263. Pied Piper Porky (1939)

Release Date: November 4th, 1939

Series: Looney Tunes

Director: Bob Clampett

Story: Bob Clampett

Animation: John Carey, Dave Hoffman

Musical Direction: Carl Stalling

Starring: Mel Blanc (Porky, Cat), Danny Webb (Mouse, Cat), The Rhythmettes (Chorus)

(You may view the cartoon for yourself here, as well as on HBO Max for those who have it!)

Ever adaptable in his constantly changing roles and environments, Porky serving as the pied piper is, surprisingly, not entirely exclusive to this short—Bob McKimson and Warren Foster would revisit the premise in 1949 with a much more abrasive and less cuddly Porky in Paying the Piper. Following the tale of The Pied Piper of Hamelin who rid the city of rats by luring them with his pipe and drowning them in return for payment, Porky assumes the role as the eponymous, plucky piper.

Worth mentioning are the animation credits: Dave Hoffman receives his first credit alongside John Carey. With Bobe Cannon out of the Clampett unit, Hoffman took his place for a brief stint. Unfortunately, little is known about Hoffman other than he got his start at Fleischer and appears to have left animation altogether after departing Schlesinger’s—his final animation credit period would be The Sour Puss in 1940.

Amazing is it that the opening of the cartoon is completely dominated by a trifecta of time fillers: disclaimers, long background pans, and lengthy spotlights on newspaper headlines. From the time the opening titles end to the first substantial piece of animation (that is, Porky’s introduction), more than a minute has passed. Animation of decorative flags nudged by a gentle breeze or slight jitters to a crowd shot seem more like an attempt to trick the audience into believing the shots have more substance than the reality.

Nevertheless, Dick Thomas’ background paintings are a delight (particularly the wooden texture on the bridge) and Carl Stalling’s flighty background score of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto Allegretto Non Troppo in E Minor makes for both easy listening to pass the time and successfully establishes the archaic tone and setting. 

Per the norm, Clampett’s newspaper headline celebrating the pied piper’s successful eradication of the town’s rat problem is riddled with jokes and wordplay. Some are more inspired than others—compare WEATHER REPORT: San Francisco - Fair, New York - Fair, See Both Fairs for $90.00” to “Piper’s Feat Gives Mayor a Big Kick!”

Transitions between the newspaper headlines and introducing Porky himself are welcomingly smooth. Cutting into a shot that’s tighter than what is seen in the headline image makes for a more natural progression—a mere dissolve to the same pose at the same distance and staging has a tendency to feel artificial. As he was in the headline, our pied piper poses proudly against his pipe.

One could argue the immediate segue into a song number (set to “Mutiny in the Nursery” with alternate lyrics) is another time filler cheat from Clampett, which is true. However, cheat or no cheat, it’s one of Clampett’s more charming numbers—Porky’s direct reception to the female chorus quizzing him on how he was able to rid the rats by looking directly at the camera and nodding affirmatively to their statements is a cute, charismatic and very immersive touch that makes both himself and the chorus feel more alive and intertwined rather than just slapping vocals on top of an unrelated segment. 

Whereas cartoons such as Disney’s The Pied Piper follow the story more faithfully, opting to showcase the initial conflict and the piper actively luring the swarm away, Clampett interestingly starts the cartoon at the end—we begin with a victory rather than end on it, indicating that said victory is soon to be challenged. Paying the Piper would follow a similar approach.

Moreover, parts of the story are coyly outfitted to reflect the modernisms 1939: Porky’s explanation to his methods is a comically colloquial “I bih-be-beh-blew some eh-ceh-corn eh-ru-right through my horn!” Brilliant as always, Carl Stalling’s musical accompaniment locks itself into a brief, repetitive vamp in an attempt to keep pace with Porky’s stuttering.

A jaunty clarinet solo akin to the stylings of Benny Goodman smashes further archaisms of the source material. While the animation itself may not be the most intricate in its acting, its movement is wonderfully peppy and energetic, offering a tangible flow especially in pieces involving Porky skipping back and forth—his outfit rippling from the movement contributes a hearty amount of life and looseness.

Said looseness extends to attitudes as well; always one to jump at an opportunity involving butts, Clampett’s decision to have Porky literally hamming it up fits the overarching spontaneity and mischief of the sequence. He’s aware he has an audience and feels an obligation to act accordingly.

Likewise, his posing upon the end of the song is especially appealing and cute. While the falsely modest bow and contentedly proud smile garners the most attention, self affirming and validation seeking glances up towards the hat in his extended arm is a great addition, as though understanding this big of a production is foreign even to him, hoping he’s made a good impression for his audience. Such are the acting choices, sincerity, and endearing attitudes as a whole unique to Porky that make him so charming. Indeed, charm is plentiful in this little number.

The conflict implied by beginning the cartoon at a resolution seemingly too good to be true arrives from a voice off-screen. Danny Webb lends his vocals to a rat whose deliveries are somewhat reminiscent of Eddie “Rochester” Anderson—Clampett amalgamates his radio references by having the mouse recite the Fibber McGee and Molly’s Old Timer in the first of many future recitations: “That’s pretty good, sonny, but that ain’t the way I heerd it!”

Whereas leaning coyly against a statue is a solid indicator of smarmy nonchalance as is, the rat rubbing its nose almost seems to further rub salt in the wound through his very calm, collected and smug demeanor—not unlike a future Bugs Bunny. It’s very clear that he believes himself to be in charge of the situation. 

Moreover, a purposefully chiding and shrill chorus of “A rat! A rat!” interjected from an off screen audience continue to threaten Porky’s credibility and ego as the pied piper. Instead of focusing on an entire swarm of rats, sights must be set on only one—an indication that exceeding stubbornness and strong personality is soon to follow.

John Carey’s frantic hat take on Porky allows for some interesting freeze frames. Smears, multiples, and distortions as a whole caricature his brief panic, but also harbor an energy that is fitting rather than too much or too little. General solidity prevails in the drawings themselves and are always a plus.

Rather than taking Porky’s rhyming declaration of “He eh-ck-ceh-ck-eh-can’t get away with eh-ee-eh-the-that!” as a threat, the rat almost seems delighted at the challenge, brightening up and striking a pose on the statue in accordance to a proud orchestral fanfare. 

A prevailing carefree attitude manifests in grandiose, whimsical and caricatured movement: instead of sliding off the statue or jumping normally, the rat dives like a swimmer and still manages to land on his butt rather than stomach. Likewise with his running escape—he drills a perfectly carved mouse hole in the wall by spinning on the axis of his nose. Pausing in mid-air with his nose to the wood for a beat before drilling allows the audience to revel in the absurdity. More attention is brought to the impossible and almost serves as a smug aside, a concession but not one that feels self congratulatory or obnoxious. Mechanical drilling sounds perfectly compliment the action.

Porky’s pride continues to be attacked as the rat taunts him from the mouse hole. The grandiosity of the music number and endearing self contentment exuded by Porky previously makes the rat’s appearance and taunts sting all the more ferociously as a result—newspaper headlines, swooning female choruses and a receptive audience as a whole all for naught thanks to a simple rat. Ridding the rat isn’t even so much a favor for the town of Hamelin as it is an attempt by Porky to save face.

Clampett’s pig had a tendency to be somewhat conceited, but not in a way that ever feels insulting or egregious—rather, an eccentric smugness that manifests in more subtle ways such as feeling it necessary to pair his bow-tie with his medieval piper garb to look (or, more likely, feel) presentable. 

He tends to conduct himself in a way that feels as though he thinks he is slightly above certain people or obstacles, and when those obstacles present themselves or he becomes challenged, his attempts to remedy it are more akin to preserving his integrity rather than remedying the situation itself (a particularly strong example of this can be found at the climax of Clampett’s Baby Bottleneck—when forcing Daffy to sit on the egg, Porky eventually grabs his hand and struggles to force it on the egg. There is no way the palm of Daffy’s hand would ever provide adequate warmth for the egg to hatch—the egg is out of the question, and he just wants Daffy to make any sort of physical contact with the egg at all as a means of concession.) Of course, this is all presented in a way that renders him likable and naïve first and foremost rather than truly smug--perhaps politely entitled oblivion is a more well suited term--but it does speak to his endearing eccentricities and why his oblivious attitudes are often so ripe for comedic potential.

As though he was anticipating such a worse case scenario to begin with, Porky unearths a mouse trap from his pocket—while the original tale of the pied piper had him luring the rats into a lake to be drowned, the bluntness of a mouse trap (already baited at that!) presents a comical alternative that is even more gruesome. That goes double for the staunchly determined expression on Porky’s face.

With the austerity of the background music, stubborn devotion from Porky, and purposefully slow pacing as he gingerly fishes the trap out of his pocket, sets it on the floor, and takes a rather dramatic, slow inhale before playing, the audience is led to expect a clarinet solo of utmost ferocity. After all, if his Benny Goodmanesque solo in all of its riotousness just to please a crowd is anything to go off of, one can hardly fathom the power of his pipe when put to a task where stakes are high. 

Which is why a deceptively gentle and saccharine solo of “The Umbrella Man” is the most obvious music choice. A song employed by Stalling often in moments purposefully indicated to read as childish or whimsical, the politeness of the piping itself provides a hilarious juxtaposition to the unflappably determined—if not aggressive—expression on Porky’s face. 

Though his animation in itself is mostly a loop, it too considers the musicality of the entire sequence; the weight of his body bounces and buckles on every down beat of the song, giving both the music and his own animation an added weight that feeds off of each other. Likewise with the mouse emerging from its hole in a sleepwalking trance; though the characters move at different intervals, they are both intrinsically tied down to the beat of the music. Quite a literal sense applies to the mouse in this case.

Indeed, it seems Porky’s plan has worked. A final note on the clarinet solo is held out as the rat is dangerously close to stepping on the trap, hovering right over with a leg outstretched; the suspended note calls attention to the anticipation first and foremost and enables the audience to brace for impact.

“If you think I’m goin’ in there, you’re CRAZY!”

A curt truck-in from the camera exaggerates the purposefully abrupt transition and renders it even more of a shock. Clampett plays both Porky and the audience like fools for believing the act—the sleepwalking pose is a deliberate, wry cliché. The bond between the screen and the audience is even more potent than usual in this short, and works to a great success—not only are we led to be endeared by witnessing Porky’s jazz solo and braggadocio first hand, furthered by direct eye contact and interacting with off-screen voices, but the mouse makes an opportunity to fool us as well by speaking directly to the camera rather than at Porky accusingly. 

Screwball tendencies ensue as the mouse tauntingly performs a quick little jig. Comparisons between the rat and future Bugs Bunny shorts directed by Clampett are not completely unfounded—he fostered a very clear love of impish hecklers who revel in said heckling. Reveling in having control of the situation and heckling with no other ulterior motives other than it being fun are certainly philosophies that apply to Clampett’s Bugs; the rat coyly leaning against the statue at the beginning feels particularly reminiscent of the former. 

John Carey resumes animation duties as the rat hops onto Porky himself and breaks his clarinet (“This thing’s no good, boss! Full a’ holes!”). Carey’s poses are full of infinite appeal and charm—attention towards acting is very clearly delegated to the rat, as Porky’s nonplussed blinks and stares feel somewhat underwhelming—particularly a lack of a strong reaction when the rat breaks the clarinet and hands him back half—but every drawing does feel incredibly charismatic and solid. The rat staring affirmingly at the audience when he first grabs the clarinet is easy to go unnoticed, but a welcomingly dimensional addition.

Homage to What Price Porky is paid as the rat uses Porky’s snout as a springboard. Whereas the action is less imposing here, it also possesses a much more tangible and effective elasticity, particularly seen through the resulting reverberations on the snout after the jump is made. Sharp eyes will catch that Porky’s hand position accidentally reverts to the way it was pre-broken clarinet.

To further sling Porky’s name through the mud, the mouse utilizes the broken half of his horn to pipe a shrill, tinkly snatch of “The Umbrella Man”, mimicking the same jaunty gallops exercised by Porky in the opening song number. Not only does the high pitch and frequency of the solo feel even more insulting, it follows a clever like of cartoon logic: broken clarinet means smaller horn, smaller horn must mean higher notes, higher notes accommodate the sizes of both small horn and small mouse. 

What is a pied piper without his pipe? Though a dissolve back to Porky rather than a straight on jump cut somewhat slows the pacing more than necessary, it helps that the scene itself does not beg rapid or extraneous action. Instead, the audience is meant to chew on Porky’s dejection and feel sympathetic (slow, hurt blinks) and laugh at the mouse getting the best to him (slamming the broken pipe to the ground in a fit of frustration.)

The intent of the next sequence of Porky enlisting in the aid of an “OLD FASHIONED MOUSE TRAP” (patent pending) is somewhat odd in terms of acting: it sounds as though he's supposed to be sniveling or crying given the sniffling sounds, but the simmering indignation in his low grumbles (“The-the-that old eh-re-re-rih-rat… he-he c-eh-c-c-can’t do that t’ me…”) and a somewhat vacant, certifiably dry-eyed scowl from John Carey’s animation seem to betray this. It isn’t exactly a major flaw, as it’s very clear Porky harbors a vendetta and is eager to nurse his wounded pride--just an odd miscommunication that thankfully isn’t too obstructing.

Besides, the punchline of the rat trap is a stronger focus than the emotional intricacies of Porky Pig: a cat is unceremoniously unearthed from the box. 

While the bloated pause of Porky holding the cat may seem strange, it was timed just right for theaters, with Clampett clearly anticipating a warm audience reaction. These cartoons possess an art that is somewhat lost today: curating the shorts with the awareness of a live theatrical audience. More obvious examples are characters conversing directly to the screen or along the extremes of having a rotoscoped silhouette projected on the screen. A less obvious and much more consistent artistry is the pacing, timing certain jokes with audience reaction in mind. A risky gamble, seeing as it’s never guaranteed every joke will land, but often one that is worthwhile and engaging.

Timing of the sequence is somewhat muddled even given those specifications, but is not out of the norm for John Carey’s work. His animation had a tendency to sometimes read as floaty or smooth to an uncanny degree thanks to even spacing—this presented itself in slower scenes that don’t require overly exaggerated or hyperactive actions, such as this one. Still, his drawing style is consistently appealing and his solidity is particularly flaunted through a perspective shot of Porky turning around, cat in tow and dipping into the foreground. 

“G-geh-geh-guh-ge-go get ‘im, ehs-ehs-eh-Slapsie Catsie!” While the name of the cat at first glance seems like typical zany Clampett naming conventions (which isn't entirely false), it actually serves as a reference to light heavyweight champion Max “Slapsie Maxie” Rosenbloom.

Themes of boxing are upheld as the cat engages in a fit of shadow boxing not unlike the stylings of John L. Sullivan, the first heavyweight boxing champ. Though amusement from the cat’s antics doesn’t hinge on understanding references to Rosenbloom or Sullivan, a further depth and appreciation is bestowed upon the set-up when knowing its roots. More somewhat floaty Carey acting ensues as the cat displays its dukes to the audience.

Reversals are plentiful in this cartoon: the colloquialisms of Porky’s jazz number juxtaposed against the inherently archaic time period and environment, the decidedly pedestrian solo of “The Umbrella Man” incongruous with Porky’s determined scowl, the mouse faking the audience out by pretending to step on the mouse trap. Our next reversal manifests in the cat being terrified by the mouse—all he does is wordlessly step out of the hole, prompting the cat into a fit of screaming, effeminate hysterics perfectly tailored to Clampett’s comic sensibilities.

Outside of the cat’s comically mundane and purposefully insubstantial, vague screams ending with just “…MOUSE!”, heavy emphasis is delivered to the visual humor and incongruity of the cat pulling up its fur to reveal slender, womanly human legs, high heels and all. 

Presence of an audience continues to be acknowledged and incentivized as the cat catches wind of its viewers. Pauses are timed for more laughs as he stares vacantly at his crowd, “skirt” uplifted before growing modest and struggling to cover himself. The heavy, pregnant pause from the music score almost serves as a joke in itself, allowing the viewer to stew in the real time realization of the cat.

With that said, the transition to the next scene is bumpy. A disconnect inherent in varying drawing styles almost renders the cat looking like an entirely new character—eyes are smaller, proportions between head and jowls are more even, eye mask takes up less room, nose is much bigger, tufts of fur on the side of his head point down rather than sideways. 

That is inconsequential compared to the awkward, bloated and uncomfortably intimate pause as the cat ogles at the audience in silence for a few seconds. A lack in hook-up poses provides one answer. Seeing as the cat is moving during the camera dissolve and completely still after the transition to the next scene, the segue feels somewhat artificial and mechanical. It’s only for a few seconds, but the entire scene involving the close-up feels uncanny as a whole.

Nevertheless, the grizzled, accented delivery of “Me? A pussycat afraid of a teeny, weeny mouse?” is a strong contrast to the high pitched, effeminate deliveries prior. 

Further disconnect prevails through the scene as a whole—while the cat laughing with its mouth closed works as a stylistic maneuver, it sounds as though he says “So I’m scary!” instead of “So I’m scared!”, and more pauses ensue that feel awkward and uncanny rather than humorous. A general disconnect in the cat’s design compared to prior sequences do little to alleviate such.

In any case, such awkwardness thankfully doesn’t appear to permeate much of the cartoon’s remainder. In fact, Clampett would reprise the manner in which the cat makes a spectacle by humming nonchalantly and rocking on his heels, awaiting the perfect moment to strike in Porky’s Last Stand. Pacing of the sequence would be refined in the latter as well—the cat’s humming goes on for a bit too long.

Even then, it’s all for a good cause; though the audience anticipates the inevitable, the cat launching at its victim comes as a surprise regardless through minimal drawings, rapid camera movements, and a unanimous crescendo in both music and sound effects. Camera movements rapidly tracking the brawl are not unlike the similarly frenetic camera maneuvers in Jeepers Creepers when exploring the haunted house for the first time. 

Here, the pattern of the camera is more focused with an active target at hand. It is very much whiplash inducing, but in a manner that feels exhilarating more than completely discombobulated. Over the past year or two, the camera department has begun to iron out kinks that plagued the cartoons for so many years—truck-ins and outs are less jittery, double exposed images aren’t nearly as blurry, and a realization that the camera doesn’t have to be used as a means to go from point A to point B but can serve as an art in itself have certainly brought a lot of life and depth to these cartoons. 

Despite the first opening minute of the cartoon being filled with stagnant shots, that it nearly takes 5 minutes into the short’s runtime for the first piece of reused animation to appear is a relief (especially after following such a reuse-heavy cartoon like Naughty Neighbors.) Here, Bobe Cannon’s animation of the cat-dog hybrid from Porky in Wackyland attacking itself and Porky getting caught in the crossfire is appropriated to fit the demands of this cartoon.

Its impact is somewhat lessened given the heavy musical emphasis in the former, animation intrinsically tied to the unique music score in that short, but is still nevertheless serviceable to eyes not meant to catch the reuse in the first place. A fresh coat of paint attempts to be slathered on as Porky’s piper hat lands on top of his exposed belly (the physics of his clothing another amusing addition not present in the former)—John Carey’s smears and pseudo-motion blur enhance the motion’s rapidity.

Clampett delegates focus exclusively to cat and mouse hijinks now that Porky’s conveniently out of the way. Understanding the monotony of cat and mouse hijinks even as early as 1939, intricate layouts and intriguing perspective animation are enthusiastically employed in a rather impressive two-way pan of the cat chasing the mouse down a long hallway and backing him into a corner. Its brisk pace is welcome; slowing down the chase for the sake of scenery chewing would lose precious momentum, but both characters move at a speed that allows the audience to adequately ingest the depth of the composition and follow the chase accordingly.

Slowing of the chase and abandoning momentum does in fact occur, but purposefully so—in the midst of the cat’s scratching at the wall, both rat and cat pause to transform the claw marks into a game of tic tac toe.

Carl Stalling’s music score presents a juvenile quality that strengthens the spirit of the scene rather than weakens it. With each mark on the wall—mouse uses a pencil to scratch in its Os, cat’s Xs spawn from his claws—a growing accompaniment of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” hatches, but only when the characters make a mark on the wall. The first O drawn by the mouse is one note, each line drawn for the X is two notes, O is one more note, two for the X, and so on. It’s an anecdote that is certainly amusing in itself and would likely land had the music not been exclusively timed to the antics, but nevertheless is wholly strengthened through Stalling’s musical prowess. 

Invincibility of the mouse is upheld as he wins the game, marked by a close-up of his gloating. The manner in which the mouse’s cheeks are drawn, spilling over the folds of his muzzle, are almost identical to Daffy’s own cheeks at the opening of Clampett’s The Henpecked Duck in 1941. Whether an indication of Clampett’s drawing style or a personal flair of the same animator, who knows, but it certainly makes the characters feel more sculpted, mischievous, as though their joy can’t be contained to just a muzzle. 

Further Daffy comparisons are made as the mouse honks the cat’s nose in passing—the ultimate comeuppance from a screwball character. The same could be said for the spinning whirlwind the mouse performs before diving off the cat’s nose and off screen, such copious twirls not unlike Bugs Bunny’s various spinning entrances and exits during his early years. 

Slight tedium at a looping, rather static chase that goes on for a few seconds too long is forgiven through elastic and tactile background animation prompted by the car knocking into a wall. A hit so ferocious that it prompts even the walls to buckle and sway, the impact is greatly exaggerated as a result and feels much more painful than what the cat’s dazed retreat may lead on.

That is shortly amended by having the cat die on screen from the impact. Or, rather, have his 9 lives float out of his bodies like angel/ghost hybrids and off into space—both the halos being held up by a support and the numbers around their waists akin to a runner getting numbered in a marathon are great design touches. 

For such a seemingly mundane impact, the cat actually dying from hitting a wall seems excessive. Thankfully, Clampett is able to make it work by reveling and embracing the absurd rather than challenging it. A full dedication to the act suspends the audience’s disbelief. Electric guitar slides and reverberating chime stings with each cat exiting make the ethereality of the sequence feel playful and mischievous rather than pompous—having the angels line up on a nearby shelf indicate that the cat isn’t going anywhere too far. 

Enter a now hatless Porky (too much of an animated liability?) who arrives just in time to forcefully shove the 9th life back in the cat’s body—Stalling’s brazen horn sting and staggered animation as a whole succinctly exaggerate the strength and force it takes to push the spirit back in. 

A rebound a la Popeye is in order; rather than enlisting in the aid of spinach, Porky conveniently unearths a bottle of liquid katnip with “100 10/100% PURE DYNAMITE”. Popping the cork out with his teeth, he feeds the bottle to the cat.

John Carey’s close-up of the cat ingesting the catnip is wonderful on all fronts. Viewing the liquid pulsing through his entire body is joyously grotesque, and the convulsions touted as he writhes back to life spawn some of the most extreme animation drawings seen by the Clampett unit yet—particularly the wide eyed swish and stretch takes upon the final drum line chorus reverberating in tandem with the animation. Carey’s knack for fully constructed animation and strong understanding of milking maximum impact from various distortions are fully realized. It’s no wonder Clampett cast him for meticulous close ups or scenes demanding a stronger, more focused elasticity. Both at once are flaunted here. 

Vacancy on the “real” cat’s expression is a clever way of portraying his brainlessness, for lack of a better word—it is very clear that he needs the power of his remaining 8 lives. As such, the 9th life signals a call to arms, trumpeting into an ethereal bugle.

Thus, the spirits lined in convenient reach come into play—their positions on the shelf were not intended for observance, but to indicate the presence of immediate reinforcements. Armed with airplane engine sound effects, the spirits dive towards their target—halos spinning like a plane’s propellers are a great design gimmick, and the contrasting angles in which they intertwine with each other adds a great deal of visual interest. 

Clampett would reprise the transformation at the climax of Eatin’ on the Cuff, executed at a much brisker pace (and appropriate wartime references) with a bee’s antennae providing a propeller instead. Nevertheless, the gag here is quite effective and asserts a fine first impression.

That even the 9th spirit is surprised of the incoming fleet indicates the raw amount of impending force and strength—it’s as though even he didn’t know what he was getting into. Likewise. the cat’s eyes brightening up as his first life is completely nestled back into place is a lovely piece of acting and makes the additions of the spirits feel purposeful and necessary rather than decorative.

Same with the remaining 8 lives as the cat is transformed into a hulking brute,  comically overcompensating for his brief down and out encounter. Making a point to flex his muscles cements the Popeyesque transformation. 

John Carey continues to carry the cartoon through his animation of the cat gearing to life—some moments in which the motion is staggered feel out of place in the way they slow, as though there was a looping error by shooting the animation on twos instead of ones, but the motion itself perfectly captures the freneticism necessary for such a grand climax. Faux motion blurring, smears, dry brush, multiples, and so on, every trick in the animation distortion book are all   employed to ensure the momentum and rawness of the energy are maintained.

The mouse hole is quickly replaced with the bulking silhouette of the cat as he tears right through the wall. While having the action itself unfurl off screen itself could be seen more as a cheat rather than creative maneuver (which, again, has some truth rooted in such a statement), the philosophy of blows and punches resonating more when left purely to the minds of the audience does also apply.

Thanks to John Carey again, the audience is reminded of Porky’s presence through a somewhat incongruous and hastily inserted shot of him cheering the cat on. It’s hard to hate, as Carey’s drawing style is consistently appealing, the dramatic up shot of the camera is engaging, and Porky’s enthusiasm conveyed through a wide grin and somewhat endearingly childish fist pumps transcends the screen. Still, it does feel like a quick move to remind the audience of his presence more than it feels like a functional insertion. 

Amusing as the cartoon’s ending may be, it does come as a bit of a letdown; as the punches subside, it’s not the cat who emerges from the hole, but the mouse, touting a new fur coat. A brief, chiding music accompaniment of “The Umbrella Man” does provide a nice callback to Porky’s previous attempts at drawing the mouse out, especially considering he once again is exiting a mouse hole, but that appears to be the most solidity offered by the ending.

Instead, we iris out on the rat admiring his new duds: “Mm-mm! Gen-u-ine vermin!”

Pied Piper Porky is a cartoon I’ve personally liked for quite awhile and had a tendency to default to, despite not exactly knowing why myself. Some of the pacing lapses to noticeably awkward degrees during certain parts of the short, the opening is a bit obvious in its maneuvers to fill time, and I tended to only watch it for Porky, only for him to conveniently disappear or have surface level appearances towards the end of the cartoon.

While that much is true, it’s a much stronger cartoon than I initially thought, and certainly comes as a relief when juxtaposed next to shorts such as Porky’s Hotel or Naughty Neighbors, or even Jeepers Creepers. Mainly, from a personal perspective, it’s filled with quite a few Porkyisms I personally really love about the character—I adore the incongruity between his pied piper garb and the bow-tie (and thusly envisioning the thought process behind that), I very much am a fan of the false modesty and very slight entitlement that comes off as endearing and politely amusing more than abrasive or too pungent, and will never, ever get enough of John Carey’s animation for Porky (who actually provides animation on the short’s spiritual successor, Paying the Piper, as well.)

An example of John Carey's work in Paying the Piper,
general eye for construction and added dimension still prevailing.

Pied Piper Porky is far from Clampett’s best, and Paying the Piper has a much more solid foundation. Regardless, the mouse rightfully steals the show. His seemingly indestructible trickster persona serves as a stronger prototype to the future Bugs Bunny in terms of personality than any of his actual rabbit prototypes. Likewise, it assets Clampett’s comfort at working with brazen characters with large personalities, personalities that can’t be tied down by even the most bulking and ferocious of brutes. The mouse feels infinitely more inspired than, say, the screwball ghost in Jeepers Creepers, and the cat also has his worthy moments.

If nothing else, P.P.P. is an enthusiastic cartoon. Perhaps there may be bias in such a deduction, seeing as this is the direct successor to Naughty Neighbors, one of his most meandering cartoons offered by his filmography. Either way, rarely does the short lapse—in spite of the opening minute being all cheater, it almost comes as a benefit. With the ending admittedly as weak as it is, one wonders if Clampett would have been able to sustain himself much longer. Paying the Piper may be the more well realized and substantial cartoon, but this one serves its purpose well and has a lot of hidden gems if one knows where to look or how to carve them out.