Release Date: September 10th, 1938
Series: Merrie Melodies
Director: Frank Tashlin
Story: Jack Miller
Animation: Bob McKimson
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Tedd Pierce (W.C. Squeals), Mel Blanc (Bird, Drunk Fish, Judge), Danny Webb (Charlie McCarthy), The Sportsmen Quartet (Chorus)
In his first appearance since 1936, W.C. Squeals squeals his swine swan song in a particularly rowdy effort by Tashlin. Cracked Ice chronicles Squeals' pursuits to get his hands on some booze provided by a rescue St. Bernard dog--faked drownings, indifferent dogs, drunk fish, and frenzied ice skating contests are only a portion of the hunt for hooch.
With the cartoon's song number at the beginning, the opening swiftly establishes a saccharine parody of adjacent "ice folly" cartoons, namely Disney's On Ice or even Warner's own Alpine Antics.
Set to the tune of "The Blue Danube", a chorus sings skating appropriate lyrics on top of various animal antics. Frank Tashlin gets creative with the transitions; the establishing shot is an opaque red color card, which is soon revealed as the pants of a skating elephant. The elephant circles his fellow skaters (hippos, rabbits, penguins, dog-adjacent creatures) before skidding right into the foreground, coloring the screen red again.
An iris makes practical use of the transition as the scene segues to a caterpillar and its many segments skating to the music. In spite of the sweet, mildly amusing scene, one even antiquated by 1938 WB standards, the lyrics to the music are more tongue-in-cheek: "If you see a sign, 'thin ice', we're through--stay back of the line, I do mean you!"
A '30s Tashlin staple, the caterpillar's segments all detach from one another, snaking through different routes and skirting around exposed areas of cracked ice, only to reattach to the caterpillar. Tashlin seemed to have a liking for meticulous sequences such as these--Porky's Railroad has a gag of the same vein where a train's many compartments detach and weave through a tangle of rails before attaching once more. Though the shot here doesn't have the same exact complexity or rapid delivery, the perspective is well done and the animation doesn't need to be as fervent or complex for the sake of context.
Next, the pair of Russian wolf hounds from Dog Daze make a return as they perform the Cossack dance on the ice. Carl Stalling doesn't miss a single beat in transitioning between music scores--the dogs shout "HEY!" on every accent of their dance, just as they did in Dog Daze, before resuming the tranquil skating scene swiftly and smoothly.
Warner's loved their unhatched legs with eggs. Tashlin's Booby Hatched in 1944 has such a design as the cartoon's protagonist.
The animation of a skating pelican is impressively well constructed and maintains a great sense of momentum and rhythm. He politely skates along the surface of the ice, hands behind his back, twirling his tailfeathers and lifting his legs with grace.
As he turns the other direction, the camera cuts in on a close-up shot of his bill; seems his lunch wants to get in on the action too. The "thin ice" sign is not only a clever touch to the gag, but a point of clarity, too, so that there's no mistaking the surface on the pelican's frozen mouth. (One does wonder, however, if that is ice or frozen saliva...)
Now, the momentum gains speeds more accustomed to Tashlin's climate. In a direct nod to On Ice, a crane leaps over lines of barrels, weaving in and out of the foreground to accompany the perspective. He gains more speed, yet still grounded by the consistent tempo of the music so as not to ramp the action to an uncontrollable crescendo.
Instead, he accidentally lands on a spare barrel tilted to its side.
Cue the inevitable. Now animated on ones, the hapless crane struggles to maintain his balance, kicking his legs and swinging his arms, all while the barrel rumbles in and out of the foreground. The perspective, the speed, the balance (or lack thereof) and the control is exceedingly impressive. With so many different things happening at the same time, a scene such as this one is vulnerable to falling apart at the seams, but instead remains tightly controlled and constructed.
Such a point is proven as the barrel collides with a random tree trunk lodged in the middle of the ice; as the crane falls to the ice, the fall is not only slow, but there are certain frames held on twos to add weight and ensure that the timing of the animation doesn't feel mechanical and same-y.
As to be expected, the poor crane lands face-first, skidding a few feet before sinking right into an exposed area of broken ice. Note some of the shrubbery in the background--the trees and limbs are loose and wiry, transparent; a subtle piece of abstraction during an era where the backgrounds are lush and not as caricatured as they would eventually become.
Enter the star of the show. Portly as ever, the pig caricature of comedian W.C. Fields (dubbed W.C. Squeals) slides into the scene, mumbling wordless lyrics to "The Blue Danube" as he shakes the ashes of his cigar to the beat of the music. Fans don't have to have a solid understanding nor appreciation for Fields to appreciate the Squeals caricature, who is so wonderfully odd in his own rite. Tedd Pierce's vocalization is incredibly humorous, as is usually the case.
Mel Blanc's cries of "Help help! Help help!" overlap Squeals' second chorus of "bam-bum"s to the music, prompting the porcine to address the noise. Instead around facing the audience, Tashlin flaunts some more perspective trickery as Squeals turns with his back (or, rather, pork rump) to the audience, briefly intercepting the foreground before turning into position. It's a small but rather striking and deliberate piece of action. Squeals' scarf following loosely behind is another great acknowledgment of realistic physics and keen animation.
"Nehhh, what's going on here?"
Garbled cries for help and a shot of the crane drowning answer Squeals' slurred inquiry.
In the midst of Squeals calling for help, the scene appropriately cuts to a first aid flag flying above a nearby cabin...
...or so we think. One shaky truck-out and the arrival of a bloated St. Bernard (design also reused from Dog Daze)'s head reveal the cabin as a doghouse, and one much too small to contain the giant dog. Tashlin is knowledgeable enough on perspective to know how to trick his audience with it--and it works.
Accompanied by a bloated cue of "Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?", the lumbering pooch marks his absence with an appropriately punny sign. In regards to the dog's design itself, consistency is to be commended; with so many details and strands of fur, it would be rather easy for the forms to flicker and move and lose shape. Surprisingly, they maintain consistency for the most part and don't move in a way that is jittery or distracting--a feat in itself.
"Hasten, hasten, my shaggy lifeguard, or you'll be too late!" Once more, one does not necessarily need to know nor understand the origins of Tedd Pierce's vocal stylings to find humor in them. Squeals directs the "shaggy lifeguard" to the scene of the crime, prompting the dog to merely shake his head and tssk. Not his first rodeo.
The solution? A pair of clamps. He sticks his forearm inside the freezing water and fishes around a little--the posing is clear and dynamic while remaining nonchalant and "routine". The dog is clearly in no hurry to save the drowning bird, as marked by his indifferent humming once he fishes the ice block out of the water.
Indeed, the bird is now a popsicle, encased in an ice cube as the dog hoists him along the pond, humming and strutting along with nary a concern.
With ice clamps come ice picks. Nonchalant humming continues, as does solid animation of the ice being broken into little bits. Consistency is easy to take for granted, especially in seemingly "tame" scenes such as these, but keeping track of the fur on the dog and every single chip of ice is no easy task whatsoever. The fact that it seems nitpicky to even discuss such a detail in the first place speaks to the scene's success.
Once the frozen bird-sicle is freed from his icy barrier, the dog carelessly tosses his frozen corpse aside. Thus, the bird glides across the ice with stiff, frozen grace, spinning in perspective to the camera. Treg Brown's sound effects and swift movement on the camera accompanying the bird's speed make for a great end result. The scarf being crimped rectangularly and geometrically to indicate its frozen state is another subtle but intriguing detail.
Now for the works. The St. Bernard turns the spigot on his barrel of booze, preparing to give it to his patient so as to revive him...
...and reveals an entire mini-bar instead. Shot glasses, various types of liquor, you name it. Carl Stalling's score of "Little Brown Jug" perfectly drives the point home.
Of course, the theatrics don't stop there. The dog, taking his sweet time, opts to prepare a cocktail, mixing the various liquors he boasts together. Service is certainly keen.
Squeals agrees with the above sentiment. "I believe you got something there!" He wrings his hands as his line of vision is conveyed through a dotted line, lifted from At Your Service Madame (in which he pilfers a gently used cigar off the sidewalk instead.)
Now for the topper. No cocktail is complete without an orange and a cherry--especially not a cocktail in a life or death situation. The bored, unchanging expression on the dog's face as he gingerly prepares his delicacy is nothing short of hilarious.
As it turns out, beaks (especially of the elongated kind) serve as excellent funnels. After the St. Bernard dumps the contents of the shot glass into the victim's beak, all that's left to do is wait.
Tashlin hones in on the dog's unbothered and careless demeanor by making him warm his paws in the fire sparked in the bird's stomach as he warms himself up, the blue color fading and smoke siphoning out of his beak like a tea pot. Effects such as these shot at a doubled exposure can have a tendency to go awry--sometimes the image can get blurry or transparent, but here, the effect is pulled off quite well with minimal blurriness.
Silent blinks of stupefaction render the bird okay.
Impressed with the St. Bernard's bartending skills, Squeals grows hungry (or thirsty, rather) to experience the action himself.
"Pardon me, my little canine comrade!" His animation, whether it be tipping his hat and wiggling his fingers or bending with a polite bow, is wonderfully solid, well-constructed, and follows perspective very well.
Of course, being a feral dog, the St. Bernard merely meanders past him as Squeals asks if he could "spare two fingers" of his cocktail fixins. With the dog being an emotionless, unspeaking domestic animal and Squeals being a fully thinking and acting anthropomorphic caricature, a natural divide is constructed between the two, and thus humor arises. While likely still humorous due in part to Pierce's deliveries, Squeals bargaining with an anthropomorphic dog wouldn't have nearly the same effect as it does on a run-of-the-mill dog who just ignores him. Squeals makes a bigger ass of himself, and the understanding that his attempts to bargain are fruitless only makes the situation even funnier. Tashlin knew as such and took full advantage of the conflict.
"I'm not a well man myself..." Now gliding on his skates, Squeals circles the unthinking pooch, dipping in and out of frame, circling the camera as he fakes a handful of pathetic coughs, all to get some liquor.
If the solid animation, hilarious vocal deliveries and general humor of the conflict weren't enough, Stalling's music score absolutely takes the cake. Background music of "Little Brown Jug" is purposefully arranged and orchestrated to sound like "The Skater's Waltz", what with the string chords and high pitched flourishes on top. Genius would be an understatement--it's recognizable, it's catchy, and most importantly, it's appropriate. Such gentle music accompanying jackassery exuded by Squeals only creates a stronger and funnier disconnect, one that mirrors the disconnect between Squeals and the dog. Humor is founded in contrast, and scenes such as this demonstrate why.
When Squeals' murmurs of "I can almost feel pneumonia embracing me in its icy grip!" don't grab the dog's attention, he thus resorts to more drastic measures. Skidding to an open crack in the ice, he lugs a hefty boulder and tosses it right in the water. Never mind actually getting in the water, of course.
Him listening to the sounds of the water splashing is a great touch. It's almost comical how different the animation styles are between the adjoining scenes; here, Tashlin's earmarks are more clear, particularly with the bulbous cheeks and low ears.
"Help! Help! Help!"
"I'm drowniiiing, do you hear? Drowning! Splash splash... splash splash..."
An indifferent attitude requires indifferent methods of walking. Combined with the drumroll, woodblocks timed to the music, and vacant stare on the pooch's face, the animation of the turn around is simply priceless. For a dog who says nothing and emotes nothing, he has a lot of personality.
No time is spent creating a frozen façade--not encased in ice, not dripping wet, not even acting like anyone saved him. As such, it is much funnier to find Squeals conveniently in position, lying flat on his back with his eyes closed. No further theatrics are necessary; get on with the booze.
Once more, the dog's bartending charade is repeated as Squeals observes, licking his lips in anticipation.
Stalling's furtive, anticipatory refrain of "Little Brown Jug" makes for easy listening as it always does. Cut to a wide shot of the dog preparing Squeals' cocktail as he lifts him up.
The camera cuts closer as the dog continues to lift up Squeals, who can hardly restrain the sniveling grin on his face as the prospect of alcohol grows closer and closer. Continue to truck-in with the camera, obscuring the dog and Squeals' bodies and half of their faces... Squeals' jackassery has finally paid off.
Or so we are led to believe.
Though the meat and potatoes of the charade is repeated from the bird's experience, the scene does not drag along. No need to chip the ice away or add the cherry and orange. Instead, it's paced so that the anticipation is relaxed yet solid, not so quick to give away the joke and not too slow to become tedious. As such, the reveal of the joke is that much funnier, with the dog matter of factly downing the alcohol and walking away. He doesn't sniff Squeals to spot his condition or give him a quizzical dead-eyed stare. It is pure business as usual, and Tashlin, as he always does, pulls it off exceptionally well.
As the dog lumbers away, a creaky laugh is heard off-screen. Squeals is quick to take note and become agitated, whipping his head around and searching for a suspect. Stalling's music score of "Sissy" begins with sliding violin strings, meant to mimic a laugh--a subtle yet brilliant pinch of salt in the wound.
"Say, who's heckling me? Who's heckling me?" Expert animator Bob McKimson is at the hand of this scene, and it is no coincidence that the animation is so solid, constructed, and intricate. As the head animator of the studio before becoming a director in 1944, the only animator who could have rivaled his skill was Ken Harris--who, coincidentally, was also in Tashlin's unit at this time. It is no stretch of the imagination to say that McKimson was the best animator at Warner's, and scenes such as this demonstrate why.
Almost as soon as the raspy voice begins talking, Squeals flinches, raising his shoulders and squinting his eyes shut before stooping low and scanning in front of him. His unseen adversary contentedly responds "Well, well, Mr. Squeals, you don't seem to be doing so well, do you?"
Squeals evidently recognizes his heckler, as his eyes briefly widen before he stops looking around.
"So it's you, my diminutive little chum!" McKimson demonstrates some of his signature foreshortening as Squeals stands tall, puffing his portly chest out with his hands on his hips.
A gag recycled from Tashlin's The Case of the Stuttering Pig, where it was used as a plot device, Squeals jabs a finger towards the screen as he croaks "What are you doing down there in the third row? Hiding from the woodpeckers, eh?"
His "diminutive little chum" is meant to represent Charlie McCarthy, a dummy handled by ventriloquist Edgar Bergen. McCarthy and the real W.C. Fields would often bicker back and forth with one another on the radio, and their act was a hit. Disney would also parody the dynamic in Mother Goose Goes to Hollywood, also released a few months after this in December of 1938. You can listen to one of their many acts together here.
While it may look odd on a television, computer, or phone screen, Squeals looking below the camera, not at it, would have had an astonishing and groundbreaking effect in theaters, seeing as the screen was above the audience. That, paired with the off-screen voice echoing through the dark theater, would pair for a startlingly realistic effect. It was as though Squeals truly was addressing a rowdy member of the audience--imagine being the lucky one sitting in the third row! Already, it's amusing enough 80 some years later on a computer screen, but the effect would have been much more monumental when presented how it was made to be seen.
McKimson's animation is nothing short of excellent. His timing has a tendency to be floaty, always moving, but never enough to be a detriment, for he makes the movement count. Squeals turns his head, flexes his fingers, moves his arms, widens his eyes, blinks contemptuously, places his hands on his hips, and so on. One feels as though they could physically reach through the screen and feel the fabric on his coat. He moves and acts like a real living being, in spite of his entire existence being a caricature.
McCarthy remarks that he's merely watching "that dog make a fool out of you", followed by more creaky laughter. Squeals is not having it, placing his hands on his belt and heaving angry breaths, even raising a fist and shooting a dead-eye at the unseen McCarthy.
Despite reusing poses, the differentiated movement and acting adequately disguise the reuse and wouldn't be exceedingly noticeable without pausing or rewinding.
"Listen, my little sawdust cynic! Just keep your eye on me. This is only the beginning--only the beginning!" Squeals thrusting his finger in the air feels like a genuine declaration of war rather than an obligatory piece of acting. Though dated in many ways now and perhaps even confusing, the entire sequence is an incredibly impressive feat knowing the rich history behind it. McKimson's rich, full acting, Pierce's amusing vocal deliveries, and Stalling's pleasant music score all elevate the scene for today's standards and cushion any confusion brought on by it.
Fade out and iris in to the St. Bernard pacing the pond to a bloated motif of "Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?" With a shaky truck-out, the camera zooms out to reveal Squeals hiding behind a conveniently placed tree in the ice. It is certainly difficult to follow the same standards set in place by McKimson's animation, and that struggle is felt in the design of Squeals (or rather, the disconnect spawned by it). With smaller eyes, lower ears, bigger cheeks, and a rather wrinkly, elongated snout, Squeals is much less appealing than McKimson's Squeals.
This more unattractive Squeals opts to set out a trap--he places a metal bowl on the ice, loading it with bones, all timed to the music. Once the bowl is adequately filled, he uses the mechanics of the ice in his favor as he slides it along the frozen pond.
Instead of the dog finding the bowl, the bowl finds the dog, knocking into him and throwing the pooch right in the air. As he lands on his butt, so do the bones--one after the other, neatly piling into the bowl.
Tashlin doesn't allow time for the dog to investigate the bones; this is no Pluto cartoon. Instead, we focus more on Squeals, unearthing a magnet from the depths of his jacket. With a grin, Squeals slowly pulls the magnet back, hoping the bowl will move along with its forces--and with the bowl, the dog.
Another odd bit of character acting with the dog is slightly lost with all the fuss of the magnet. He cranks the lower half of his body up so that he stands, but the gag is overshadowed by the sound effects of the magnet and the climactic crescendo of Stalling's music.
Nevertheless, what isn't lost is the dog's curiosity. He sniffs the bowl, slowly moving beneath his giant paws, to the point that he turns himself into a puppy pretzel, following the bowl with his nose as it moves out of reach.
The dog stretching himself so far that he flips over and lands on his ass is much more Pluto-esque, but (thankfully) not nearly as saccharine or long-winded. Tashlin reuses the animation of Squeals pulling back on the magnet, the reuse disguised this time with the camera slowly trucking out on top.
Now, the pooch is curious. Furious, even. He approaches the bowl, barking at it with a scowl, eventually gaining speed to match the bowl's increasing speed. The camera pans in accordance to the action, allowing for a nice, gradual yet climactic flow. Eventually, the dog is reduced to a smeary blur.
One more reuse of the Squeals animation, a close-up on the magnet hiding its obviousness. Animation reuses aren't particularly anything to be ashamed of, especially when reused inventively and purposefully, such as here, when the scenes last only for a matter of seconds and focus is on the action, not the character.
Unfortunately, Squeals' plan backfires. The bowl skids right into him, as does the dog, barreling after the bowl.
Ensue the impact. Both Squeals and the dog entangle themselves before flopping right on the ice, bowl and bones raining upon them.
What doesn't rain down, however, is the magnet. Tashlin displays some signature perspective and camera angle trickery as the magnet flies in the air, accompanied only by the hushed hum of a drumroll.
Soon enough, gravity takes force, and the camera pans away from the magnet as it falls, only for it to fall through the ice, now met with the crash of a cymbal. The camera tracks the magnet's progress, the sheen of ice passing the foreground and rising, so that the end product is an up-shot of the magnet beneath the icy water. Though the drawings of the background may appear "crude" and simplistic, the perspective is incredibly well thought out and a great bit of Tashlin trickery. Having to animate and color the backgrounds, much less keep them in the right perspective, is nothing to sneeze at.
Of course, our pursuits don't end there. Following the esteemed principals of cartoon logic, the magnet bounces off a rock beneath the surface, and lands conveniently on a nearby fish, who gets caught in the U shape.
With no legs or arms to free the device from his abdomen, the fish strains to remove it with his fins, but to no avail.
Even then, the rest of the cartoon pertaining the struggles of a fish and his magnet would be tedious, and Tashlin acknowledges as such. As a result, we cut to our next piece of business: Squeals and the dog konked out by the exposed ice, with a hearty stream of alcohol from the dog's barrel pouring into the ice.
And, as one may guess, the trapped fish discovers the stream of alcohol, paralleling a similar scene in Porky's Duck Hunt.
Here, however, there are no fish singing gaily in a canoe. Instead, the fish whoops around gleefully a la Hugh Hubert, sucking up the booze from the comfort of an intriguingly staged up-shot. Cue the signature Mel Blanc hiccups as the now intoxicated fish loops and weaves his way through the frozen waters.
Still too tame by Tashlin's standards. To take it up a notch, Tashlin splits the screen in two to show the action happening above and below the ice. Conveniently for the fish, he passes by a random axe ledged in a log on the ice (by now, questioning the logic of the random trees is only futile. Instead, only joy.) The axe catches on to the magnetic flow from the drunk fish, therefore splitting the log and riding along the ice.
More perspective trickery from Tashlin as the drunk fish aimlessly loops in and out of the foreground.
As it turns out, even drunken fish looping has its purposes. Cut to the surface, where the axe following the fish now carves a hole in the ice around the same bird from before. By now, with the gift of 2022 hindsight, audience's are accustomed to what comes next--it's practically routine, especially for Warner Bros cartoons. Here, though, the gag was still novel, and the inevitable is still amusing.
Purely a gag and nothing else; the effects of the water aren't done splashing before Tashlin cuts to the next sequence. The reaction of the bird isn't important. The action is. Thus, we get a handful of signature Tashlin fast cuts, cutting between the fish racing below the ice and the axe on top. Stalling's score of "Little Brown Jug" goes up a pitch and rides at a faster tempo, further indicating the climax of events.
Back to Squeals, who has recovered and is attempting to steal the unconscious dog's barrel for himself. But just as he's about to squeeze a drop in his mouth, karma hits in the shape of an axe.
Now, Squeals is stuck on top of the handle of the axe, gliding at furious speeds along the ice. Since his debut in At Your Service, Madame, Squeals' snout and its suction abilities has been subject to lampooning--here, that tradition is upheld as his snout sticks like a suction to the ice.
One last snout suction gag is slipped in as Squeals collides with a tree stump, which dislodges himself from the runaway axe. It's a bit unclear since the action is fast and staged at a slight distance, but in the midst of his collision, Squeals lands on his snout, which sticks to the ice before slinging him into the air and back to the ice.
Tashlin pushes the envelope further by having the fish's magnetic force attract the skates on Squeals' feet (once more just before he's about to get a taste of liquor.) Squeals attempts to resist, but, as we all know, resistance is futile. At one point, the animation of his resistance is just a stagger between two opposite poses, both shot on ones. What would normally make for a very jarring and rather amateurish look works well in the context above, as though even his movement is being caricatured.
Eventually, Squeals is brought to his feet, sent whirling around the ice. As long as he has his barrel of booze, everything is a-okay.
The peak of the climax is about as off-the-wall as it can get. As the fish zooms in hyper, drunken circles below the ice, Squeals uncontrollably follows suit. However, his pirouettes are met with cheers and applause--a truck-out on the camera reveals that he's landed himself right in the middle of a skating contest.
With a scenario so mind-bogglingly absurd such as this one, it seems even more absurd to pick out such a minute detail as the crowd. However, despite only appearing for a fleeting second, the people in the stands all have their own level of absurdity to them. In a cartoon that has displayed nothing but animals--asshole pigs, unflappable dogs, drowning birds, and a variety of animals at the beginning--having everyone in the stands be humans adds an entire level of absurdity to the mix. Such a juxtaposition essentially alienates Squeals and singles him out.
Had the crowd been a regular pack of animals, the situation would still be bizarre, but more at home, written off as regular animal antics. Having the crowd be filled with humans observing a pig, however, creates an inherent disconnect and therefore extra sense of bizarreness to an already impossibly surreal scenario. Such seemingly inconsequential details like that make a world of difference, and, as it always does, works to Tashlin's favor.
In many cases, the cartoon's song number can serve as a detriment (and the directors were very vocal as such, resulting in their eventual obsolescence.) Here, however, the short's opening number of "The Blue Danube" works in its favor. Squeals now finds himself the unwilling participant of a skating content, bouncing along the ice at rocket speeds to a triumphant score of the same song, which essentially puts the number as a book-end.
Not only that, a song sparks an opportunity for musical timing, which Tashlin flaunts handily. Squeals' ass bounces along the ice to the beat of the music, he sways in a daze in time with the rhythm (with a fantastic sense of weight in the animation; his bottom leads the way, with his head and scarf lagging behind, creating a nice arc and sense of momentum), and the drunken fish sways below the ice on a submerged clock, string flourishes timed to the music and representing the fish's delirious, joyful state. Though Friz Freleng is rightfully renowned for his impeccably sharp musical timing, Tashlin's easily rivals his skills, proven in shorts such as these or his last handful of cartoons, Wholly Smoke and The Major Lied 'til Dawn.
After some more ass bouncing, Squeals finds himself doing a freezing shiver take. Below the surface, a hulking, giant, aggressive fish scares the drunk fish, causing him to do a genuine shiver take. As a result, the fish's attempts to flee are mirrored by Squeals; as the fish skirts around a tree submerged in the water, so does Squeals, narrowly. As the drunk fish weaves in and out of its hungry, agitated pursuer, so does Squeals on the surface, reduced to some great smear frames that create a wonderfully hectic sense of motion. That, followed by the shaking of the background and the camera pan, which is slightly out of sync with Squeals himself, only allowing for even more purposeful discombobulation. Stalling's music reaches its musical climax as joyously and triumphantly as it possibly can. Chaos is truly beautiful.
In a last ditch effort to save his hide, Squeals clings to a nearby tree in the ice, the skates threatening to pull him along as the fish swims further and further away. The elasticity, the weight, the kinetic force all feel exceedingly real.
And, as the music score reaches its final crescendo, the skates break free off of Squeals' hooves and land in a nearby log. The final vibe chord from Stalling and Treg Brown's reflective sound effects of the skates shaking in the log serve as an appropriate, subdued coda to a spectacularly bizarre climax.
Now, we cut to a close-up of a first place prize, a reminder that Squeals was the unwilling participant in a skating contest. Announced by a portly fellow who reeks of Tashlin's design sensibilities, Squeals is declared "der vinner".
Even more amusing than the entire scenario itself is Squeals' utterly nonchalant attitude, receiving the cup with only the utmost casualness, as if he weren't just clinging to a tree for dear life seconds earlier.
"Thank you! Thank you!" Squeals nods and bows politely to his fans, still clinging to his barrel of booze. "Nothing at all."
Situating himself at a nearby log, Squeals finally receives the grandest prize of all as he pours a heaping amount of alcohol into the trophy. All the while, he pontificates to the audience, slipping in an inside joke that no moviegoer in 1938 would understand unless they worked at Warner's. "Yes, my little Termite Terrace, he who laughs last... laughs last!"
He who laughs last laughs last indeed. Just because the skating contest ended doesn't mean the fish's chase has; the magnetic force of the fish, still fleeing its hulking adversary, attracts the metal of the cup. As such, we iris out on the cup full of booze sloshing away on the ice and into the horizon. The raspy cackles of one Charlie McCarthy bid us adieu.
Like many of these cartoons, much of the magic of this cartoon is lost to the sands of time. The average person in 2022 doesn't know who W.C. Fields is or who Charlie McCarthy is, Squeals addressing the audience in a shot staged specifically for the big screen doesn't hit as strongly on a television or computer screen, and many of these gags have become tropes that are tired or have been executed better in the future. Hindsight can be a cruel mistress.
However, I believe the sheer novelty of this short and what it accomplishes for its time is still staggering and incredibly well done, and as a result, this is one of my favorite cartoons of Tashlin's from his first directorial tenure.
Indeed, the novelty of Squeals'/Fields' personality is obsolete and borders on confusing, and the animation quality fluctuates wildly and can indeed look rather ugly at times, but the climax alone, along with gorgeous character animation by Bob McKimson, intriguing perspective and camera angles from Tashlin, amusing vocal deliveries from Tedd Pierce, and stellar music scores by Carl Stalling render this an incredibly enjoyable experience in my book.
Tex Avery (and later Bob Clampett) are often lauded as some of the wildest guys in animation--and they are, but after watching this cartoon, Frank Tashlin's name deserves to be spread further and wider. I'd venture to say that this cartoon is wilder than the cartoons Avery was churning out at the time, and certainly wilder than any travelogue he'd come up with in the coming months. Tashlin continues to build and build and build on the absurdity of the situation, stretching the climax as far as it can go before everything halts at the drop of a pin. Chaos as displayed above is not the result of reckless, spontaneous cartooning--chaos such as this requires a lot of purpose, restraint, and a knowledge of when to start and to stop. Every little decision is purposeful in some way.
With that, I'd easily recommend this cartoon for the climax or McKimson's animation alone. While the bulk of the short is certainly dated and obscure now, there is still much joy to be found, whether in Stalling's music, Pierce's vocals, Tashlin's cinematography, the mannerisms of the dog, and so on. Learning the history of these caricatures and characters are--who is W.C. Squeals based on, who is this sawdust cynic, what is a Termite Terrace--reaching deeper into small aspects such as these can make for such a more fulfilling and interesting watching experience. While I don't think it's Tashlin's masterpiece, this cartoon is a great example of what he could do and how he could do it, especially during a time when not many other people (if any at all) were doing it. The sands of time make it easy to dismiss once-innovative techniques, but that only makes them more appealing as a result.
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