264. Fresh Fish (1939)

Release Date: November 4th, 1939

Series: Merrie Melodies

Director: Tex Avery

Story: Jack Miller

Animation: Sid Sutherland

Musical Direction: Carl Stalling

Starring: Robert C. Bruce (Narrator, Race Call), Mel Blanc (Tuna, Dual Fish, Shark, Herring,), Sara Berner (Starfish, Tiger Shark), Danny Webb (Teacher, Crab, Dual Fish)

(You may view the cartoon here or on HBO Max!)

A spot gag cartoon dedicated purely to the creatures of the sea doesn’t at all come as a surprise. After all, underwater segments of Avery’s previous cartoon, Land of the Midnight Fun, served as a teasing appetizer to the main course. Opportunity is ripe for wordplay, puns, visual gags; while not one of Avery’s most riveting, it does provide a nice differentiation from exploring various human or mammalian antics. 

Likewise, it provides an opportunity for Avery, Leon Schlesinger, and Warners as a whole to flex the technological innovations and revisions they’ve harnessed. All of the underwater segments are filtered through ripple glass to create the illusion of distorted water. While hints of such a technique could be seen in Porky the Gob and Land of the Midnight Fun, it has never been fully realized for such a substantial amount of time. Gone are the days of cel-painted trails of haze seen in shorts such as Fish Tales or heavily airbrushed backgrounds like in Porky’s Five & Ten. 

Settling comfortably in his role as Avery’s right hand spot-gag man for narration, Robert C. Bruce’s narration extends as early on as the titles themselves by reading the title aloud. His declaration of “Fresh Fish: an epic of the briny deep!” sticks faithfully to Avery’s philosophy of luring the audience in through a false sense of security. Such blatantly pompous declarations are waiting to be challenged by purposefully groan inducing sight gags and wordplay.

Disclaimers in Avery’s travelogue cartoons are just as common as Bruce’s casting as narrator. They provide a quick way to kill time and hopefully shake a laugh out of the audience—here, given the bombastic nature of the opening, it provides an adequate tonal whiplash to truly acclimate its audience to the film.

Chasing the high of Land of the Midnight Fun with its many, picturesque boat shots, Avery establishes the scene with a ship chuffing along at sea. Similar promises akin to Midnight of an educational cruise are established, a bit of a yo-yo in tone next to the wry humor of the disclaimer. Midnight’s opening played it straight all the way through and was somewhat more consistent before delving into the goods. 

Nevertheless, Avery’s introduction is brief, concise: the antics of the fish will be viewed due to the convenience of the glass bottom boat. In addition to the usual splendor of Johnny Johnsen’s background work, clouds whimsical enough to fit the environment of a cartoon but grounded enough in realism to serve not as a distraction, effects of the smokestack leaving a trail behind are impressive—it appears as though the paint has been diluted in some form, whether through airbrushing or water. As such, the billow of smoke presents a gradient in color and looseness in physical form to work in conjunction with Avery’s strife for realism rather than against it.

Johnsen continues to kill it in the background department with a series of gorgeous shots depicting the Isle of “Floy Floy”—another allusion to the popular fox-trot that, in spite of its many nods from Avery, has yet to serve as a piece of musical accompaniment in itself. Various tropical birds flit around the foreground of the first shot, contributing to the overall tranquility and vibrancy of the picture.

On the topic of vibrancy, Tex wasn’t exactly one who used a vast array of candy-coated color choices unless the moment begged for it. Such is the case here. Rather, he exercised a surprising amount of restraint and neutrality with his tones—even later on in the same cartoon, a starfish is a beige tan color rather than pink, a crab a sour green rather than cherry red. Such neutral colors by no means lessen the metaphorical color in his tone and filmmaking by any means. If anything, they prevent the audience from being distracted and to focus more on the joke at hand. 

“Slowly, our ship approaches the island…”

A painted overlay of the glass bottom boat rushing into the shoreline deliberately defies such claims. Diagonal staging provokes dynamism inherent in the composition, seeing as diagonal angles invoke action—the lack of any sort of antic or follow through from the boat settling into shore almost seems to further its brisk entrance even further, as if obeying traditional modes of animation is too lengthy a venture. The action does read as stiff, but a stiffness that aids in supporting a gag structured on abruptness and speed.

Carl Stalling’s pseudo take on the Laurel and Hardy theme song prepares the audience for inevitable screwball antics as the narrator introduces us to one Professor Mackerel Fishface—“eminent authority on denizens of the deep.” 

Though the bow-legged walk, flat feet,  short legs, and tall collar are typical signifiers of eccentricity for all nondescript entities, the coloration of his suit, bulbous nose, and anarchic, enigmatic personally (he merely sticks his tongue out to the audience upon recognition by the narrator) all beg comparisons to the proto-Elmer Fudd. Comparisons between his design and the more sculpted, realistic design of the gob locking him into a diving bell are both intriguing and comical.

Avery returns to the A-B format of his spot gag cartoons, an aspect that was absent in The Land of the Midnight Fun and to its success. Robert C. Bruce’s comments of the professor searching for the elusive “Whim Wham Whistling Shark” indicate that he will be a periodic visitor throughout the cartoon. 

Distortions evoked from ripple glass are not the only intriguing visual aspect; Avery delivers upon his promise of the glass bottom boat. In an effect that is clever, engaging, and striking, the viewer is introduced to the ocean exclusive segments of the cartoon by viewing the aquatic life from a glass pane on the ship’s floor. 

While the background painting seems at odds with the overhead layout and animation of the fish itself, the move is very much welcome. For the background painting, some of the plants and underwater flora appear to be arranged horizontally, standing upright. Such is furthered through the relatively straight line in which the flora is placed—while a sunken ship attempts to amend the shortcoming with its deck clearly visible, it is a somewhat odd discrepancy. Not nearly enough to detract from the intent of the shot, however. Avery’s knack for cinematography and creative sense of framing/dynamics as a whole makes his cartoons all the more enriching—this sensibility in itself is not new, but the particular perspective and choice of framing here is. 

With the illustrious visuals out of the way, Avery jumps to the meat and potatoes of the film: the fish gags. A school of sardines swimming packed together just as they would sit in a can establishes the tone for much of these remaining gags—the fish tilting left and right ensure the audience gets the joke no matter what. 

Likewise, clucks akin to a chicken from a tuna come as no surprise following Bruce’s declaration of its status as “chicken of the sea”.

It is, however, one of Avery’s more enjoyable gags of the picture—the chicken theme is upheld through the fish nestling in a nest of straw and laying 100,000 poultry eggs per the narration. 

Whereas the joke itself is hardly foreign to Avery, appearing first in 1936’s Porky the Rain-Maker, the difference in execution between the two displays just how far he’s come. Whether it’s the solidity of the egg animation itself (all meticulously shaded at that, eggs actively rolling down the pile further exaggerating the height and ferocity of egg laying) or the frantic chicken clucks rising in pitch and alarm as the fish ascends into the air, by all fronts the growth is marked. 

Tuna fish’s exerted “whew!” never fails to be amusing. We fade to black, applying a coda to the sequence and leaving the tuna to its privacy.

“Crabs are of the crustacean family. Here, we show you an old crab.” Commentary from the narrator is typically overlaid over a scenic pan of the underwater environment before settling on the subject, an easy before and after to lure the audience into the joke.

Here, a caricature of noted deadpan actor Ned Sparks manifests in the form of a crab and encouraging Bruce to mind his own business. This wouldn’t be the only time—Bob Clampett’s Goofy Groceries in 1941 also casts a literally crabby Sparks--in fact, the same animation is used directly. The cigar sticking out of his maw is a nice touch.

Imagery for the hermit crab punnery is not unlike Believe it or Else’s gag of an elderly old coot stuck in his “room” for 50 years. Allowing the shell to frame and cover the crab/man hybrid’s head makes him appear all the more cleverly withdrawn.

Groan inducing as the taxi crab gag may be, Treg Brown’s dinky bike horn sound effects emitted from its mouth—exaggerated through elastic lunges of its neck—and Stalling’s prompt cue of “Fourty-Second Street” steer it towards a more endearing and mischievous direction.

Perspective of the crab does somewhat suffer, as the constant shadow projected on the ground makes it seem as though the horizon line runs straight across the screen—with the background so faint and distorted, it becomes slightly difficult to piece together where the ground starts and ends. 

Wordplay on a starfish is just as easy to anticipate, but also just as easy to forgive—Avery’s self indulgence comes out in full swing as the star anthropomorphizes itself and pulls on the Katharine Hepburn act (complete with a falsely modest orchestration of “You Oughta Be in Pictures”), recurring “so sadly happy” quip and all. Sara Berner’s deliveries are in fine form like always, and direct glances directly at the audience ensure they are digesting the bit fully.

Electric eel gags with Avery reach as far back as Porky’s Duck Hunt in 1937. Instead of having the entire eel light up and manifest into a startling jolt of violent electricity like in the former, a bit of advertisement is in order instead. Momentary dimming of the lighting following each neon burst boosts the joke’s morale. 

It was mentioned previously that the cartoon follows an A-B plot structure. Realistically, the rhythm is more akin to an A-B-C format: our next specimen is yet another recurring aspect of the cartoon, and one of the most rightfully memorable. Accompanied by a fitting arrangement of “The Merry Go Round Broke Down”—a surefire notion of inevitable hijinks—a two-headed fish unmistakably more playful and caricatured in its design than his contemporaries appears to revel in the attention of the narrator and viewer alike.

Voiced by Mel Blanc and Danny Webb, both heads speak in perfect, gleeful unison. A brief, unanimous exchange of “You ask him! Alright…” bestows a naturalistic quality unto its dynamic—already, the audience is drawn into the fish’s relationship. Clearly it is a two sided effort; are all of their exchanges executed in unison? How often do said exchanges unfold?

“Pardon me, but could you tell me where I could find Mister Ripley?” Knowing Avery’s previous spot gag effort of Believe It or Else almost enhances the incongruous appearance of the fish—forget lost at sea, this fish is lost in the wrong cartoon. Seeming to understand this, the narrator bitterly asks them to take their leave.

Given the plucky, gleeful expression and demeanor of the little guy as a whole, it’s hard not to feel sympathetic for him as both heads answer with a dutifully deflated “Yes sir.” Answering back to the narrator’s dismissal rather than wordlessly departing make the insults sting all the more prominently. Of course, that the narrator has to ask him to leave once seems to subconsciously indicate that he’ll have to ask numerous times.

It almost feels criminal to revert back to trivial matters such as a dogfish (fish barking at a decidedly bug-like hermit crab.) After all, this is Fresh Fish, plural, not Fresh Double-Headed Fish. 

Though, like most of the gags in this picture, such a sequence is hard to hate—whether it be the solid animation of the dogfish hopping to and fro in an attempt to get a rise out of the crustacean, its certifiably unintimidating barks, or the retaliation from the hermit itself by barking so aggressively that the microphone is gain-y, sending them dogfish running and the crustacean scowling at the audience, its joyously absurd playfulness is what makes Avery’s cartoons so lovable.

A vast array of colorful fish tease the next sequence’s opening as they glide across the screen, intertwining with each other and swimming in varying angles. To compare the meticulousness of these fish designs to the fish in Porky’s Duck Hunt yield a great bounty of improvement in such a short amount of time. Such showiness again subscribes dutifully to Avery’s philosophy of luring the audience in with a gentle hook—in this case, visual accompaniment to the mechanics of a fish’s fins.

Really, the opener provides a means of transition for the next bit of wordplay; “fin” was old slang for a $5 bill, derived from Yiddish terminology as “fin” translates to “five”. Musical accompaniment of “We’re in the Money” is a must.

 Continuing to grow more accustomed to the spot gag format and the intricacies therein, Avery’s transitions between storyline A and storyline B have continued to smooth out and grow more steady with each subsequent entry. Briefly, the antics of the professor in his diving bell are revisited as the narrator remarks on the diligence of his pursuit. A dismissive but amiable “Well, good luck, professor. See you later,” and fade to black signify a solid transition between scenes. Not too abrupt, not too slow, not too incongruous with the tone. 

Tangentially related, Stalling’s orchestration of “Fingal’s Cave” assert Chuck Jones’ success of memorable theming, as the music brings instant connotations to The Little Lion Hunter and the Inki series as a whole. Of course, no mynah bird comes traipsing out of the underwater cave—rather, a menacing octopus seeking to prey upon the self described “harmless little sun perch.”

Avery’s subtle indication between predator and prey is notable not only through narration and size, but design and mannerism as well—black coloring of the octopus evokes natural danger and a heavy sense of suffocating foreboding compared to the perky, bright coloring on the perch. Cyan ringed eyes are an interesting touch, as one would expect them to be purple or gray—such a purposeful disconnect contributes additional intrigue. 

Closer and closer, the octopus prepares to strike. Using its tentacles as legs to stand up on is yet another instance of Avery’s ever economic design sense—he used his resources and what is given to him. It can be seen with the elderly hermit crab’s shell extending over his head as well.

“Boo!” Loyal to the philosophy of the dogfish from before, the perch’s retaliation is as meek and unassuming as possible.

And, as per Averyian logic, the octopus is sent running into the distance.

A lecture on clans is interrupted by the two-headed fish from before. While the shtick is the same—joyously asking about the whereabouts of Mr. Ripley, shooed away from the narrator, leaving in dutiful dejection—its freshness is maintained by having them enter and exit in the opposite screen direction than the first scene. Likewise, a recurring motif of “The Merry Go Round Broke Down” establishes continuity and familiarity to keep things coherent. 

A visual of a flexing mussel duly notes its status as a throwaway gag.

Amends are made through the next sequence; a somewhat abrupt jump cut between scenes is really the only gaffe. A scene that brings great light to the sheer vocal prowess of Mel Blanc, a metaphorically pickled herring stumbles out from a broken crate of scotch and into the mouth of a happy whale.

Blanc’s slurred, drunken chorus of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” is sprinkled with interruptions of hiccups. Instead of singing the song dutifully, the herring repeats the same establishing line over and over again, further stressing his inebriation—likewise, the same effect is upheld when the music score dims as he stumbles into the whale’s mouth. 

Comparing the drunken fish here to the inebriated fish in Porky’s Duck Hunt again wields results of great growth, much like the comparison between egg gags in Porky the Rain-Maker and here. From designs to special effect to the motion in itself, Avery’s more grounded, comparatively realistic approach here almost makes the fish’s drunken antics seen much more exaggerated as a result.

With the rubbery, cutesy and more crude designs of the fish in the former, such antics feel more aligned with the territory. The incongruity between the much more realistic fish design here and his public display of drunkenness hits twice as hard. A Chaplinesque cane and (top) hat further contribute to the joyful antitheses.

“I’m blind! I’m blind! Lemme outta here!” 

Still somewhat oblivious to his entry of the whale, mistaking it for blindness, the drunken herring is quick to retreat in the safety of his broken scotch crate.

Robert C. Bruce’s nasal narration of a (sea) horse race is the strongest part of the next sequence. Horse trampling sound effects add a joyful absurdity to the illusion, the ringed undersea layout does a fine job of conveying the looks of a racetrack, and the camera’s constant following of the motion allows the audience to spectate with ease.

Enter “Malicious”, who enters first in the race despite its crutches. Its squint and random handlebar mustache are further playful touches to set it apart.

Next, an exploration of the bright, vibrant coral beneath the sea. The new 2020 HBO Max restoration does this cartoon wonders. Compare the “beautiful coral beds” to the laserdisc copy of the film—Bruce’s orations don’t land nearly as effectively. Likewise, the action and animation as a whole is much harder to make out, and that’s not even considering the distortions from the ripple glass.

Enter our double headed friend once more. Avery reaches his zenith with the duo here—instead of having the fish enter from screen left or screen right unobtrusively, the fish instead somersaults into view with an energy that is joyously and purposefully obnoxious. Undeterred, they repeat their request.

“Aw, go lay an egg, will ya?”

“Yes sir…”

It truly is criminal that this is the last time we see the duo, but understandably so—there’s no way Avery could possibly top them returning with not one, but TWO giant bird eggs, clearly accomplished with their feat. Explaining or questioning their abilities would cause the gag to falter in its confidence and support. Accept and enjoy the ridiculousness of it all.

Following the rule of 3s is where much of the cartoon’s structure is founded. The two headed fish appears for three times, the third the most absurd. Crabs were displayed in threes, the third and final taxi crab occupying the most attention. Now, sights are set on a line of sharks. A tiger shark with accompanying stripes meows like a kitten at the audience, a hammerhead shark beats itself in the cranium with a mallet…

A shovelnose shark performs its literal duties. With the previous two sharks swimming in the ocean, the stagnancy of the camera to focus on the next shark indicates yet another shift and stressor of the rule of 3’s. Allusions to the Works Progress Administration were also briefly touted in Avery’s The Mice Will Play.

Out of courtesy, a brief visit is paid yet again to the professor in his diving bell searching for his shark. Bruce’s kindly condescending “Keep trying, professor!” hints that an inevitable meeting between professor and shark is soon to come. A fade to black provides a smooth transition away from such matters.

Yet another shining example of Avery’s brilliance arrives in the form of a literal school of fish. Danny Webb’s vocals for the nasally, snorting fish teacher birth a new life into animation and acting that is already incredibly solid—intriguing angles, quick flourishes of movement, a tangible weight accenting his lecture.

Said lecture focuses on the correct way to nab bait off of a fishhook without getting snagged.

“To avoid disaster, ALWAYS approach the hook from the underside, like this!” The weight of his body as he leans beneath the hook, jabbing his pointer upwards is most kinetic. 

 Treg Brown’s hollow knocking sound effects as the teacher successfully grabs a bite allows the interaction to feel more tangible.

“And there’s a double twist-tail angle approach like THIS!”

Gorgeous flourishes on the twist make it feel both snappy and graceful.

“But by ALL means, never approach the hook STRAIGHT on like THIS.”

With Avery’s rule of thirds still in fine form, the audience is led to anticipate the punchline from a mile away. Even then, it doesn’t at all detract from its success. The “SCHOOL DISMISSED” sign conveniently plunged into the waters adds a layer of rightful mischief on top of a delightfully dark footnote—the sequence has a solid beginning and end. To have the fish never return would be somewhat open-ended. Avery ensures the audience understands his fate.

Likewise, the children cheering upon their dismissal creates further joyous incongruity between lighthearted darkness. Taking the gag itself too seriously would deflate the entire sequence, but the preparation and execution in which the gag is established are delivered with a tangible amount of care and acknowledgement for perfect timing, pacing, and escalation to really make it work. While the punchline itself may not be serious, the work put into realizing said punchline absolutely is.

A final visit to the professor in his diving bell is paid. Upon Bruce’s consistent pleasant patronization, claiming that they’ll have to leave the professor seeing as it’s getting late, the audience again anticipates a rebuttal. Indeed, said rebuttal arrives in the form of a whistle offscreen.

The joy of Avery’s cartooning is that absurd breaches of logic are embraced and hardly questioned. For example, the professor opening the door to his diving bell and staring incredulously at the audience. No diving equipment in sight, no indication of the bell filling with water, no indication that the professor is struggling to breathe.

A typical overzealousness with camera moves is delivered through a needless truck-in on a dark cave, angry yellow scleras glaring right at the camera. Given the darkness of the cave and surrounding background visuals, the bright scleras are exceedingly clear even from a slight distance—though the zoom is unnecessary, it lasts for but a fleeting second. More movement enhances the dynamism of the scene and momentum anyhow.

And how dynamic it is. A brief scramble take provided by the professor before dashing back into the bell and slamming the door shut provides a succinct balance between quick, elastic and solid, controlled. 

Likewise with the climax ensuing almost entirely in silhouette. Engulfing the shark with the inky black coloring suspends the audience’s wonderment of its elusiveness—even this far into the cartoon, we still don’t have a full idea of what the shark looks like. Union between the yellow eyes and yellow window of the diving bell solidify rhythm, clarity, and digestibility of the action.

Much to the joy of the narrator, the professor successfully catches the shark and manages to suck him back into the diving bell through such a little window. Elasticity in animation continues through a shot of a gob observing from the ship still above the waters.

Closure is delivered through a bookend in shots—the composition of the gobs raising the diving bell out of the waters is the exact same as the one seen when lowering the professor at the cartoon’s beginning. Bruce hypes the momentous event upon viewing the Whim Wham Whistling Shark for the first time in history. Contrast between the bulbous designs of the sailors in the distance shot to the much more sculpted, realistic gob opening the diving bell door is never not amusing.

“Ladies and gentlemen—the professor!”

Punchline of the shark with a full belly is a given, but still made amusing through humanizing touches such as the toothpick, sporting the professor’s derby on its head, the lax pose in the chair. 

As many cartoons do, we end on a radio punchline. This time, the wisdom of The Mad Russian is cited: “How do you do?”

Though not of the same level of quality exuded from Land of the Midnight Fun, Fresh Fish remains one of Avery’s more focused travelogue efforts and certainly not the most meandering. While it does diverge in varying directions (the subplots with the professor, the double headed fish), sticking primarily to one location only strengthens its overall cohesiveness and digestibility. It boasts a solid start and end—the audience isn’t left hanging or hungering for more. 

Though not consistently witty or inspired all the way through, the bits that do radiate inspiration are strong and confident. The double headed fish, the herring, the school teacher. Seemingly throwaway as some of the gags may be, only the mussel gag feels truly shoehorned, which is a good sign—many of the gags have a slight endearing quality to them that rescue them from being total groaners. The tuna laying a plethora of eggs and clucking like a chicken is a particularly potent example.

Like most of these cartoons, the recent restoration reaps countless benefits. Before, the print was murky, muddy—it arguably fits with the theme, seeing as ocean waters are often murky, but the array of color utilized in this cartoon is given ample opportunity to shine and enhance gags in the way they were meant to be seen. Johnsen’s background work is a delight as always—to hide that behind shoddy film prints is criminal. Creative decisions such as the silhouetted climax and boldness of the yellow scleras/diving bell window are able to read clearly and to maximum effectiveness.

Fresh Fish achieves what it sets out to achieve. Coherent, whimsical, amusing and engaging. It displays Avery’s growing comfort at the spot gag format; transitions between scenes are more clear and smooth, whether it be from a camera maneuver or strategizing the best means of pacing between certain gags. While frustrating for a modern viewer today who craves Avery’s more solid works free of a spot gag format, entries such as these make it clearer as to why he was so loyal to the format.