282. Slap Happy Pappy (1940)

Release Date: April 13th, 1940

Series: Looney Tunes

Director: Bob Clampett

Story: Bob Clampett

Animation: John Carey, Izzy Ellis

Musical Direction: Carl Stalling

Starring: Mel Blanc (Porky, Cow, Rochester, Duck, Chickens, Chick), Cliff Nazarro (Eddie Cackler, Bing Crosby), Danny Webb (Andy Devine hen, Ned Sparks, Walter Winchell), Jack Lescoulie (Jack Bunny), Kay Kyser (Himself), Bob Clampett (Chicken Sounds)

(You may view the short here!)

A lack of a writing credit indicates Bob Clampett likely wrote the story himself. Given the heavy reliance—perhaps “foundation” is a more suited term—on celebrity caricatures, radio references, the film feeling more like a string of tangents rather than a fully realized story, and Porky strutting around as a contractual obligation and nothing more, all of the above certainly assert such a notion. 

Clampett thankfully has the courtesy not to trick the audience into thinking it’s a cartoon with a strong Porky focus by putting his name in the title. That’s more delegated towards the “Starring PORKY” title card, which provides a curt reminder to quell the nerves of anxious moviegoers fearing porcine withdrawal. Instead, Slap Happy Pappy focuses on a chicken caricature of Eddie Cantor; more specifically, capitalizing on his desire to have a boy after having 5 girls. A Bing Crosby chicken, who coincidentally has all boys, seems to foster some hope through his advice.

Benefits of a Clampett self-storyboarded cartoon include unconventional staging decisions and layouts. A rare prolonged embrace of nighttime-turned-dawn palettes is exercised throughout much of the opening: in addition to the bold contrast between the dark sky and lamp shining a light on a sign introducing Porky’s farm, the upward angle of the staging encourages dynamic perspective that is maintained through a downward pan. There, further contrasts in value follow—the light of the dawn threatening to break over the horizon casts a clear spotlight on the silhouette of the farm itself. The quietude is atmospheric as it is almost eerie.

A nearby sign rife with typical Clampettian wordplay attempts to jar the audience out of such brief fantasies; jokes and gags are a higher priority than bucolic background paintings. The punny tagline on the sign advertising Miracle Eggs would be reused in Clampett’s solo outing with Republic Pictures, It’s a Grand Old Nag—further indication of his responsibility for the short’s story. 

Almost surprisingly, few attempts are made to stuff another minute or so with bloated pans or stagnant shots. A cross dissolve instead segues into Porky’s introduction, cast as an ever plucky farmer whistling a jovial tune of “The Arkansas Traveler” while plowing the fields. Unorthodox color palettes and value are the biggest standout; major kudos to Clampett for maintaining the atmosphere with the introduction of the momentum and characters rather than dropping it completely. Even if the action of Porky plowing and whistling isn’t exceedingly memorable in itself, its composition and appearance certainly are. 

Porky coming to a halt to bid a nearby cow good morning is somewhat needlessly extravagant in its motion. Granted, an extravagance that is appreciated, but uncanny; a somewhat arbitrarily grand antic leads into a noticeable follow through with his body—his hat in particular maintaining a solid flow—that feels unwarranted. Perhaps it’s the glaciality and timing of the movements more than the action itself. Regardless, the movement is much more appreciated than not, just a bit incongruous in its energy.

Regardless, John Carey’s close-up of the “Missus Cow” in question is rife with appeal through solid construction and kinetic motion, particularly through head shakes of both welcome surprise and dialogue accompaniment. Said dialogue is a repeat of The Mad Russian’s heavily accented “How do you do?”, which therefore sets the scene for the barrage of radio references and caricatures to follow. The approach here is more subtle in its delivery—the cow’s physical appearance doesn’t match that of Bert Gordon’s—in order to “warm up” the audience for the impending, much more conspicuous slew of celebrity faces.

With that out of the way, more whistling and plowing ensues. To prevent boring the audience from repeated footage, Clampett deliberately keeps the viewer on their toes through a clever bait and switch. Not through the courtesy of stuttered dialogue, but visuals. Porky leads his horse to a strategically inserted cornfield and thusly obscures himself from prying eyes…

…only to emerge with the roles switched. Porky the dutiful plow puller, his horse assuming the rule of the plucky farmer. While Porky maintaining his whistling wouldn’t detract from the transformation in any means, the switched physical roles a much higher comedic priority, the horse being the one to pick up the whistling does successfully go the extra mile in asserting that the sight gag has more to it than what meets the eye. Carl Stalling’s accompaniment of “The Arkansas Traveler” likewise shifts briefly to a more lumbering, imposing arrangement that provides the subversion with added support and guidance.

Another cross dissolve segues into another string of gags. Similarities to Chicken Jitters are inevitable: both cartoons written by Clampett, both featuring an abundance of chickens, both feeling more centered on gags than story. Slap Happy Pappy is somewhat more coherent than Jitters thanks to the impending Cackler and Crosby plot, but that the first half of the short is largely dominated by anecdotal gags which vary in how well they flow together does draw comparisons to the former short. Especially when faced with reused animation.

Clampett reusing the walk cycle of a hen and her chicks from Plenty of Money and You isn’t a quarter as egregious as slapping the 1939 Porky’s head on his 1936 body from Porky’s Poultry Plant, but there is certainly a disconnect between design sensibilities. The hen and her chicks from Money is more bulbous, straightforward, pie eyes loud and proud with their ‘30s influence. 

While 1940 audiences in theaters likely wouldn’t catch the difference, the juxtaposition becomes apparent when the camera pans to a much more decidedly Clampettian hen. Her proud waddles are given added weight thanks to the intrinsic timing to the backing orchestrations of “Chicken Reel”. 

To his credit, the next gag succeeds in throwing the audience for a loop. At first, it genuinely seems that the hen mistaking a box of gravel for feed and thusly indulging herself is the only punchline. Perhaps that would have been funny and novel in 1932, but even by 1940 it reeks of pedestrianism, almost seeming to insult the audience. Are we seriously supposed to laugh sincerely at something so deliberately unfunny?

The answer is no. Admittedly, the punchline is lost on modern audiences today, which may indeed allow them to jump to the aforementioned conclusions. But to a theatergoer in 1940, laughs would have been rife as the hen thus imitates Westerner Andy Devine, liberally lampooned for his raspy, gravelly voice.

Likewise, the hen’s “Hiya, Buck!” isn’t entirely rooted in aimless recitation. “Buck” refers to Buck Benny, Jack Benny’s cowboy alter ego. With this in mind, the only logical conclusion is a segue to a rabbit caricature of Jack Benny himself.

Jack Benny impressionist Jack Lescoulie rightfully assumes his position as the audience is introduced to Jack Bunny. “You know—one of the Easter bunnies!” Clampett’s Goofy Groceries would similarly star a Lescoulie voiced Jack “Bunny” caricature to a somewhat grander effect. 

Even if the reference is lost to most people today, some semblance of appreciation can still be had through the uncanny establishment of this seemingly random rabbit, the sharp musical timing to “In an Old Dutch Garden”, and the modern convenience that is “Easter Egg Paint”, activated with only a tug of a lever. 

Moreover, posing on Bunny is solid. Functional, solid construction, defined silhouettes, and an attractive disparity between curves and straight angles. All of the above apply to his surprised take (incongruous with the comedically, Benny-esque calmness in his “Uh oh,”) upon spotting a rotten egg—the tail jutting straight up for a few frames is of particular appeal. Porky has and would be again subject to many a similar tail take--in Clampett’s cartoons or elsewhere. 

“That looks like a bad one!” An intimate close-up shot of Benny/Bunny smashing the spoiled egg with a mallet is somewhat grandiose and bloated to an arbitrary degree. Not by much, but the climactic music sting and tension as the hammer is readied is somewhat needless given the circumstances—the resolution is only a cracked egg. Even then, perspective on the hammer and the arms are both tactile and immersive, the tight camera angle contributing to varied and engaging composition.

Thankfully, such an interlude does not seek to provide a punchline so much as it does a transition. That is, it telegraphs the next unorthodox egg—whereas the first egg was disheveled and spoiled, the next one is all black, signaling more peculiarity. Same surprised take is repeated, as is close-up shot. 

A shift in verbiage to a much more positive deduction (“Well! That is a bad one!”) hints at a change in format. Indeed, that is finalized as a chick caricature of Eddie Rochester Anderson hatches from the egg, telling Benny to hold off on his egg cracking violence. The scene isn’t completely incoherent without an understanding of Benny and Rochester’s relationship, but does seem more like an aimless employment of stereotypes (which is still essentially true) to a modern viewer today. 

Likewise, Rochester’s quip of “Mm-mm! Heaven can wait!” is solid enough on its own to be amusing—if not somewhat provocative given the implication—but also makes more sense when realizing he’s quoting the Jimmy Van Heusen song of the same name. 

Dissolving to a shot of a paperboy duck hawking a news article worthy of “Ext-ry! Ext-ry!” declarations indicates a shift towards a more coherent storyline. John Carey’s draftsmanship in design is welcomed with open arms, both the duck and Porky nearby approached with equal appeal and cuteness that is natural rather than honed in. While subtle through even spacing and unobtrusive timing, Porky’s ear extending as he catches wind of the impending headline is a refreshingly creative manipulation. It additionally aids in preventing him from just standing around idly and waiting to feed his next line.

Blanc’s delivery on “Well! This is rih-really news!” sounds somewhat disingenuous, but that may be due to the writing itself, as well as a lack of attachment from a modern perspective to the news story in general. Sincerity in performance and acting is more focused and cohesive in Wise Quacks, where a much more jovial and exuberant Porky rejoices over a similar headline. Then again, easier to be outwardly excited over the birth announcement of your best friend rather than a random celebrity caricature never to be seen again after this cartoon. 

A side note, the somewhat subtle twang in Porky’s voice made consistent by Blanc is amusingly potent in the delivery of “Well!”, sounding more like “Way-ell!” It’s a relatively under-discussed attribute to Porky’s vocals that certainly adds a lot of personality, and is likewise more noticeable when it’s absent rather than present. 

Sure enough, the thesis of the cartoon’s remainder is delivered through the aid of a headline. Clampettisms in the story are prevalent, ranging from mildly inspired (“No cents”) to just plain stupid (is “Cluck” really the best name that could have been conceived for the newspaper?).

Clampett nevertheless gets somewhat creative with his scene transitions; rather than cross dissolving to the exterior of the Cackler home—er, coop, Porky holding the newspaper is all one painted overlay. The camera thusly pans over to the coop conveniently situated nearby, allowing for a more ease of transition and tighter coherency. A bag of chicken feed propped up near the coop provides a nod to ACME to those whose eyes are quick enough to spot it.

Audiences in 1940 already would have been able to piece the story together through the “BOY WANTED” sign hung outside the coop. Not just an aimless story point or declaration, but a riff at the real life Cantor. A father of five children, all of them girls, led to many a joke on the subject matter from Cantor himself and his contemporaries. Cartoonist contemporaries. This certainly wasn’t the first time the Cantor family was alluded to, and wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time an entire cartoon was dedicated to that single joke. 

Introducing the Cantor chicken enraptured in his boy-themed memorabilia likewise cements the story; while the novelty is lost to viewers unaware of Cantor’s relevance or even existence, the entirety of the story doesn’t solely hinge on knowing who he is. It certainly makes it funnier and stronger to those who do, but even to those of us not flocking the theaters circa April 1940 to drool over chicken caricatures of renowned entertainers, the story just seems to be about some weird looking rooster obsessed with having a son. Not much is lost without an understanding of the source material, but was likely much funnier and effective in its prime than it comes off as today.

Furious clucking from off-screen jars Eddie from his reading as the hen caricature of Ida hops up from her eggs to indicate their activity. Consistency between shots is somewhat skewed—Ida and Eddie were introduced in a pan, windows present in the background, Eddie to Ida’s side, whereas the next shot has Ida sitting in a somewhat secluded corner. Likewise, the eye direction feels off; such a glance upwards as she does here typically indicates contemplation. Employment of the gesture thusly feels awkward when meant to convey panic. Looking down, at Eddie off screen, or just a general straightforward stare that's almost cross-eyed for appeal would be more communicative.

Therefore, the only logical conclusion is for five chicks to hatch out of the eggs, conspicuously garnished in all things feminine to succinctly crush the hopes and dreams of Cantor. Again, clarity and ambiguity in storytelling is welcome—one doesn’t need to rely on the entire backstory of Eddie Cantor to laugh at the narrative discrepancy. Timing each hatch of the egg to music—an innocently insulting sting of “You’re a Horse’s Ass”—provides further appeal and intrigue through rhythm and tactility in the animation. Treg Brown’s egg cracking sounds meld succinctly with Stalling’s music.

On the topic of sound effects, perhaps the greatest part of the film itself arrives in an aghast take from Cantor. Poking fun at his “banjo eyes”, hollow cow bell sounds perfectly embrace the absurdity of his eyes and facial features violently spasming on his face. A complete absence of musical accompaniment seeks to encourage the absurdity, forcing the audience’s attention on nothing but the grandiosity of the eye take. Animation of the take itself isn’t particularly sophisticated—loose, weightless, somewhat hard to discern, but such is its mission, prioritizing energy and the spirit of the reaction rather than how the reaction is executed. Clampett seemed inclined to agree, seeing as he would reuse the take again later.

“Girls! ALL girls!” Animation suffers from a disconnect between Cantor’s gestures and Cliff Nazarro’s line read. More specifically, signature Cantoresque gestures are shoehorned into the acting—for example, the butt of the palms bumping together—as a somewhat transparent attempt to remind the audience of the rooster’s caricatured origins rather than being tailored to the dialogue itself. Aimless lipsync (or lack thereof) is another contributor that provides a hinderance more than a creative benefit.

Replacement of the BOY WANTED sign with a new emphasis on “STILL” broadcasts Cantor’s turmoil to the public. Stalling’s ever evolving musical prowess continues to assert itself as he becomes more comfortable with timing it to the action. In this instance, interrupting the sympathetic accompaniment of “Am I Blue?” with a heavy pause as Cantor takes the sign in, resuming only when the sign is replaced provides the action on screen with an additional weight and importance. His arrangements are still largely rooted in melody, which is by no means a deterrent, but it’s certainly become clear he’s learned new ways to twist and present the manners in which these melodies are delivered. Growing incorporation of original songs and orchestrating purely to the action rather than chaining it to a melody. 

Thoughts of musical arrangements go from instrumental to vocal as unmistakable “bah-bah-bah”ing in the background grows louder. While the camera does linger a bit too long on the exterior of the coop, it is for a good cause—it preserves the surprise aspect. A vicarious jolt is shared through both Cantor and the audience as the camera trucks in with great suddenness to Cantor jutting his head out the window, responding to the chorus of “I’ve got a lot of beautiful babies…”

From the vocal mannerisms to the song choice of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby”, no audience member in 1940 would need any further context to know that a chicken caricature of Bing Crosby lurks nearby. Regardless, framing the setup so that his physical appearance is withheld until the last moment is effective in its surprise aspect and much more funny that way—the audience somewhat lives through Cantor’s bewildered actions vicariously as they too shed their eyes on Crosby for the first time.

Bing nonchalantly brags about his brood through hilariously conspicuous lyrics that are joyful in their deliberate inarticulateness (“I’ve got a lot of beautiful babies, and each and every one... is a boy…”). Indeed, out of Crosby’s 7 children (4 at the time of this cartoon’s release), 6 of them were boys. Mary Crosby, born in 1959, was the only girl of the bunch. 

Here, there are 5 mini-Bings in the stroller (easily identifiably by way of matching eyes), each adorned with a baseball cap to assert their indisputable, infantile masculinity. Namely, the 5 count is to provide a parallel to Cantor’s 5 girls rather than a historical oversight—the connection is more organized and flows freely that way.  Likewise, all the more boys means all the more for Cantor to obsess over them.

Animation of Cantor hounding Bing to tell him how he does it is uncanny, particularly through the shot where he turns his head down to look at the babies, but that comes with the territory given the designs rather than a knock on the animator’s part. 

A momentary pause in which Bing brightens up is synonymous in its spacing and timing to the close-up of the cow at the cartoon’s beginning, potentially identifying John Carey as a suspect for the animation. It certainly matches in the weight of Bing’s head tilts and comparatively focused construction.

In his words, there’s really nothing to it. Stalling’s orchestrations of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” reach a delightfully gentle climax through its repetition as Bing monologues—trends in musical direction and potential input from Clampett are more identifiable in such an instance. That is, the manner in which the final verse repeats in vamp three times before segueing into the next song is identifiable to a scene in Chicken Jitters where the same song does the same thing when the baby duckling first spots the audience. While not a major contribution to the cartoon, the spin on stretching the music out is appreciated, and it does certainly add insight as to how a director’s personal tastes and direction can impact the music direction overall. That the pattern occurs in another Clampett cartoon rather than, say, a Tex Avery cartoon at the same time seems to pin Clampett as a likely source for the pattern rather than true Stalling freestyle.

“You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” gives way to a Crosby-fied “boo-boo-boo” performance of “If I Could Be With You” as Bing works his vocal prowess on a nearby hen. The shtick of Bing inducing the labor of lovestruck hens through seductive vocals would be reprised in Frank Tashlin’s Swooner Crooner, which was notably nominated for an Academy Award. Clampett was slated to collaborate with Tashlin on the cartoon through a stop motion montage towards the beginning--it sadly never came to fruition. 

Regardless, while the premise is taken to much further extremes in Swooner, the gag is plenty serviceable and novel here. Particularly through the coy reactions on the lovestruck hen, reacting to another very early heart-thumping-out-of-chest take as she melts in dazed, cross-eyed, cackling ecstasy.

Per Bing’s allusions, a mound of eggs is promptly erected. And with those come nods to the Warner crew themselves, as a handful of eggs that have names on them—all masculine names to rub Bing’s gloating about his boys further—are shared by animators and staff at the Schlesinger studio. Shout-outs are directed to:

Bob (Clampett), Warren (Foster), Chuck (Jones), Sid (Sutherland), Ray (Katz), Ben (Hardaway), Art (Loomer), Dick (Thomas), Alex (Ignatiev) in the close-up, with Norm (McCabe) and John (Carey) in the wide shot. Obviously, there is more than one Chuck at the studio (McKimson, for one), more than one Dick (such as Bickenbach), but it can be presumed that the aforementioned names are those who have been in closer contact with Clampett at some point and worked with him. 

There is a certain appreciation to be had for Cantor’s joyous deduction of “Why, that’s a cinch!”, as if everyone is capable of seducing nearby hens into labor. 

With a flash and a dash, the inspired father makes a return to his coop; certain portions of the cartoon suffer from slight pauses that aren’t glaringly offensive, but odd when noted. Such a pause occurs when Cantor runs inside—there’s a beat before the door slams shut after him. The intention seems to be that Cantor is running at such a high rate of speed that even general physics, such as doors slamming in their wake behind him, are stunted due to his velocity. It unfortunately doesn’t exactly read as such, but the speed and dry brushing from both Cantor and the door are nevertheless clear and kinetic.

Moreover, Clampett does a nice job of telegraphing the incoming presence of a bird peeping in on Cantor by having a lone tree branch be victim to such rushing physics. The movement of the branch in the wide shot doesn’t arouse much suspicion, but seeing that the close-up cuts to a shot of a blackbird sitting on the branch and peering through the keyhole, this sudden development is much easier to process through the subliminality of the movement. You don’t want to give away the presence of the bird too much, but don’t want the jump cut to feel entirely disorienting either. 

Said bird is not just any inconspicuous blackbird, but a caricature of columnist Walter Winchell in disguise. With previous Winchell caricatures faithful to T. Hee’s design sense from The Woods are Full of Cuckoos, to see a much more vague caricature of his appearance is somewhat of a letdown. Audiences would have immediately recognized him from his nasal drawl and news reporting shtick in general, but knowing just how much further he could be exaggerated, the result is bland at best. Such applies to many of the caricatures touted in the film—enough to be recognizable, but don’t exactly feel in their element. 

Design intricacies aside, the Winchell blackbird reports that a son for the Cantor/Cackler family is imminent. His follow-up of “I’ll be back in a flash with more trash!” is decidedly Clampettian in its rhyme scheme and mischief, but amusingly and endearingly so rather than gratingly.

In a bit of a rarity for Clampett, it takes a little over 5 minutes to arrive to the cartoon’s song number rather shunting it to the very beginning. Granted, the number is focused on Cantor bragging about his incoming baby boy, with Cantor himself not even appearing until close to the 3 minute mark. 

Set to the tune of “Confidentiality”, the song is serviceable. It seeks to pad out some time, yet Nazarro’s singing voice is charismatic, some solid John Carey animation is in order (whether it be Cantor’s introduction or stuffing a cigar in a very shoehorned Porky’s mouth, whose transparent appearance to meet cartoon contracts does not at all detract from the appeal of the drawing as he stares vacantly, processing his newfound ownership of a carcinogen), and audiences surely would have appreciated celebrity cameos of Kay Kyser—“That’s right, you’re wrong!” line reused from Africa Squeaks—and Ned Sparks. 

A bit muddled in its appreciation and intent from the lens of a modern viewer, but the energy is certainly there. Outside of some awkward acting decisions (such as Cantor’s awkward pacing as he approaches the celebrity caricatures, uncanniness a victim of odd design sense rather than appealing to the real Cantor’s shtick) and somewhat lazy reuse—the duckling from Wise Quacks and Chicken Jitters makes a brief cameo as animation from Quacks is outfitted to have a cigar lobbed in the infant’s mouth—but all relatively minor critiques rather than detractors. It’s catchy, energetic and sustains attention, which renders it functional enough. 

His jubilation is soon interrupted by frantic clucking off-screen, a smart and cohesive bookend to the Cantors’ introduction. Indeed, through the aid of reused run and door slamming cycles, Eddie rushes to his wife’s side to assess the fuss.

One lone egg branded with an unmistakable “JR.” reassures Cantor’s suspicions. While not the narrative intent of the scene, the implication that Eddie had more success through the quantity of his children without attempting to woo his wife than what resulted when he did—five eggs compared to one—is certainly humorous in its own right.

Sure enough, delivered through anticipatory music stings and weighted, staggered animation, the egg hatches to reveal a decidedly dress-less chick. No bow, no skirt, no polka dots, an indisputable, surefire sign of a boy and nothing but. 

Cue more tin-can eye convulsions. Though the effect is lost through the reuse, the animation is certainly funny—if there is any reuse to be had in the cartoon, reusing one of the most memorable pieces of animation offered by the short is certainly no foul. 

Cantorisms and celebrations ensue. Perspective on Ida in a particular as she grazes the foreground while dancing with her hubby is of note--solid and immersive. Cantor dips too far down and not out to complete the fully constructed perspective cycle, but both move at such a jaunty and high rate of speed that it’s difficult to notice unless scrubbing through frame by frame.

“What a thrill! Tell me, is it really a boy?”

Clampett ends the short by appealing to its hook to begin with: radio catchphrases. With a infantile, nasal drawl, the chick channels the likes of Art Auerbach’s character Mr. Kitzel originating from Al Pearce and His Gang: “Mmmmm… could be!”

As mentioned previously, the bulk of Slap Happy Pappy reads more as a string of incidents and gags rather than a truly coherent story. In a way, that proves to be beneficial; if Clampett had initiated the Cantor plot at the very start, it would likely seem even more vacant and airy than it already is, with even more concentrated attempts to pad out time. Much of that is felt in the Cantor half of the cartoon, particularly towards the end with the incorporation of a song number and growing concentration of animation reuse, but is certainly not as extreme of a case as it could be.

This is one of the many “history lesson” cartoons—a snapshot in time of what entertainers, catchphrases, songs, and faces were popular at the time of this cartoon’s production and release. From the lens of a historian, it’s a rewarding expedition, carving out the who, the what, the when, the where, the why. Who is Eddie Cantor? Does he really have 5 girls? Who is Jack Benny, and why does the chicken call him Buck? Viewing it from that angle, the cartoon provides more incentive… but that isn’t the intent for a regular audience. These faces were so recognized and renowned back in the day that they needed no such extraneous research.

Outside of such a mindset, it’s a pretty transparent and flimsy cartoon. Not as vacant or at times incoherent as Chicken Jitters, but not as exciting in its climax--if you could say there even is one--either. Kudos to Clampett for attempting to work around the Porky restriction, as it’s very clear his heart was set on other characters and other story opportunities. Still, it is comical how obviously Porky is shunted to the corner. His brief glimpses are at least somewhat useful in their time—the plow gag with him and the horse alternating positions are great, and the two appearances that follow being animated by John Carey entails drawings that are exceedingly appealing and cute if nothing else. Still a shame he couldn’t be incorporated into the story more, yet understandable—it would likely pose a further detriment. 

Definitely a short that is a product of its time in more ways than one, but isn’t as nearly of a waste or bore when understanding the cultural significance these celebrities once had. It’s certainly not the fault of Bob Clampett that nobody knows who Eddie Cantor is. Instead, similar variations that can be more widely appreciated through their ambiguity—as well as humor that extends fully to the mechanics of the animation and character acting rather than pure association—await thanks to shorts such as Swooner Crooner. For now, this serves its obligation, but is by absolutely no means a Clampett classic.