Release Date: April 22nd, 1939
Series: Merrie Melodies
Director: Chuck Jones
Story: Dave Monahan
Animation: A.C. Gamer
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Mel Blanc (Daffy), Jack Lescoulie (Casper Caveman)
Daffy now adds Chuck Jones to the family of directors who have had some form of control over him. With Bob Clampett essentially adopting the duck from Tex Avery, changes were made to give him a little more dimension and a broader range of emotions, all while clinging to his screwball roots. Chuck Jones, on the other hand, displays no concern to cherish Daffy’s daffiness.
While often pinned down as the director who marked the change in Daffy’s personality from screwball to egotist (and his influence in that transformation was certainly more potent than the rest), the change was a gradual, collaborative effort from all directors. Daffy wasn’t a happy go lucky loon one day and a fame-hungry egotist the next. Even now, in 1939, he’s made strides towards sanity; this marks the first time since Daffy Duck in Egghead that he’s back in the lake and purely the object of a hunter’s eye. In a span of months, he’s grown more anthropomorphic; he lives with Porky in one next, hunts for an acting contract the next. The days of being a lake-dweller were growing behind him. Nevertheless, though the change in Daffy’s personality was gradual, Chuck’s duck was certifiably Chuck’s duck from day 1, as will be explored.
Jack Benny and his fellow radio stars were no stranger to Warner Bros cartoons, just as Warner Bros was no stranger to Jack Benny. After all, Mel Blanc was a regular on both the radio and later TV program. Bob McKimson’s The Mouse That Jack Built in 1959 even starred Benny and his cohorts as themselves.
Here, history is made by creating a cartoon all about Benny. Lescoulie voices “Casper Caveman”, a prehistoric Benny stand-in who struggles to hunt a certain screwball duck for breakfast.
Daffy Duck and the Dinosaur marks a number of important changes, as addressed above. Perhaps one of the most noteworthy of all is the shift from Disneyesque fluff to comedy. Indeed, Dinosaur is one of Jones’ more memorable cartoons of the 1930s for this exact reason, following in the footsteps of his coworkers. His attempt to embrace the brasher, more comedic and energetic attitudes of the studio is swiftly established through a facetious disclaimer:
Even then, Jonesisms nevertheless persist. As most 1930s cartoons under the direction of Charles M. Jones do, we open to a long, scenic establishing pan of a prehistoric sunrise, Stalling’s muted accompaniment of William Tell's Morning Song being the only logical music score. While the pan is slow, it allows ample time for the audience to soak in the wide variety of hues in the painting; orange skies juxtapose nicely with the pale blues and purples of the mountains, emboldened by the darkness of the rocks, trees, and vines in the foreground.
Bob McKimson animates a lengthy portion of the opening, further proof of Jones’ slow easing into the comedy genre. For a cartoon making a point to assert its unique identity through a disclaimer, the establishing pan and meticulous character animation in the opening certainly embrace Jones’ “old” habits. On the other hand, the Jonesisms read as purposefully deceptive, an attempt to lull the audience into a false sense of security before getting down to the antics, all while providing an excuse for Jones to embrace what he’s familiar with.
As to be expected from McKimson, Casper’s animation is incredibly solid, well-constructed, and appealing to the eye. The only detriment comes from a chronic case of chipped cel paint. All throughout the opening scene of Casper waking up and talking to the audience, his cels—most noticeable on the hair—seem to have the paint chipped in some areas, making for a rather distracting, crackling effect on-screen. Perhaps a stack of cels for that sequence got dropped on the floor or smudged together; it’s pure human error, but does become a distraction. However, more than anything, it’s a fascinating reminder of the meticulous labor poured into these cartoons, a mark of both human hands and human error.
“Gee, am I hungry.” Casper’s head tilts are only something McKimson could execute as well as he did. Solid, consistent, intricate. Even his nostrils are visible for a few bobs of the head. “I could eat a saber-toothed tiger.”
“...well, anyway, half of one.” Jones times the pause between deliveries just right for the best comedic timing. Audiences familiar with Benny’s persona and vocal stylings likely would have gotten a kick out of it.
Laborious stretching and yawning exercises are padded by eye-catching McKimson animation. Though the celebrity caricature may be funny (speaking in the lens of the modern 1939 theatergoer), the pacing is still quite belabored.
Casper, at the very least, seems aware of this, remarking “Well, this isn’t getting me breakfast.”
“Here, Fido!”
Enter the eponymous dinosaur. Bob Clampett would use a similar gag in his own Prehistoric Porky a year later, stretching it to far more exaggerated lengths than Jones ever touches on here. Even then, his subtlety, albeit a little too concentrated during this period, is something worth celebrating when it pays off.
McKimson’s full, solid movements as Fido the oversized dinosaur lumbers over to his owner, Stalling’s peppy music score of “Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone” unifying the momentum of the action succinctly, still make for a very visually appealing package. The novelty of a dinosaur being a dog and running over to its owner with a bone in its mouth was much greater in 1939 than it is today.
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Though the run cycle of Fido does run on the long side, with the cycle merely slowing down as opposed to showing the physical action of Fido coming to a gradual halt, McKimson’s animation proves hypnotic, even when Fido drops the oversized bone in the grip of Casper.
Emphasis on drop.
The expressions on Casper as he bitterly retorts “Well thanks,” look straight out of a McKimson cartoon, particularly one with Elmer Fudd or Porky. Half lidded eyes of insincerity seem to be the biggest offender.
All throughout the cartoon, Casper is depicted as an irate grouch; the real Benny’s personality would become more finicky and particular as opposed to grouchy during the time of this cartoon’s release, where he seemed to be slightly more huffy up until then (in which this cartoon takes inspiration from.) Said grouchiness is noted particularly through outbursts at Fido, Benny demanding “Now come on! I’m famished.”
At the very least, he appears aware of his abrasiveness. “Well, I’ll bet you’re cranky before breakfast, too.” It is right then that Jones dips his toes into the realm of meta humor outside of mere glances and side eyes. Having the character explicitly talk to the audience is quite the step forward.
Dissolve to the hunker stalking his prey, hiding behind the sanctity of a rather geometric, stylized, bright green bush. Any sort of suspended hunting ambience is immediately interrupted by the sound of a twig snapping beneath Fido’s weight.
Though the intricate head tilts on Fido possibly suggest the likes of McKimson or Ken Harris, the take Casper does upon hearing the snap is rather Scribneresque with the tall eyes, pronounced wrinkles, and chunky teeth.
“Shhhh!” Stalling’s rolling drumroll music score suggest a crescendo of action.
Indeed, said crescendo comes in the form of a “BE QUIET!”, Casper immediately contradicting his urgency for silence by yelling himself.
With that, enter one Daffy Duck. As mentioned previously, he’s made quite a few strides in 1938, ranging from war general to boxing fighter to filmmaker. Seldom did he cling to his true, domestic ducklike roots, his screwball hysterics demanding a much more versatile vessel to root themselves in. Much as he did in Porky’s Duck Hunt, he minds his own business, contentedly swimming along his merry way rather than posing as an agitator.
Lescoulie’s next line delivery doesn’t demand context to Jack Benny and his mannerisms to be funny: “Yum yummy. My favorite vegetable…"
"...duck.”
Prehistoric hunters must adapt to prehistoric restraints. As such, firing a slingshot is the closest caveman equivalent to firing bullets with a rifle. Thanks to Carl Stalling’s anticipatory music score, Treg Brown’s siren whirring sounds effects, and Daffy’s eye popping take and shriek of “WOW!”, the slingshot is transformed into a weapon that demands the same urgency as a gun and a bullet.
Though Daffy may not yet be whooping and hollering as he makes an escape, Stalling’s music score (later sung by a proto-Bugs Bunny in Hare-um Scare-um as “I’m Going Cuckoo”, an original number popping up in these shorts as early as late 1938) suggests crazy antics where the animation may not.
Admittedly, Daffy’s escape is belabored, informed primarily through motorboat sound effects and the effects animation of water spraying in his wake, but is still energetic enough for Jones’ standards. The transformation of a rock into a deadly weapon is successfully conveyed through the reactions of the characters and the atmosphere of the scene, even if said atmosphere demands a bigger technological spectacle that couldn’t quite be achieved by Jones at this time.
Jones asserts that his Daffy is different by allowing him to play the calm and collected approach. That is, rather than shrieking and engaging in a hysterical water ballet, leading the rock on a wild goose chase, Daffy enlists in the aid of a disguise—a move much more akin to the future Bugs Bunny. For Daffy, disguises are rare, unless typically used as a point against him (such as a number of unsuccessful attempts at gate crashing a movie studio with different disguises in Friz Freleng’s Hollywood Daffy, or turning into a chicken hawk’s meal after donning a chicken disguise in Jones’ own You We’re Never Duckier.)
Here, Daffy assumes the role of a traffic cop, purposefully interrupting the flow of the chase in an exhibit of reality-bending akin to Tex Avery. Rather than having the rock screech to a mere halt, Daffy blows on his whistle, allowing a nearby swan to pass. Idle motor hums from the rock further the immersion of the gag, as well as a pedestrian, tinkly music score of “The Umbrella Man”.
Here, Jones follows the Averyesque philosophy of transformation; having Daffy stop the rock and, say, write a citation would be enough. Actually playing the role of a real traffic cop with real consequences and real directions is what cements the illusion and the absurdity therein.
Of course, the main purpose of the traffic cop guise is to provide a distraction and a means of escape. After allowing the rock through, which roars past Daffy with the appropriate speeding car sound effects, the familiar strains of a crazed duck whooping fills the ears of audiences everywhere as he hops out of his disguise and makes a break for it. Interestingly, the vocals are much more spirited than the animation itself; not a Stan Laurel hop or twirl in sight, perhaps as a way to stress that his screwiness isn’t in the vain of the “other” directors.
Jones’ loved his anthropomorphism, channeling sentience into the rock. After realizing that its target got away, the rock screeches to a halt before adjusting its gears to catch up to its prey, another gag in the vein of Avery.
While Avery’s speed is unmatched no matter who the competition is, the gradual increase of speed from the camera pan and crescendo in volume as the siren sound effects slowly resume does make the chase appear more urgent than it actually is. Obscuring half of Daffy’s body as the rock pursues him also furthers a sense of speed, as though the camera can’t physically catch up enough to show a full shot of both rock and duck in one singular frame.
Casper then observes as his breakfast-to-be zips right under his legs, whoops and hollers a cry for help rather than of crazed jubilation. Having the rock speed above Casper, tunneling through his outstretched arms instead, reduces monotony and encourages unity in the scene through parallel, symmetrical staging.
Unfortunately for Fido, who, up until this point, has been a mindless bystander, he’s too tall to escape the trajectory of the speeding rock. Said rock clunks him right in the head as he pauses to observe the duck fleeing from beneath his stubby legs.
While a sufferer of additional weightlessness not exactly intended, the floaty distortions on Fido’s face as he endures the daze brought on by the collision make for some amusing screen grabs, faring better as still photos rather than in motion.
Enter a ballet du dinosaur, cashing much more into Jones’ humor and sensibilities rather than the Averyesque approach he’s been attempting to imitate. The poses and facial expressions are plenty fun, silhouettes clear and lines of action pronounced, and Stalling’s comic accompaniment of Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song” proves appropriate commentary on the dino’s dazed condition. With that said, the sequence does run a bit long, some of the poses becoming a little too repetitive, the sequence thus losing a bit of its punch. Though, that’s an easier deduction to make when knowing the speeds and pace that Jones would be capable of years later.
An unceremonious end is brought to the number as the dinosaur passes out as gracefully as possible, a taunting violin string slide matching his fading movements.
Nevertheless, Casper still has a breakfast to catch, and one that’s making a break for it. Daffy’s content expression as he performs some backhand strokes and handstands in the lake suggests a duck who is in control and knows he is in control, not one who is lost to a case of hysteria.
Even then, by 1939 standards, such acrobatics still classify as screwball antics, marked by Casper’s commentary to the audience: “Gosh, that duck acts like he’s crazy!”
In another attempt to mimic the likes of Tex Avery, Jones repurposes a line previously uttered by the duck in Daffy Duck in Hollywood: “That is correct! Absolutely, 100% CORRECT!”
A slingshot in the face and content side eye during his departure indicates that Daffy still has the upper hand and wishes to make it known.
Time for drastic measures. Casper shimmies out of his classic caveman skin and into a pair of gaudy swimming trunks, the anachronism-meets-modernism a page right out of Avery’s own book.
While Avery is not the end all and be all of animation, his philosophies and formulas (or disruption of such) were clearly formative, as Jones garners success in his imitations. In a gag that reads as something Avery would use even in his MGM shorts, Jones bends the physical bounds of the cartoon by having Casper screech to a stop in mid-air, halted by a “POSITIVELY NO SWIMMING” sign via Daffy. The gag foreshadows Daffy's employment of signs to save his own skin in Jones' My Favorite Duck.
And, rather than Casper flopping down into the water with a wild take after a belabored pause, he merely launches himself backwards, right back to where he started. Such unceremonious acknowledgment—or lack thereof—of the gag’s absurdity pays dividends. Furthermore, where one would expect Daffy to exit the scene in a cavorting mess or hit Casper with the sign, he stays put and maintains the same condescending scowl; another indication that he’s in control. His heckling here feels like a form of business, of survival, as something he’s obligated to do rather than something he delights in as a pastime.
Bennyisms resume as Casper mopes to himself, McKimson’s gentle animation easing any monotony from the monologue. “Fine thing, no swimming. Other cavemen get to go swimming, but I never get to do anything.”
A curious, loyal glance from Fido sparks brazen retaliation. “Well, what are you looking at!?”
Stalling’s music score explodes in tiny, climactic bursts, a musical representation of Casper’s rising frustrations. “Don’t just stand there! Do something!”
“Now go get ‘im!”
Fido obeys dutifully, prompting another disgruntled aside from Casper to the audience. Once again, Jones’ comedic timing is successful with the aid of a brief pause between lines: “The big lummox.”
A brief dive underwater prompts Fido to return with his neck in knots. Though the scene moves a little too abruptly, it grants enough time for Casper to patronize his prehistoric pooch even more, McKimson’s artistic sensibilities strong with the half-lidded eyes and prominent teeth indicate disingenuousness—both would be a common stock expression in his own cartoons later on.
“Well, now isn’t that clever. The hunter’s helper.”
Just as the audience expects him to erupt, Casper instead delivers a haughty, smug, tight-lipped nod reminiscent of Oliver Hardy.
Then comes the eruption. The pause remains slight, but is heavy enough to provide adequate differentiation in comparison to the timing of Casper’s previous outbursts. “NOW COME ON!”
Dissolve to the duck himself. Once more, Jones’ desire for Daffy to be a heckler who is in control of himself is evident through disguises and traps. His heckling here very much follows the future philosophy of one Bugs Bunny, on par with Jones’ insistence that Bugs only retaliates when instigated. Indeed, Daffy seamlessly painting a mock-up of himself with ease suggests a calmer, cooler but still exceedingly eccentric harbinger of chaos rather than a hysterical, whooping mess who heckles for the sake of it.
Rembrandt supports said theory through his aside to the audience: “Not bad for a guy that never took a lesson in his life!” Chuck’s duck has had an ego since 1939.
A “HOOHOO!” in departure still makes an attempt to acknowledge his roots.
All according to plan, Casper takes the bait. A club in his hand replaces the slingshot from earlier as his new weapon of choice.
While Jones’ sensibilities eke into the latter half of the cartoon more than the former, the Avery influence is still very much present as Casper raises a club above his head, pausing to spit in his hands and rub them together. All the while, the club remains suspended in the air.
Solid perspective animation as Casper prepares to strike, the club skirting around the foreground as opposed to the background. The extra depth further immerses the audience into the cartoon, which isn’t difficult to do noting all of the asides to the viewer from the characters.
Strong posing makes for a stronger impact as Casper wallops the decoy with his club.
A victim of Daffy’s ploy, Casper is literally left shaken from the encounter. While the shaking animation is comparatively straightforward and stiff (one finds it difficult not to compare it to the lengths Jones and his cohorts would take these reactions in the coming years), shooting the reverberations on ones and the plethora of line trails help to further the wobbles.
After all, it’s not Casper who’s the centerpiece of the gag, but the staging. His shakes serve mainly as a starting point for the grand reveal of the gag; clinging to a tree to stop himself, the trembles are instead transferred over to the surroundings, the background wobbling back and forth. Once more, the overall execution is rigid, but the thought process behind the gag and the spirit therein is the main point of interest. Indeed, having Casper cling to a tree and transfer the effects to both the environment and the viewers is much more alluring and inventive.
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Jones builds on his momentum; when the shaking appears to have subsided, Casper struts along his merry way, his tremors making a return.
Enter Daffy, whose Jonesisms grow stronger in the manner of his gregariousness. Yet another Bugs Bunnyesque maneuver, he comes wielding an Alka-Seltzer (which he would also peddle in Scrap Happy Daffy, inspiring a particularly amusing and spitty advertisement for a sthodium acthetylsthalicthylic; listhten to it fizzzzzth!) and offers it to the caveman to soothe his tremors. An indication of his conceit, the gesture solidifies that Daffy knows he’ll come out of this chase on top.
No tricks, no traps. Casper is cured of his tremors and thanks Daffy with a handshake.
In any case, Daffy returns the gesture with his business card.
Said business card marks the full return into Jones territory. It is here that a staple of Jones’ career would be established, no matter how primitive: the sign gag.
“For the biggest, most luscious Duck you ever tasted — 200 yards this way”. Scrawled in neat cursive, adorned with extraneous flourishes such as an arrow pointing right and the “duck” capitalized in red, the invitation to a meal evokes a duck who is much more sophisticated than anything depicted by the other directors at this time. A confident, brass score of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” adds a layer of egotism felt to Daffy’s motives.
Who knew hunting could be so easy. Delighted at the prospects of finally getting a meal, Casper invites Fido to follow along, any and all abrasiveness from their earlier encounters totally absent. Fido obeys.
The next 40 seconds of the cartoon are dedicated to nothing but sign gags. Jones would use signs all throughout his career, but his adoration for said signs took off particularly in the 1950s. The never ending barrage of signs here, all advertising a delicious duck breakfast, evokes comparisons to a similar montage in Jones’ Rabbit Seasoning.
Even then, while the gags soak up a hefty amount of runtime in this cartoon, such an opportunity provides time for the audience to soak in Stalling’s music score and Art Loomer’s vibrant backgrounds. The scene follows a rhythm of its own, the camera’s momentum easing in and out with brief stops, Stalling marking each stop and arrival of a new sign with a miniature trumpet fanfare. His orchestrations are pivotal to the success of the sequence, almost reminiscent to a fashion show with the promiscuous implications behind the use of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby”. Below is a crudely stitched together but nevertheless intact version of the full pan.
A grand reveal is granted in the form of a fade out and in, Stalling’s orchestral fanfare pompous and held to indicate that the big moment has come (if the neon sign wasn’t enough of an indication.)
Rod Scribner animates what is very likely his last scene in the Jones unit, and his handiwork is immediately distinguishable in the wild take Casper does when he spots the duck in question. While the line quality may teeter more on the crude side thanks to how small the cel is (remember, the camera is zoomed in), that provides no hindrance to the exaggeration in the take: Pointed fingers, excessive wrinkles, eye takes much ahead of their time for 1939.
“Golly!”
Golly is right. A slightly jerky truck-out cues the grand reveal; a fake-out. Jones builds the entire sign sequence up to lure the audience into thinking that Daffy is the duck in question, providing generous publicity for himself. Not the case. Said duck is a behemoth, heaving imposing breaths and a nasty scowl. Breakfast is served.
Or is it? In yet another fake out, the duck is revealed to be an inflated balloon helmed by one little black duck, laborious pumps of air simulating heavy breathing. Again, that Daffy enlists in such a reliance of decoys and disguises is worth nothing; very little of his heckling is rooted in his own mannerisms. That is, there are no water ballets of mania or slapstick punches and hits. Chuck’s duck is too sophisticated for that. Instead, he takes a more clever route, a jack of all trades, putting his resources to use.
Of course, Casper is completely unaware of the inflatable duck’s physical properties, instead cowering in fear with visible, gummy teeth that feel a few years ahead of their time. Daffy continues to display his gregariousness by calmly offering the caveman a knife. Not a club, not a slingshot, but a sleek, modern-for-1939 steak knife. Some of Jones’ anachronisms are more subtle than others, but they’re indeed there.
With a duck as large as the meal in question, a wide shot is the only way Jones is able to fit the duck, Casper, the other duck, and Fido all into one shot. It works to his favor; the size disparity between caveman and inflatable duck is thusly exaggerated, and even with the characters so small, their emotions and actions are clear. Casper’s hesitation is clearly visible, as is Daffy’s nod of encouragement, both clearly conveyed without any reliance on certain facial expressions or even dialogue.
Jones maintains the suspense quite well; Casper shakes as he raises the knife, Daffy and Fido are unmoving and thus direct attention purely onto Casper and Casper alone. Stalling’s music score grows in an apprehensive, alarming crescendo. No distractions, no “gotcha!”s, no “don’t do that!”s. All or nothing.
And indeed, all or nothing is the route Jones takes. Casper strikes the knife into the breast of the duck, prompting an ear splitting POP! and grand explosion unto the screen almost immediately. The impact is swift and strong with very little finagling—a remarkable feat for 1939 Jones.
To further prolong the audience’s suspense, Jones obscures the outcome with a heavy cloud of dust, the thunder of the impact providing a lingering, rolling, echoing din.
Segue then to the grand reveal of nothingness. Casper, the duck, Daffy, and Fido are completely absent in the scene. Any and all indication that such an altercation occurred is delegated to the shrapnel raining down from the sky.
That, and the gentle hum of a lyre being strummed.
Rather than zipping to the source of the music, the camera trucks along in a slow, belabored pan, so that the reveal of a deadly departed Fido gaily strumming a lyre in the sanctity of a cloud is able to sink in as much as possible. One imagines this reveal got a rise out of theatrical audiences.
Lyre strumming continues as the camera then jerks towards a grimacing Casper, also donning a halo, angel wings, and a gown. No further context clues are needed for his fate.
The best is saved for last. Jones’ duck proves himself as a different breed through his self awareness; rather than bounding off into the horizon or dancing upon his angelic cloud to celebrate his victory of successfully heckling his predators, he instead makes a concession: “Y’know, maybe that wasn’t such a hot idea after all.”
Such serves as the first of many occasions where Chuck Jones’ Daffy receives the short end of the stick at the cartoon’s close. Armed with Stalling’s comic yet sympathetic orchestral closing sting, Casper Caveman recites perhaps one of Jack Benny’s most well known lines, serving as the perfect coda for the cartoon: “G’night, folks.”
Thus draws a fascinating experiment to a close. For all of its attempts to mimic pioneers such as Tex Avery, Daffy Duck and the Dinosaur still keeps the influence of Chuck Jones close at hand. That serves as both a positive and a detriment.
Dinosaur works. Jones finally conceded and wanted to attempt a comedy. Indeed, this is easily one of his most memorable outputs of the first few years of his career. Its humor has considerably softened 83 years later, but that’s not the fault of anyone but time itself; when Jack Benny was as relevant as he was when the cartoon first came out, it was likely much more uproarious and groundbreaking than it is now. Especially pioneering traits such as a calmer Daffy and sign gags—it’s all too easy to compare the content in this cartoon here to the better interpretations of similar set-ups that came afterward. Nevertheless, the difference in tone is very much there. It’s a shame that Jones didn’t cling to the comedy route for at least another few years.
Daffy’s interpretation in this cartoon is one of the biggest takeaways of the cartoon. His behavior in this short immediately disproves any and all claims that his transformation from screwball to egotist was overnight or the result of one singular person. Even by 1939, Chuck’s duck was Chuck’s duck. His mannerisms and heckling are awfully Bugs Bunnyesque, more so in this cartoon than others. Cartoons such as My Favorite Duck do display a brasher, somewhat wilder Daffy who heckles for the sake of heckling, Bugs Bunny-isms delegated to the real thing rather than using Daffy as a stand-in. In any case, traits displayed here weasel their way into the aforementioned cartoon as well, whether it be his gregariousness towards his rivals, keeping a considerably cool head in the face of danger, or subtly hinting that he knows he’s come out on top.
While the Clampett and Jones rivalry can often become an exhausted talking point, it is worth mentioning here, if only briefly. Jones’ decision to cool the duck down in his own hands could and may very well be just his own sensibilities talking and not an attempt to play “gotcha”, but it wouldn’t be surprising to learn that he wanted to take Daffy in the opposite direction of Clampett’s duck, whose screwiness was embraced and celebrated.
Similarly, Friz Freleng debuted a Daffy in You Ought to Be in Pictures that was slightly more down to earth and had a greedy streak. He was still pleasant, outgoing, some screws very much loose, but his hunger for fame and greed and eagerness to swindle Porky out of an acting contract is duly noted. Clampett’s Daffy in cartoons that followed was consequently more down to earth, Daffy more sophisticated in his design, his hysteria rooted in emotion and passion more than insanity. While there’s no rule that the characters had to maintain consistency between one director (and thank goodness—Daffy remains one of the most varied and ever-changing cartoon characters), it is noticeable when directors take up certain hints from each other. Clampett did not follow in Jones’ footsteps after this cartoon as he may have done with Freleng’s.
In any case, this is pure speculation and opinion, not fact, so please do not construe it as such. Coincidences happen. Trends come and go. The people who would know best are the ones who were there, not the ones speculating 80 some years later. Regardless, Daffy Duck in the Dinosaur is a relatively important turning point for a number of reasons, and worth a watch for the above history alone.
Enjoy! The cartoon is also available on HBO Max.
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