinks. An innocent anarchy that Clampett fostered in his directing well.
The dismissive resumption of narratorial duties through "Well, as I was sayin'..." again demonstrates the differences between this rural, creaky narrator and the stolid, condescending archetype maintained by Robert C. Bruce and his soundalikes. Bruce would never be so informal with his wording. Usually, he'd default to a clear of the throat or a haughty dismissal that sounds more professional and conceited than the farmer's turn-around here. Our old, hokey narrator is down to earth, folksy; thus, a more professional means of transition isn't as much of a priority.
In any case, the codger narrator describes the turtles-to-be as being born with a "bomb proof shelter" attached to their back. A gradual truck-in from the camera demonstrates this bomb shelter christening in action: an egg trembles, cracks spreading, pops open to reveal a sleepy-eyed turtle who contentedly rocks in its shell turned cradle. "Ain't that cute," is the informal commentary imposed upon us.
The same routine ensues for the next one. Rocking cycles of the turtles come to a rather abrupt halt, with the turtles freezing into an idle position. Such is to allow the camera a feasible stepping stone and enable it to pan to the next egg, which is understandable, but could nevertheless benefit from a few more frames of the turtle slowing to a more believable stop. Instead, the action seems stilted and obligatory.
Nevertheless, there are three turtle eggs, and anything that is arranged in thirds is an immediate giveaway for the heralded Rule of Three's. Our subversive third turtle does not rock in the same halting cradle, but, rather, explodes out of his shell with a whirl. Even before the egg is done hatching, the egg itself succumbs to a whirlwind as the turtle comes spiraling out, zipping across all areas of the screen.
Animation of his manic joyride across the layout, akin more to a constantly moving blur of paint rather than a tortoise, is comparable to a similar gag in Meet John Doughboy. Doughboy's animation is a bit more accommodating of its layouts, with the whirlwind car interacting with the curves and bends and structure of the layout more convincingly than is the case here. The turtle here seems to ride and whirr on top of it rather than in it; this is most apparent when the turtle drives on the screen itself which, while clever and engaging, falls flat as the turtle is positioned too far away from the camera to be convincing. Rather than driving on the screen, he instead seems to be doing donuts on stagnant air.
Nevertheless, the animation is too rapid and inconsequential to raise cane about. Boundless whirring circuits of the turtle and Stalling's equally peppy orchestrations of "Yankee Doodle" are a clear contrast to the sleepiness and quaintness of the preceding turtles. Even his design is different--once the turtle comes to a stop, audiences are able to take a gander at his comparatively streamlined construction, his crossed eyes, and even a helmet to boot. Of course, all of that is inconsequential to his Jeep shaped shell.
A throaty declaration of "Beep beep--I''m a Jeep!" is suspiciously comparable in its sound to a future Road Runner. As the story goes, the Road Runner got his voice from background artist Paul Julian who, when lugging his paintings around the studio, would warn people to get out of the way with a simple "Hmeep hmeep" sound. In spite of Blanc's stories in later years about the Road Runner being the easiest voice job he ever did (likely because he didn't do it at all), the infamous "hmeep hmeep" heard in Chuck Jones' cartoons comes straight from Julian's mouth. Blanc does the voice here, but Julian had been working at the studio for a few years at this point, which means that he could have feasibly been the inspiration behind the turtle's onomatopoeia.
With that, the "beep beep"-ing Jeep resumes his screwball activities with deranged vigor. His entire appearance and functionality calls to mind the screwball characters that dominated Clampett's shorts of the late '30s and early 1940. Not that his shorts didn't feature their own screwballs now, but the one-off screwball characters in shorts such as Ali-Baba Bound or the prototypal Bugs Bunny in Patient Porky suggest a very specific tone of screwiness that this turtle is rather adjacent to.
A fade out and back in takes us "back on the farm", per the narrator's guidance. More atmospheric grandeur is instilled in the gorgeously sleepy establishing shot of a doghouse. Clampett falls into a pattern that is typical to these more tangential shorts—riotous, screwball antics are typically pursued by the opposite, if only for introductions. Construction of atmosphere through considerate lighting proves again to be a huge strength—white, warm light emits from the inside of a doghouse, illuminating the murky, all enveloping blackness. A bright full moon in the background reveals the silhouette of an affectionately jagged country fence. All in all, a palpably cozy atmosphere that is perhaps too cozy and inviting to be associated with a doghouse.
Indeed, that there’s any light coming out of the doghouse at all is amusing. A certain domesticity and implied anthropomoprhism is conveyed, implying dog-centric electric bills and other utilities (water? gas?). Ditto for the curtains framing a window (whose inclusion is another amusing indication of the above domesticity--what doghouse is armed with the luxury of a window?). As this short so continuously proves, Clampett's strengths are in the little details. They're easy to miss, but can be quite clever when given more than a passing glance.
It speaks to Rod Scribner’s strengths that his handwork is recognizable even through the limitations of a silhouette. Per the narrator's sly commentary, a dog is currently in the struggle of "a-courtin' his sweetie"; movements of this dopey-voiced dog are broad with sweeping head tilts and chin tucks. Even little considerations, such as eyelashes or his hairs, are given prominent motion. Moreover, going back to the above spiel about the intended domesticity inherent to the doghouse, such a close-up offers a closer peek at these curtains which are even patterned. Clampett capitalizes on the inherent humor of such an intimate, domestic scene in multiple ways, whether it be through a dog struggling to flirt with his girl or the abode in which he does it in.
To accommodate for such privacy, Clampett slowly eases the audience into the intimate scene. The camera refrains from dissolving immediately into the interior of the doghouse. Instead, this gentle intrusion occurs in increments: first it’s the façade of the doghouse, then the shot of the window, and then a dissolve to the inside. No matter how absurd the intimacy of the scene may be, it is worth preserving just the same. Clampett communicates the feeling of intrusion, of secrecy--in this moment, the audience is no better than a Peeping Tom.
Even the dog is struggling with the weight of the intimate atmosphere. Following much hemming and hawing (and some rather cold turns of the head from his "sweetie", who seems conflicted as to whether she enjoys the hemming and hawing or hates it), the dog pines for the seclusion of a blackout, keeping it conveniently relevant to the cartoon's wartime hook.
"Ohhh, gawsh... I wish there was a black-out..."
If Scribner's animation is lively and appealing in just mere silhouette, then it is doubly so in its full context. As he guffaws and talks and fluctuates in the intensity of his bashfulness, the dog himself wilts and erects in a constant ebb and flow. He physically seems to pulsate with emotion.
Mild eye take ensues when the dog spots a light cord, ridiculous commentary of the fancifulness inherent to a doghouse with electricity kept in mind. For Scribner's standards, the eye take is subdued; it's more than what most animators would indicate for the same scenario, but isn't exactly a distortion or even caricature. Such is a testament to how elastic and energetic and exuberant Scribner's animation is by the default, when a bulge of the eyes feels pedestrian for his standards.
Thus, in a bit of a subversion, it’s the dog who declares the blackout rather than an air raid warden narrator. Likewise, his screams of “BLACKOUT! BLACK-OOOOUUUUT!” are likely the most jubilant anyone has ever been in declaring a blackout. Yet again, his animation seems to pulsate and writhe with newfound energy, springing up with a sudden elasticity.
A man-made blackout ensues. Surely there must have been some economic intentions in doing so—the screen is enveloped in black with no sound effects, no music, no glowing scleras to indicate the presence of the dogs—but even so, the simplicity is brilliant and works to its favor. It’s imperative to remember how this effect would have impacted audiences in the theaters. They, too, would be subject to complete darkness, therefore effectively immersing them in a mini-blackout as well. A lack of music and holding onto the darkness for a few, prolonged seconds really offers a certain believability that would have thrived in a theatrical setting.
All is well when the blackout is lifted. Perhaps too much so, given that the dog is now visibly smothered in lipstick. Only someone like Clampett would be devious enough to transfer a wartime procedure often associated with impending danger into a juvenile love affair with a palpably sexually charged energy. This, of course, is a compliment.
Scribner's animation of the dog in guffawing, broiling ecstasy perfectly encapsulates the above gleeful juvenility. Likewise, the girl seems to be as smitten regarding this affair as her sweetie, which lightens the metaphorical load. Her acting and motion is much more constrained than her boyfriend’s—full of appeal, especially with her big, wide eyes and grin. Placing her next to her boyfriend offers a palpable demonstration of Scribner's sense of control juxtaposed against his trademark hyperactive distortions.
Another blackout follows, doubling as a scene transition. Just as the manic, beep beep-ing turtle segued to the domesticity of the doghouse’s façade, the dog's orgasmic screaming now paves the way for an equal paradox of laziness. So much so that even the narrator is at a loss as to why the scene is so lugubrious.
Here, a group of caterpillars sulk in heavy unison. It proves difficult not to compare to a very similar beat in The Bug Parade, in which a group of silk worms boast similar listlessness. Here, the layout is more thoughtfully arranged--caterpillars extend out into the distance, some inked in lighter, milky hues to give the illusion of atmospheric perspective. By contrast, they don't move as much as the silk worms in Bug Parade (which, granted, is very simple in its motion, with some worms just pacing back and forth), so a more dimensional layout could be compensation caterpillars are sulking. Vastness of the layout offers the illusion of more caterpillars, which, in turn, makes this epidemic of listlessness seem more all consuming.
In The Bug Parade, the woes of the silk worms are revealed through a camera pan to the source. Here, that isn't a luxury--the source comes directly to them. Effusive car honking sounds are curtailed through a peppy, layered motif of "In My Merry Oldsmobile", dutifully encapsulating the manic energy of a caterpillar who appears anything but glum. Here, the set-up and execution of this looping, crazed outlier caterpillar mirrors the tangent with the Jeep-turtle hybrid.
Bob McKimson offers a close-up of this "happy feller". The narrator's assessment is a bit off, as he seems completely deranged and manic rather than simply "happy". The wide, ecstatic eyes, paralleled by the gaping grin in equal ferocity, the rapidity of his inching forward (which is surprisingly tactile in its motion--his movements are so fast and hurried that the audience almost suffers from second-hand whiplash). His ecstasy doesn't seem joyful, but, rather, painful. Clampett would learn to harness a very synonymous energy for his interpretation of Daffy Duck in coming years (and already had, if only in a more rudimentary form.)
"Happy? Of course I'm happy!" As is usually the case, another big contender of success for the scene is Blanc's manic laughter mirrored in McKimson's animation. His deliveries are shaken with laughter, genuine in their difficulty to be sustained. "I just got a re-tread!"
Casting McKimson as the artist for this scene was a smart choice, given his penchant for sculpted, dimensional animation. The crisp, clean traction on his belly bears shadows and indentations, giving a believability to the goods he is showing off. While the visual gag may seem simple, it is a fixture that requires a lot of solidity--especially when considering the caterpillar rolls away like a tire. It's a lot to keep track of, and must be kept locked down in place so that the visuals don't skip around or jump. McKimson was just the man for the challenge.
If the wide eyed expression on the caterpillar or general solidity of the animation weren't strong indications of his presence, then the head tilt on the caterpillar as he throws his head back in manic laughter is. It's the very same pose that Bugs boasted himself in Bugs Bunny Gets the Boid after "reacquainting" himself with his in-tact feet.
On the topic of retreads, a sequence following a band of fireflies and their own blackout procedure mirrors a very similar set-up in Nutty News. Both involve fireflies performing a blackout for the viewer. Major differences are the parameters surrounding said blackout; here, the blackout is staged, incited by the narrator, whereas the Nutty News example has no animation whatsoever. Just an empty, lush background with voices substituting the fireflies as they voice their intent for a blackout.
In contrast, Clampett (comparatively) pulls out all the stops here by actually animating the flickering, round orbs. Said orbs even align in a perfectly straight line, so that the audience can see the greater change in light. The blackout angle is more effective if all the lights are crammed together than if they were strewn across all angles of the screen, as the point of focus is made more clear. Moreover, the time allotted to get arranged indicates a greater sense of rehearsal and performance—there’s a clear motivation to the set-up, which the gag is dependent on.
And, rather than all lights distinguishing at once, they instead flicker off one by one, obliging to Stalling’s descending xylophone glissando. Simple and effective, merely removing the cels one by one and keeping the camera pan consistent. A simplicity that is nevertheless a lot more exorbitant than the display—or lack thereof—in News.
Suddenly, the camera cuts to a new scene entirely. Calling the aforementioned sequence a “gag” therefore seems rather generous, in that it’s politely amusing at most. No punchline to follow makes the scene feel flimsy, empty, anticlimactic. Fireflies obeying a narrator’s orders and turning their lights off in accordance to a descending xylophone score is certainly a very weak gag if that’s the case.
Thankfully, it isn’t, as there is an eventual follow-up… just in the scene after this one. Given how this overarching sequence is structured, that isn’t made immediately known. Thus, the aforementioned observations of aimlessness and discombobulation ensues. A random turtle seems to have little relevance to the fireflies and, granted, there are greater lengths that could have been taken to conjoin these adjacent ideas. Perhaps he reacts more visibly to the blackout. Maybe the camera cuts to the turtle as the screen darkens overtime, demonstrating an alternate perspective and reaction shot to the fireflies distinguishing their lights. Perhaps all of the above hypotheticals are solved through a mere camera pan connecting the fireflies and the turtle rather than cutting.
At the very least, the narrator makes an attempt to bridge the actions together by warning the turtle to pull into his shell for the blackout. Regardless, the aforementioned critiques apply; there’s still a discombobulation in the shot flow and presentation that renders the scenes a bit tangential.
Perhaps that is exacerbated through the lack of action in the scene itself. When asked to retreat, the tortoise gives a polite refusal of “I’d rather not"; of course, that doesn't hold much water, given that he obliges anyway almost immediately after. Clampett’s timing is a bit trigger happy—the turtle is already seen slinking back into his shell before the narrator has time to finish ordering "Pull yer head in!". Rather than succumbing to peer pressure, the execution instead makes it seem as though the turtle had a change of heart instead.
Such an accidental inference proves antithetical to the punchline, in which the turtle states he's afraid of the dark. Awkward pacing and shot flow of the entire sequence exacerbates the flimsiness of the punchline itself. The firefly blackout is structured so that the turtle is a tangent, a reaction to a greater, overarching gag. However, it isn’t immediately clear that the fireflies are going to return after this. Thus, on the surface, it feels as though the audience has received two non-jokes in a row.
Regardless, having the turtle shell be its own painted layer is striking and efficient. Glossy, painted textures give the shell a grounded stolidity that is necessary for conveying its immobility. Likewise, the detail connotes solidity which, in the turtle's case, is perhaps more intimidating in its purveying of darkness. And, of course, the benefit of saving pencil mileage is not to be taken for granted.
"Alright fireflies, blackout's over."
Thus, the camera defaults back to the prior staging. Fireflies dutifully light back up in the same xylophone glissando…
…save for one.
The camera cuts close to inspect this bulb-less culprit, who seems to be at just as much of a loss as we are. Stalling suspends his music score to accentuate this breach in decorum, this pause—there’s a clear expectation of waiting for something greater.
All of the above remain true even when the firefly does a surprised take upon spotting his empty rear; usually, such a beat would be accompanied by an alarmed sting. Instead, Stalling remains obedient to an anticipatory drumroll humming discreetly in the background.
Discreet drumrolls are sustained even through the firefly's nasal confrontations of "Hey, who's da bulb snatcher!? WHO'S DA BULB SNATCHER!?"
Cleverly, both he and the firefly succeeding him land on a conveniently available leaf--that way, the camera doesn't have to keep trucking along, prompting further expenditure of pencil mileage and money mileage. Cleverness is instilled through the framing, as this succeeding firefly--seemingly included to fill out the frame, offering a juxtaposition between a firefly with a bulb and one without--is the bulb snatcher in question. The same juvenile glee expatiated about in the cartoon's open can be found in the culprit's sheepish return of the bulb; his wide, disingenuous but rather pleasurable grin has a real schoolboy innocence to it that Clampett was so strong at harnessing.
Going back to the anticipatory drumroll, it never actually amounts to any sort of resolution. No quirky music sting, no ironic "wah-wah" commentary. Any musical accompaniment is confined purely to the rather poignant "ping!" that occurs after the firefly has haughtily reassembled himself.
A cut to black as the scene transition is just a bit too abrupt, but forgivable. The moment is curt, quick, dismissive; any haste from the camera is almost a commentary in itself, as if the camera understands its intrusion on such a humiliating and private moment. Nevertheless (intentionally or otherwise), the residual glow of the lightbulbs lingering after the fireflies themselves have succumbed to the darkness is an attentive detail that calls explicit attention to the very hook of the entire scene: the lights. It's best appreciated with a more gradual fade to black, but the jarring transition fits the context of the firefly's own haste.
While relatively inconsequential in its delivery and set-up, this next cutaway to a mama teaching her baby to fly may very well be one of the most intriguing of the entire cartoon. Animation historians will note that the baby bird in question bears a striking resemblance to Clampett's prototypal Tweety Bird, who would see his grand debut with the same design just a few months later. With the exception of his colored fingers, the designs are an exact match. The cuteness factor is ramped up here more than A Tale of Two Kitties, but logically so, given that this is such a short tangent.
Here, our not-Tweety baby bird can hardly keep his own head up. Mama is sleek and elegant in comparison, grounded with a basic humanity (such as her wings doubling as fingers) that is absolutely not shared by this naked alien creature. Regardless, the intended cloyingness prevails over the baby's ugliness, and the two even compliment each other in their respective intentions. Stalling's flute glissando motif atop the infantile arrangement of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" offers an airy grace boasted by the mother that, again, contrasts against everything the adorable hideous baby stands for.
Mama’s demonstration of how to fly is equally treacly. Her voice is soft-spoken, slow, gentle, taking her sweet time to demonstrate and flap her wings. Comparisons to the Disney school of cute come to mind, and would be cemented if not for the caveat that is the baby's design. His "so hideous it's cute" design is much more in line with the affectionate sardonicism of the Warner cartoons. The scene would be right out of a Disney movie if it weren’t for the baby’s design.
Clampett, having a genuine penchant for cute critters (even--and perhaps especially--if the intent can be sarcastic), capitalizes upon this saccharinity. When Mama asks for the baby's confirmation of his understanding, the baby shakes his head no in an echo of shorts such as Wise Quacks. Both feature a baby bird--of varying degrees of cuteness--that set the audience up to obey to a predetermined saccharinity, only instead to subvert expectations at the last second.
The example in Wise Quacks is tongue-in-cheek; here, its usage delves into outright anarchy, as a shake of the head no quickly segues into the adoption of a new demeanor entirely. No longer the baby who could barely support the weight of his own oversized head, he now speaks in a gravel-voiced timbre, using comparatively abrasive slang such as "Ma" and waving her off with a scowl:
"Aw, Ma! I wanna be a diiiive-bomberrr."
Kent Rogers yet again proves to be a perfect casting choice. Rogers hits a very specific harshness in his tone that perhaps wouldn't have had the same novelty if performed by Blanc. Especially given that viewers have become accustomed to what Blanc's vocals would sound like in this case--he's already done plenty of variations on this exact set-up. Rogers' voice is novel, fresh, and just different enough to successfully surprise the audience and get them to laugh at the sheer sound of his voice in addition to the voice being so beyond the standard expectation.
Divebombing demonstration ensues. Yet again, Stalling demonstrates an impressive restraint by remaining silent as the bird swoops around the screen; Rogers' rapid vocal gunfire is the only source of accompaniment. A lack of musical commentary adds to the spontaneity of the moment, as well as any intentional wryness from Clampett's directorial commentary. To smother the action in a brazen, attention seeking musical number may be a bit too intrusive. Nonchalance and objectivity of the gag is a major selling point to its success.
As per our established rhythm of the cartoon, an unabashed tranquility succeeds such aggressive antics. Dick Thomas certainly receives quite a spotlight for his painting work, his backgrounds consistently attentive and sharp in their lighting and concentration of brush strokes. Projected shadows from the trees are convincingly displayed onto the façade of a church, connoting a thick, muggy yet comforting heat through the harsh sunshine. A somewhat solemn, hummed chorus of "When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano" contributes its own warmth, rendering the atmosphere even more palpable in its comfort. Likewise for the church setting in general, which is intended to instill peace and harmony--the same principals not incomparable to using an old, creaky codger as a narrator.
Granted, any established tranquility is immediately due to be refuted per the structure of the short. The same remains true here--the narrator prattles on about how the famed swallows of Capistrano have remained unaffected by the war, carrying out their migratory duties. As he does so, the camera, once panning across the entire layout of the courtyard, now zooms and dissolves on one particular façade of the church. A vast, open sky dominates the screen, seeming to hint at the imminent arrival of the birds.
They never come. Instead, the camera thrusts the viewer out of a contented stupor in service of cutting to a telegram delivery boy. Clampett’s intended bait-n-switch of this "between shot", fooling the audience into focusing on the church and the sky, doesn't translate as effectively as it could. Rather, the cutting feels arbitrary, as if the camera closed in on this specific angle of the church for no reason at all. It's the same caveat presented in the ambiguity of the firefly book-end; there is a greater purpose to these directorial maneuvers, and they can be found when digging for them, but they don't immediately read on impact.
Directorial miscommunications are nevertheless forgiven through the lively presentation of the delivery boy. His animation is fun, his design is fun, even his bike is fun with its worn tires and crumpled spokes. His entrance into the screen is executed with typical Clampettian zeal, zipping to an elastic stop as his body vibrates like a plucked rubber band. Design philosophies are similarly Clampettian in their playfulness: a big, bulbous nose and rear, floppy shoes, a spindly neck and jaw. Basics of his design are rooted in trends that Clampett has been maintaining since the start of his career—only now, they are more convincingly integrated. Our telegram boy doesn’t feel like a coagulation of spheres and orbs.
Clampett and company must have taken a liking to the design, given that the character seems to operate within it. That is, when he reads the telegram to the audience, (which is inherently amusing in itself given the nonchalance of the fourth-wall break), his head is turned to profile. This makes no physical sense with the telegram positioned in front of him—instead, rather than banking on the correct physics of how to read a telegram, the purpose of the side profile is to draw the audience’s eye to his design and bask in its specificities.
Contents of the telegram are sung by the nasal voiced telegram boy to “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” An innately amusing sound to Blanc’s voice, as well as the energy of it juxtapose nicely against the subject matter of the telegram (detailing how the swallows are stuck overseas). Likewise, seeing the actual telegram grounds the entire bit and gives it a certain tangibility. The effect wouldn’t be the same if he were to read the telegram in the same wide shot; there’s a sense of inclusion and gratification in actually seeing the telegram. That, and the benefit of less pencil mileage.
“Now you folks all know how valuable carrier pigeons is in war time…”
Again, to construct some degree of fond remembrance and coziness, staging is peaceful, serene, warm. A vast full moon illuminates the countryside, spotlighting the silhouettes of a carrier pigeon returning to its birdhouse after a long day of work. Said return of the pigeon to its home—lit up just like the doghouse—connotes safety, routine.
If only for a moment. Soothing ramblings from the narrator are disrupted by way of a familiar, hollow knocking sound, succeeded by an equally familiar yowl…
…only to be followed by an unfamiliar victory. Sure enough, the woodpecker tangent was this short’s B-plot. Admittedly, there is probably a more succinct way to make this clear; the first interrupting woodpecker tangent occurs almost immediately after the woodpecker was introduced. Then, radio silence until now. More equal distribution of the affair would aid in making the resumption of routine feel less random and disruptive beyond intent.
Nevertheless, the cat has finally received his comeuppance. It is he who bears the vocal patterns of the Mean Widdle Kid, boasting his own victorious declaration of “I dood it!” More vigor dominates his posing, movement and demeanor than has ever been associated with him thus far. So much so that he almost looks like a completely different character—his hairs being inked as a consistent gray instead of the intended white may play a role. Regardless, the palpable tone shift is rewarding and clear.
Even if the woodpecker does end up receiving the last laugh. Victory laps from the cat are impeded through the raucous, hollow pecking emanating from within his belly, protrusions in each direction indicating the woodpecker’s presence. As he is pecked profusely, the cat succumbs to a cross-eyed stupor, leaning in the opposite direction of the woodpecker—the motion is a little on the stiff side, but the drawings themselves are full of appeal and energy.
The camera merely pushes past the cat, leaving him locked in a cycle of pecking torture for all eternity. This polite sense of dismissal—furthered through the creaky laughter of the narrator—is affectionate and amusing, a clever way to shift gears by leaving the poor cat in the dust.
Indeed, Clampett divers his tonal attention back to nostalgia, comfort, and, most imperatively, jingoism. Our equally elderly narrator waxes about this "famous" couple of pigeons, who gave "more sons t' the service than was ever thought possible". Audiences are encouraged to find humor in the aggressiveness of the birds' reproduction, as well as take amusement in just how laboriously their age is indicated. Constant shaking, excessively saggy designs, old elderly shorthands such as the husband hunched over with his hand on his back. At the same time, in spite of their amusingly spindly ways, the birds connote an air of security. These old coots have survived the war, and so will we.
And that is exactly what this segment intends to convey. If the excessive wrinkles and jagged, snappy motion (even if the birds themselves could not be any more divorced from the word "snappy") weren't strong enough indicators of Scribner's presence, then the manic energy imparted into the birds as they perk up for a chorus of "We Did It Before and We Can Do It Again" most certainly is.
Not dissimilar to the old tomcat, the adoption of vim and vigor from both parties is immediate in its transformation. Scribner was the perfect casting choice yet again, both for the excessive energy inherent to his handiwork and the sheer amount of appeal present in the drawings. These birds are frenetic in their marching, eyes wide and cheeks thin in supporting gaping grins, but it isn't necessarily a disingenuous freneticism that borders on concern like the re-treaded caterpillar. There's a real infectiousness to the movement and gleeful expressions, which is likely the exact reason Clampett cast him for this scene. As absurd as it may be, it is intended to rejuvenate and inspire.
