292. Porky’s Baseball Broadcast (1940)

Release Date: July 6th, 1940

Series: Looney Tunes 

Director: Friz Freleng

Story: Ben Hardaway

Animation: Cal Dalton

Musical Direction: Carl Stalling

Starring: Mel Blanc (Porky, Scalpers, Man, Double-Header, Turtle, Player), Danny Webb (Double-Header)

(You may view the cartoon here!)

Another Friz Freleng effort that is really a Ben Hardaway cartoon in disguise, Porky’s Baseball Broadcast is—thankfully—the last to belong in such a category. Such marks the final writing credit of Hardaway before his departure to the Walter Lantz studio in January of 1940, six months before this short was released. Ironically enough, this wouldn’t be his last writing credit at Warner’s, nor under the direction of Freleng—he briefly returned to write 1951’s Bone for a Bone, a short featuring the Goofy Gophers that was overseen by Freleng himself. 

On the topic of impending cartoons years down the line, Porky’s Baseball Broadcast is best regarded as a successor to one of Freleng’s most beloved cartoons: 1946’s Baseball Bugs, who borrows a handful of gags and beats constructed by this cartoon. In turn, Broadcast seeks 1936’s Boulevardier from the Bronx, yet another Freleng directed baseball entry, for additional inspiration. A chain reaction of baseball cartoons whose efforts would culminate into the iconoclast that Baseball Bugs is today.

Regardless, with this short being written at the turn of the decade, execution, gags, characters and atmosphere are still comparatively modest. Per the cartoon’s title, Porky serves as the commentator to guide the audience through a ball game full of cornpone puns and sight gags galore.

That Hardawayian “charm” every kid and adult alike so revere is present from the very first shot of the cartoon. Newspaper headlines herald a match between the Giants and Red Sox; renowned Giants pitcher Carl Hubbell is rechristened as Carl Bubble (which, evidently, had Hardaway so amused with his writing that he repeats the same wordplay a few minutes later so as to ensure the audience doesn’t miss a second of his ingenuity), punnery ensues with socks and garters, “Yankem Stadium” was evidently the only possible spin on Yankee Stadium, and so on. Comparing the opening of this to Hare-um Scare-um (also a newspaper shot chock full of piddling groaners) reaps little in terms of major differences.

Carl Stalling’s triumphant music score transfers from “Sing, You Son of a Gun” to the ever popular “Frat” as the audience is met with the stadium’s interior. It’s a serviceable introduction; the layout of the stadium isn’t nearly as grandiose nor dramatic as what would be flaunted in Baseball Bugs, but that’s to be expected. Ambient animation of fans waving flags and spectators bobbing their heads introduces an organicism to the crowd and environments that is not to be taken for granted.

Porky’s presence in the short is the number one reason as to why such naturalistic sensations and organic settings should not be downplayed; to say he is miscast is an understatement. It’s an issue that we have been well acquainted with, thanks to Bob Clampett’s own conundrum—this is obviously a short where Porky was an afterthought and prioritized as a vehicle for introducing and stringing together gags rather than a compelling character. Any and all of his appearances in the cartoon feel sanitized at best.

The writing does him no favors, making no case as to why he should be the announcer and not some other rando (outside of contractual obligations), the voice direction is uncharacteristically stilted and wooden—Freleng was prone to direct Blanc’s voice on the deeper side for the Porky shorts of this era, which isn’t an issue in itself; it grounds him down to earth, if anything, and Freleng’s interpretation of the character is definitely grounded and charismatically unobtrusive. Rather, the voice direction lacks the usual warmth and character present in his timbre. For a character who is largely remembered for his intrinsically unique and intriguing vocals, it is criminal how staggeringly uninteresting he is made to sound.

Nevertheless, Freleng’s direction attempts to derive as much interest visually as he can to a character who never so much as gets out of his seat for seven minutes. Animator Herman Cohen is tasked with handling all of Porky’s scenes in the film, identifiable through rounded proportions in the head, eyes, and cheeks, as well as tapered mouth shapes. Movement of the character itself is weighted and human, aided by sculpted construction and natural, deceptively menial gestures. Cohen is a good fit for the demands of Porky’s role, and good casting by Freleng. Dick Bickenbach and Cal Dalton would be wasted potential, often demanding more engaging or dynamic material to make the best use out of their talent. Gil Turner’s animation is on the weaker side, and lengthy demonstrations of his floating lugubriousness in all departments would be a turn-off. Cohen strikes a solid middle ground that renders the animation intriguing and appealing, but not overly distracting. A good call by Freleng.

“There’s a c-ehh-cee-eh-capacity crowd here today, and tickets are selling like hot cakes!”

Literal translation of Porky’s commentary ensues. Out of all of the Hardawayisms in the world, this one is certainly not the worst—demonstrating the salesman/chef actually pouring the batter onto the ticket counter ensures the visual is more bearable by embracing it from the very start. Certainly stronger than if the tickets were to just sizzle as though they were on a griddle—instead, the full transformation is embraced. With that in mind, it does take up a little too much air time than what is necessary, and Stalling’s music score accentuates its juvenility in a way that calls attention to its inherent lameness rather than supports it.

Ticket scalping followup gag is less inventive and more racist. Hardaway isn’t the first to have connected the dots; such a joke exists in Tex Avery’s Johnny Smith and Poker-Huntas which, despite the short’s overall repugnant context, fares better with the nonchalant execution not given here. The exterior layout of the stadium is the most interesting part of the whole scene, the warped perspective giving some much needed dynamism to a rather glacial, insipid, and dehumanizing chase between the “scalpers” in question and the patrons of the stadium. Run cycles are slow and floaty, possessing no real weight nor urgency—each intersection of the characters running in varying perspectives is spaced much too equally to read as anything other than artificial. 

A rather useless cut back to the interior of the stadium seeks to reacquaint the audience with their surroundings, despite the context being just as clear had that shot been excised. We are met with a lumbering dog struggling to find his assigned seat, barricaded by a sea of blobular, uncanny quasi-human paintings. Some characters appear more animalistic than others.

Excessive “pardon me”s are shed as the rotund man struggles to shimmy into the row—while a cartoon isn’t as clear cut as “Freleng was responsible for this alone, Hardaway was responsible for this alone”, Freleng’s influence is noted given that the gag provides a direct reprise to a similar sequence in his She Was an Acrobat’s Daughter. However, this variation on the gag has the benefit of a comparatively more seasoned filmography behind it—rather than situating the camera in front of the dog, the scene is shot from behind. Thus makes his interruptions feel more organic and claustrophobic, as though the audience is right there in the stands with the others. Likewise, the view of any and all baseball games ruminating on the field are promptly obscured, again rendering the interruption more believable and relatable. 

All of the above apply once the dog realizes he has the wrong seat. Freleng’s dry wit ekes into the filmmaking as the dog merely returns from whence he came. No gratuitous close-up shot of the erroneous ticket spot, no change of any kind from the camera. All indications that he’s got the wrong seat are purely implied rather than fully demonstrated, but are nevertheless communicated just as clearly. Thus separates Freleng from the ever conspicuous Hardaway, whose fetish for overexerting himself in the sake of clarity killed a joke faster than anything else. Freleng trusts his audience to read between the lines.

If the Red Sox are to receive a pun about garters in the short’s opening headlines, then the Giants are due for a logical resulting pun themselves. Porky introduces Carl Bubble, Ben Hardaway patting himself on the back behind the scenes at slipping in the pun not once, but twice. As run of the mill as the “giant Giant” pun is, steps are made to ensure the visual hits clearly and effectively. The catcher he practices with is thusly squat in stature, accentuating Bubble’s height, just as the shadow effects transposed on the uncanny painted crowd seek to score his looming presence.

Wordplay on “double headers” is delivered just as expected, but benefits from a handful of novelties. Its strongest point of appeal is that Danny Webb lends his voice to one of two heads, rather than Mel Bland voicing both; such enables an ironic air of believability to a certifiably unbelievable premise. Perhaps natural is a better term—regardless, the illusion of two heads speaking with two separate personalities and identities is stronger with the benefit of two different voice artists. 

Rather than having the literal Double-Header stare awkwardly at the camera as a comic, somewhat patronizing music sting occurs, pop culture references through musical lyrics are instead. Stalling provides “Loch Lomond” as a backing track to accompany the player’s pact made with himself (“You pitch the high ones!” “Alright sport, you pitch the low ones!” “Ooooo-KAY!”) to match the song’s lyrics. Still not spectacularly outrageous in its humor by any means, but the novelty of Webb’s voice and the musical prominence give it a base to stand on. 

“The umpire is blind” gags are also implied through visual and musical set-ups. Much of this cartoon is a glorified spot gag short in the flimsy disguise of a Porky cartoon—flat displays of equally flat sight gags such as these clinch further connections to Little Blabbermouse.

And, just as caricatures—of the celebrity kind—were present in Blabbermouse, caricatures—of the historical kind—are present in Porky’s Baseball Broadcast. New York mayor Fiorello La Guardia (who held office from 1934 to 1945) is bestowed with the honor of throwing the first pitch. His insertion in the cartoon isn’t so much of a comedic priority as is his short stature, formal dogs lifting him right out of the stands. Completely obscuring his view until the last possible second savors the surprise of his appearance. It likewise successfully accentuates his short stature, allowing the assistance of the dogs to read more effectively in its intent.

With that out of the way, comparisons to cartoons of both the past and future amass in growing concentration. Whereas a wiener dog batter evokes memories of Boulevardier from the Bronx (whose animation of said wiener dog would directly be reused in the coming minutes), wordplay on the relevance of a bat boy would notably be reused in Baseball Bugs. Baseball launches the visual one step closer to absurdity by having the bat boy be a human with fleshy wings—such literalism is even funnier through its uncanniness, which is supported by the divide between human (or quasi human, in the bat boy’s case) and animal (Bugs.) Here, the anthropomorphized bat blends perfectly with his equally round, soft, animalistic cohorts, softening the edge of the pun. Then again, Ben Hardaway isn’t a writer nor director often eulogized for his edge. 

Regarding synonymous cartoons, footage of a turtle catcher turning both his cap and shell around as a means of protection is deliberately lifted from Boulevardier from the Bronx. Rather than indulging in the shtick that he has to offer immediately, however, a few unrelated scenes on the mound seek to capitalize on the growing anticipation of the game.

Players in the foreground and background alike both construct a clear, traceable frame around the pitcher, whose questionably droopy digs turn into an obligation all of their own with a close-up. Dick Bickenbach’s animation attempts to ease monotony in an otherwise rather monotonous gag that dampens any semblance of rising action rather than sustain it. Porky’s Baseball Broadcast isn’t a short renowned for its comprehensive flow nor momentum, so any bits of coherency and rhythm are accepted graciously. Interest and action in what little momentum has been caught appears to deflate and sag just as much as the pitcher’s clothes; menial, time sucking humor that doesn’t garner laughs from its banality like it intends.

Regardless, if the sequence has to exist at all, Bickenbach’s animation is nevertheless an acceptable match. His handle of weight and timing offer a more tangible handle on the pitcher’s clothes, actions such as the clothes sagging or him hiking up the fabric rendered tactile and kinetic as a consequence. Drybrushing, slight distortions, and a conscious acknowledgement of spacing and timing all allow the eventual action in the scene to provide a strong, bold contrast to what is presented beforehand. Pitcher works his stuff, hiking up his drawers in a last minute save. Bickenbach succinctly captures the look of occupied vacancy in his eyes perfectly.

Back to the turtle. Just as he did in Boulevardier, he almost speaks in tongues as he encourages the pitcher—Bugs too would adapt the “that’s the ol’ pitch” shtick in Baseball Bugs, the metaphorical torch of baseball cartoons still passed down the line. What’s most notable about the sequence is not necessarily what is presented here (turtle talks fast, gets thrown into the wall, talks fast some more, gets hit some more, end scene after about 20 seconds too many), nor even what is presented in the original—the same shtick, though executed at twice the speeds so as not to grate the audience’s nerves, as is done here.

Rather, it’s the acknowledgement that the turtle in 1936’s Boulevardier from the Bronx could very well be one of Mel Blanc’s first voice roles in the cartoons. His first official role is often regarded as the drunks in 1937’s Picador Porky, though shorts such as Porky the Wrestler indicate his presence beforehand as Blanc supplies Porky’s Daffyesque shrieks of terror (which are also supplied in Picador), pre-Daffy. Voice expert Keith Scott notes the suspicious comparisons in Boulevardier, and listening to the footage does reveal a tone and register native to Blanc. His deliveries are much more frantic and incomprehensible in Boulevardier than they are here, enabling some of the confusion that persists in the first place, but the theory is certainly reputable. Considering that Scott even suggests a potential Blanc cameo as early as Boom Boom, released in February 1936 (as opposed to Boulevardier’s October release), it’s not out of the question. Such musings apply more to Boulevardier as a cartoon rather than Baseball Broadcast, but are important and—most importantly—interesting enough to deserve note. 

Keeping Boulevardier in mind, footage of a wiener dog running to all bases by extending its body is directly lifted from the aforementioned cartoon. Indeed, a close look at the recycled scenes indicate a bulbous drawing style from Freleng that has been shorn with his years of experience as an artist and director; the much more sculpted, lean, modern design of the dog as he retrieves his bat makes for a slight dissonance that likely wouldn’t have been subject to excessive audience scrutiny—it’s fairly unlikely they’d recognize the reused animation.

Especially seeing as Freleng strategically splices back to Porky after the dog hits the ball. Such an injection of indisputably “modern” animation inserts a clever disguise as a means of a security blanket, making the old footage feel fresh through a deceptive return to Porky and his narration. Likewise, Porky is approached from a head-on view rather than the usual 3/4ths; such allows him to read as more than a prop, the intimate angle feeling as though he is talking directly to the audience. Most importantly, it seeks to alleviate the inherent monotony of his role. Repeated 3/4th back views from inside the press box follow the same philosophy.

Cohen’s animation isn’t as sophisticated from the front angle as it is from the more organic register at 3/4. Sporadic head turns towards the microphone—most concentrated after the wiener dog hits his home run—almost seem to acknowledge this, as they do seem much more natural and native to his model in comparison. Nevertheless, nods, leans of the body, acting with the hands and so forth attempt to liven up his appearances and elevate what little he is given to work with. Cohen’s construction and approach of seemingly menial gestures aren’t incomparable to the believability of Bob McKimson’s work (who, ironically enough, Cohen would later animate for.) 

“Well! They’ve got the pitcher in a hole already!”

A sardonic cue of “Shave and a Haircut” as our down-and-out pitcher blinks dubiously at the camera seems to begrudgingly broadcast the flimsiness of the gag.

A rather unsubstantial return to the wandering ticket holder, likewise, broadcasts the flimsiness of Hardaway’s writing. The shot only lasts for a few seconds, faithfully repeated from his introduction as he attempts to innocuously comb through the crowd to find his seat. It’s a consistent bridge to the previous scene, sure. It’s more obvious that it’s Hardaway’s botched attempt to mimic the B plots in Tex Avery’s spot gags or travelogues. Whereas Avery makes consistent, constructed returns to his secondary stories, strategically constructing an unassuming climax to build to an ironic, surprising end with the B plot that purposefully overshadows any and all purposeful banality of the short’s overarching theme, inclusion of the footage here feels lazy and haphazard—an afterthought rather than a purposeful exposition to a simmering resolution. 

Nevertheless, there are more important matters to attend to. A particularly bushy browed pig is yet another refugee from Boulevardier, melding somewhat more successfully to Broadcast’s style standards through his extreme caricature. His presence isn’t exactly significant so much as what results from his presence—famously reused in Baseball Bugs, the pig hits a screamer: a literal translation ensues as the anthropomorphized ball literally screams through the air.

While Baseball Bugs embraces the perspective of the ball, having it soar directly towards the screen, the slanted layout of the stadium visible in the camera pan here is impressive in its own regard. Many of the backgrounds utilize airbrushing to simulate depth (such as the interior of the press box with certain shots of Porky)—the result is effective and striking, believable, demonstrating the ever-growing experimentation through all art departments. Likewise, from a mere layout point of view, slanted interior of the stadium juxtaposes nicely with the comparatively flat lawn of the field. Thus allows the ball’s ascent through the air to feel more lofty, dynamic, realistically propelled through the air. 

A shot of the pig sliding into base does not benefit from such praises. His animation is stilted on all accounts, and not in the name of comedy; his awkward run cycle can be brushed off as a strategic piece of character animation. Awkward pig has awkward run cycle. The slide, however, is rendered stiff and mechanical, a smile at the camera prompting the pig’s face to bloat as an unintended side effect of misguided animation. Rather than rearranging the mass already available on his face to accommodate for the smile (cheeks rise, face width expands, face height should contract), his whole head just grows bigger instead, and in a rather lumpy manner. It could be the result of poor assistant work rather than the key animator themselves, but nevertheless reads as unwieldy, clumsy, and unnecessary.

Reprisal of the baggy-clothed pitcher from before likewise feels lazy more than calculated in its reuse. The only difference between this scene and his initial introduction is that the ball receives a hit, prompting him to duck out of the way. Bickenbach’s animation is again a plus, difficult to disavow (and a relief given the gracelessness of the previous scene), but just as the repeat of the dog finding his seat felt uncoordinated rather than a purposeful instrument rising to a climax, the repeat of the pitcher doesn’t embrace continuity of previous scenes as it intends. 

Granted, his repetition does allow for a smoother ease of transition for the next gag. Porky proudly announces that the pitcher is blowing up…

And a literal translation ensues. The gag is one of the most effective in the cartoon through its execution; smartly, any and all hints of an explosion are conveyed off screen. Impacts of the explosion feel more drastic through its obscured visuals, as though focusing on Porky’s reactions is an informal means of censoring the gruesome act unfurling on the field. A blinding flash of light, an appropriate sound effect from Treg Brown’s vast library, and the inherently sympathetic gesture of Porky shielding himself from the blast all convey the wordplay just as clearly as it would have been displayed on-screen.

And, rather than stopping there, macabre tendencies ensue as the audience does get a glimpse of the pitcher’s mound—and what’s left of the pitcher. Only smoke trails remain, with his hat and glove flopping back down to earth as a haunting indication of what was once there. No such pitcher follows suit with his clothing. We never see him again. Clear, concise storytelling and clever execution that embraces the banality of the wordplay and fashions it into something more. A shame that not every gag of this kind receives the same treatment.

Giant Giant assumes the role of pitcher as though nothing happened. Boulevardier is channeled once more through the likes of a slow ball; the ball makes its leisurely, slow way through the air, Stalling’s accompaniment of “Frat” mirroring the action at appropriate speeds. Execution fared better in Boulevardier through—again—a more cohesive conviction to the gag, where the act of the pitch itself was slow, the pitcher himself announced the slow ball rather than Porky spoon feeding the description to the audience, the length was more robust to coyly encourage its purposeful vapidity, and the furious swinging from the batter was much more frenzied and starker in contrast to the ball’s lethargy.

Because so many factors depend on execution--timing, context, staging, music, atmosphere--it's a comparison demonstrated best as a video (best viewed in full screen):

Granted, the context varied through higher stakes in the former, the short following a set in stone story rather than a transparent display of gags. Acknowledgement of the former gag is appreciated, but it’s interpretation here doesn’t actively build on nor improve what was presented before. 

Cohen graces the audience with more of his human acting on Porky—a nice contrast to the unanchored Gil Turner animation that follows. Per Porky’s commentary, the batter is trapped courtesy of an obtusely opportunistic mouse trap. Mel Blanc’s vocal performance as the gasping, panting, grief-stricken dog is full of energy and overzealousness; the jowl flapping on his r’s is a bit transparent and excessive through flat writing  (“This is HOR-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-IBLE! Oh, it’s absolutely HOR-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-R-IBLE!”), but that is no fault of Blanc’s. He works well with what he’s got, and Stalling’s whiny, saccharine music score is a welcome over-the-top addendum for an over-the-top exhibition.

Moving along, the likes of Frank Tashlin are channeled through means of a montage: previous clips and gags spliced overtop one another to simulate the passage of time and a growing climax. Tashlin-esque montages are easy to misappropriate, reading more as a means to fill time rather than sincerely enunciate the action on screen. Such is the case here. While it succeeds in its mission of simulating intended excitement, the execution is rather flat—Tashlin would often slide new clips of animation into his montages to breathe added life to them, clips that actively benefitted the needs of the montage. Strategic, dynamic camera angles often followed. No such liberty is taken here, but the intent of the montage is conveyed. 

Gripes about the sanitization of Porky’s role and vocal deliveries especially return through another lengthy section of his commentary. It isn’t necessarily an issue of “he doesn’t stutter enough” (though that does apply in some cases)—he’s a delicate character to handle, and having him stutter on every single word would make the commentary insufferable. If anything, Freleng deserves commending through restraint. With Porky’s position, the desire to slip in bait-and-switch stutters is all too overwhelming in an attempt to make his commentary seem more interesting. Freleng doesn’t indulge in such outside of one instance at the beginning; while one or two more would probably be beneficial, making every line a gag on how Porky talks often results in a transparent handling of the character and an indication of a lack of ideas. Many a Clampett directed Porky cartoon fall into this territory (such as the frustratingly vacant Porky’s Hotel.) Freleng displays restraint—if not a little too often, in this case—which is unequivocally more difficult to do.

Instead, Porky sounds completely devoid of personality. It again isn’t a fault of Blanc’s—for bits that are exciting and hyper in action, he accurately reflects that in his commentary. A particularly apt exhibit of such unfurls off-screen, when the seat-hunting dog finally finds his place. 

That place, of course, being right behind a steal beam that completely obscures his view. 

Any and all indications of a ballgame are wholly obscured and communicated through sound effects and narration. Porky’s enthusiasm grows upon the game winning hit, Freleng’s penchant for naturalistic directing displaying itself when Porky cuts himself off to account for the hit mid-sentence (“There’s the windup… the pitch… right over the mi—“ The crack of a bat can be heard off-screen, “—it’s a hit! A luh-leh-long fly into center field!”.) 

In terms of directing, the sequence is incredibly well executed, a surefire marker of Freleng’s ownership through dry deliveries and unspoken comedic commentary. Even the execution of the dog finding his seat succeeds in joyous irony; there are no indications of a steal support beam obstructing his view until the very last second, when the camera executes a matter of fact pan to the reveal. The dog has already seated himself at this point, and bears no facial indication of his discontentment with the arrangement. His vacant stare forward (that is maintained in the following sequence of his point of view, his still, ambient bobbing a haunting contrast to the flag waving, hat throwing, jumping motions from the excited crowd) is much more illuminating in its emotion than any sort of disgruntled or deflated expression towards the camera. That Porky’s commentary is the most colorful and emotional at this moment than it has all throughout the cartoon inserts further insult to injury. Same with the game ending right then and there. The quest for a good seat has all been for naught.

While the joke could have ended there with substantial support, Freleng drives the point further. A face to black—an stark indication of finality in itself—provides a buffer between the coming reveal of the dog still alone in the stands, obediently waiting behind the steal beam. A slight angle of the layout renders the empty stadium even more vacant and all consuming, a sense of “mystery” in the architecture making the dog’s surroundings seem overwhelmingly foreign. The night sky is, again, a commentary all of its own. Demonstrating the empty stands in the daytime would still be effective, but the night setting hints at an insulting loneliness—it’s as though even nature itself has betrayed this poor, patient soul. 

Incredible Freleng-esque restraint is exercised upon the dog’s outburst; while he dismantles the steel beam in a sudden outburst, ripping chairs off their hinges and throwing them in a fit of understandable rage, he doesn’t utter a single word or exclamation. Like his steely, broiling patience with the seating arrangements, a lack of verbal interjections is much more haunting than the inverse—his anger transcends the speech barrier.

Thus puts an end to our cartoon. Thus likewise puts an end to Hardaway’s tenure as head writer, much to the relief of the viewers. Like Little Blabbermouse, this short is Hardaway’s burden more than Freleng’s. One almost wonders if this short was started by the Hardaway and Dalton before Freleng returned to the studio in April of 1939. Hardaway and Dalton both get a credit for story and animation respectively, just as they did on Confederate Honey—the first short released upon Freleng’s return. 

Likewise, much of the short consists of cheats that vary in their substance—montages, reused clips of animation from the very same cartoon, much less prior shorts (though that in itself is a bit more understandable), lengthy still shots and pans concentrated in the opening, etcetera. While Freleng was certainly prone to reusing footage without the influence of Hardaway (as well as being a rather economical director overall), this short certainly feels much more cobbled together in execution than, say, Blabbermouse. Blabbermouse is abysmal in its writing, but felt somewhat more cohesive and coherent in its directing (save for a few minor exceptions, such as awkward, consecutive fades to black that jar the momentum.) Here, there is an active attempt to pad out the material, the short feeling transparent in its directing in some portions more than others.

Of course, there’s no substantial evidence to indicate that this was a short once helmed by the Hardaway and Dalton unit. It’s nothing but a theory and should thusly be regarded as such. For all we know, Freleng could have (rightfully) allowed his disillusion with the material to leech into his work and just attempted to churn it out as quickly as possible. Nevertheless, this is yet another short where the viewer’s frustration—“viewer” being a polite stand-in for yours truly—stems from sympathy for Freleng rather than discontentment at him. The most bearable part of the cartoon is understanding that it would ultimately culminate into one of Freleng’s greatest cartoons yet, with Baseball Bugs possessing much more charm, devotion, and personality than anything exhibited here. Even Boulevardier from the Bronx fares better—while Baseball Broadcast may look better comparatively (and even that is debatable with some of the crowd designs and the awkward scene of the pig sliding), Boulevardier is at least more sincere. 

Baseball Broadcast has its moments, as the ending most certainly proves, but is otherwise a sanitized, sanded husk of a cartoon whose novelty has been directed towards other cartoons of greater substance that both precede and succeed the same short. Both Boulevardier and Bugs are more definitive indications of Freleng’s skill as a filmmaker. Baseball Broadcast isn’t a total bomb—leave that to something like Jungle Jitters—but is by no means a cartoon any director would or should want to be remembered for.