Release Date: August 24th, 1940
Series: Merrie Melodies
Director: Tex Avery
Story: Dave Monahan
Animation: Rod Scribner
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Robert C. Bruce (Narrator, Test Pilot), Mel Blanc (Test Pilot)
Consciously or not, Tex Avery continues to abide to his unspoken rule of cartoon released having been erected in the past year or so. A solid piece of filmmaking is often followed by a quota-meeting spot gag film or two, before being succeeded by another highlight that is trailed by another spot gag short, and so on. Ceiling Hero proves itself to be a subscriber of that same belief.
Granted, that it directly succeeds A Wild Hare, one of Avery’s most recognized magnum opuses, doesn’t grant a fair comparison. Of course it wont reach the same standard of quality as one of the most influential pieces of filmmaking in history.
Regardless, Avery's burn out (or attention to the aforementioned short if this cartoon was produced before it) with his previous excursion is clear. As a consequence, a bit of mental and directorial leisure is in order. The title serving as a nod to the 1936 James Cagney film Ceiling Zero, audiences are met with a barrage of airplane related gags carried by Robert C. Bruce’s narration.
Though the short itself may not be renowned for its staggering display of substance, it is a cartoon that is unequivocally impressive in its visuals. Even the establishing shot seeks to prove as such; planes soar in perfect formation over the camera, silhouettes juxtaposing against the colorful hues of the sky for optimal visual clarity, symmetrical formation of the planes encouraging a rhythm that feels purposeful in its ostentation.
Bruce introduces a pilot who just got his license to fly a plane. His confident walk as he strides towards his plane is convincingly anchored and weighted, bobbing rhythm successful in its fluidity. Likewise, a difference of lighting as he exits the hangar is accounted for in an impressive attention to detail. Such a menial accommodation allows the environments to feel more palpable, lived in, functional beyond a backdrop for a brewing gag.
Said gag is innocently loyal to Bruce’s narration.
As though acknowledging the purposeful lameness of the prior punchline, the following introduction of a “huge six motored airliner” is one of the film’s most inspired through its brevity. Meticulous shading on both the body and the wings seek to elevate its visual grandeur—the shinier the plane, the more impressive it is.
Its motors assert themselves to be so effective that they completely abandon the plane altogether, the wings soaring past the foreground in dutiful perspective.
While that in itself is amusing enough, the true success of the gag lies within the reactions of the plane passengers. It’s a logical conclusion that audiences don’t tend to think of; of course these planes would be occupied by the public. Why wouldn’t they be? Yet, seeing as the cartoon focuses on gags related to planes themselves and not the innerworkings of their occupants, the sudden appearance of the passengers ogling up at the sky is sudden, surprising, and a logical anchor to an improbable situation. Intended rigidity of their appearance—only three frames of motion are provided, all timed on ones for further abruptness—encourages a caricature of human emotion. It’s simple. It’s logical. It’s funny.
“In designing the modern plane, the larger the tire, the smoother the landing.”
A humble mechanic provides a basis of visual comparison before the inevitable reveal. Inclusion of a lone, regularly proportioned back tire provides a stronger antithesis and point of comparison to the unnecessary beefiness of said tires. A self aware music sting of “You’re a Horse’s Ass” again seeks to comment on the intended corniness.
As with most of these spot gag efforts, eloquent writing fitted for Bruce’s vocals in mind introduce a deceptive elevation that begs to be contradicted. In his stern, practical, bombastic tone, Bruce utilizes potent phrases such as “unending quest to conquer the stratosphere”, “developed and perfected”, “initial flight” and so on.
Anyone accustomed to Avery’s sense of humor and filmmaking know right away that such grandiosity is going to transform into a punchline of colloquial simplicity. Regardless, such humbleness is exacerbated through a purposefully excessive introduction, making for a more effective antithesis as is the case here.
With the rocket soaring into the air, its sheer speed is caricatured as a beam of blinding light that snakes and trails through a seemingly interminable camera pan. Allowing the flare to taper off secures its believability, as well as an air of mystery regarding where the ship itself went to.
Advertising, as it turns out. Enabling each individual flare to spell out a different letter at a different time keeps the audience hooked on what this fatal message in question could be.
“Planes of today are becoming more and more popular with the public. Even many vacationists have taken to the air.”
Endearingly impractical trailers are not new to Avery’s comedic brand of humor, but the execution of the animation itself allows the gag to embrace its decidedly humble roots. As the plane passes by the screen, seeking to expose its punchline, it takes a brief buckle before resuming back to position. Like the crowd of passengers gawking at their missing plane engine, the inclusion of such a human maneuver makes sense. The “public” implies a disparity between professional pilots. Therefore, attempts to fly a plane will not be as smooth not controlled as the pilots in question. It’s such a menial addition, especially paralleled with the much more ridiculous punchline in question, but aids in supporting Bruce’s words and cements as much believability that can be allowed.
Themes of advertising noted by the hotdog firework spectacle are still on the table. Like the previous showcase, animating a slight ripple effect that travels down a flowing banner bestows just a bit of humanity that benefits believability and aesthetic intrigue.
Appropriately juvenile musical accompaniment follows an appropriately juvenile punchline. Typical stock Averyisms, but such is deduced out of affection rather than scorn.
Introduction of a cabin cruiser is self explanatory, yet remains elevated through Johnny Johnsen’s lush, painterly overlay of the plane. That, too, is a theme throughout much of the short. Johnsen’s backgrounds introduce a delicate complexity that support and embrace the innately simple being of spot gag cartoons.
Of course, this was still August 1940, and asking for a short free of disparagingly egregious imagery is too much. Demonstration of “The China Clipper” unfolds exactly as how one would imagine.
In other news, the following gag is one of the most effective through its baffling simplicity. Bruce orates about the engineering of a camouflage plane in the name of combat. Thus, a dutiful truck-out of the camera reveals the cel overlay of two disembodied pilots and a propeller. Just enough visual information is provided for the audience to imagine where the plane actually is, solidifying the composition and therefore allowing the illusion to succeed further. Likewise, idle gestures and movements on the pilots seek to elevate what visuals are present, making them feel lived in rather than following the full extent of (admittedly earned) laziness.
In a relatively anticlimactic cartoon thus far, Avery slips in some melodrama to keep the audience hooked. One pilot suffers from engine troubles, prompting him to jump ship; smoke effects appear a bit too liquid, but the coloring and profuseness of the smoke to begin with art convincing in their murkiness, which elevates a sense of urgency and discord in return.
Perspective of the pilot falling to the ground is likewise supported through solid perspective. Animation of his parachute is at times crude in the aerial shot, but genuine in its delayed attempts to open fully. Demonstrating the parachute coming to a gradual, unraveled opening feels more human, realistic, and therefore more intriguing.
Avery channels the wisdom of Maxwell House coffee to ease a lighthearted tone into the dramatics.
Thankfully, the audience can rest assured knowing the pilot has landed safe and sound. Johnsen’s background work in the wide shot is especially helpful in providing a visual frame around the pilot, encouraged through an innocuous yet strategic placement of giant clouds.
Advertising strikes again—in this instance, to mock the poor soul. Terseness and speed of the camera pan enable a more sardonic, mocking tone effective in accenting the pilot’s misfortune.
Next, a comparatively tame introduction of a “luxurious airliner”. Strategic effects animation of the sun glinting against the metal of the plane again encourage a sophisticated realism that hints at Bruce’s comments of luxury. The same philosophy as earlier—the shinier the plane, the more eye catching and “important” it is.
Avery’s next gag is a striking combination of absurd and subtle that would be reused to greater exaggeration in The Cat That Hated People over at MGM. Just as the plane seems it’s about to mow down four consecutive skyscrapers, they dutifully retract into themselves with a polite sentience. Though the gag is innately and joyously absurd, Avery’s matter of fact execution is what makes it so solid.
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Sharp, succinct timing is one aspect, but that the buildings are painted is another; audiences are inadvertently trained to expect movement and activity from an object colored with opaque cel paint. That it’s on a cel indicates it will be manipulated in some manner, and the audience is to prepare and guide their attention to such. That these buildings are painted overlays enables them to maintain a false sense of permanence with their surroundings, allowing the sudden movement to feel even more shocking. Even in Avery’s follow up with The Cat That Hated People, the buildings are opaque, catching the audience’s attention—if only for a split second.
A traffic intersection gag is a classic fallback of Avery’s, but the self indulgence is endearing rather than cumbersome.
Following that high is a somewhat arbitrary cut of the plane flying in the sky—it’s serviceable, though questions of its purpose arise more from the length of the shot rather than the shot itself. A “MM” emblazoned on one of the wings served as a potential nod to the Merrie Melodies series, from which this cartoon resides.
“Planes, when not flying by instruments, often follow well known highways.”
An aerial shot places Bruce’s words into new perspective. It’s a simple gag, demonstrating the shadow of the plane weaving in and out of oncoming traffic (and even taking a wrong turn) but is made effective through such stark clarity. It’s similar to the camouflage gag in that a space that isn’t visible (or even a physical form, in this case) is made to have interactive, pseudo-physical elements. Such mingling with traffic and the rules of the road convincingly arouse the impression that the shadow itself is a physical object. Insertion of cat horns and brake squealing sound effects cement the illusion further with an amicable whimsy.
Suddenness of a rainstorm serves its purpose not for more dramatics (though that is always a plus), but as a mere vehicle for a comparatively—and consciously—juvenile follow-up. With a pilot struggling with low visibility, he dutifully enlists in the aid of his windshield wipers.
Sliding musical glissandos from Stalling bestow a rhythmic permanence onto the gag. Likewise, the decidedly chiseled construction of the pilot’s face and general rigidity in demeanor provides a nice antithesis against the innately lax/absurd tone of his homemade windshield wiper.
Coincidentally, incongruity is a major source of humor for this cartoon as a whole. Such applies to most of Avery’s spot gags and travelogues—narrator gives a stolid fact, fact is obediently refuted. Nevertheless, themes of cheery juxtaposition are sustained through a visual of the plane crossing the border into California. That Stalling uses a sting of Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song” over the usual selection of “California, Here I Come” arrives at a bit of a surprise; perhaps that was too apt even for Avery.
Just as juxtaposition is an overarching theme for the cartoon, transforming objects with a lack of physical properties into a physical outcome is another. Here, a pair of synchronized stunt pilots work their magic in the sky, cloud trails proudly marking their territory.
The end result comes to bite them rather than encourage them. Having the “ribbon” actually sag beneath the weight of the planes again instills a comedic permanence in the gag that makes the punchline more rewarding. Having the planes tie a pretty, presentable bow and go along their day is one thing. Having the bow serve as a source of entanglement and discrediting their act is another.
Wordplay on a pilot mastering blind flying results in a sight gag that is as expected, but embraced through a literality that extends beyond the punchline. Purposeful rigidity of the pilot feeling the tarmac with a cane instills a caricature that the gag is dependent on, actions cemented by tactile sound effects. Same applies to Stalling’s recurring music sting of “Three Blind Mice.”
A plane performing a loop-de-loop is likewise predictable in its follow-up (pilot repeating same rhythmic loops as he exits the plane), but is salvaged through a purposefully stilted and orchestrated execution. Mechanicalness of his motions embraces the innate ridiculousness of the gag, playing it cool and as a fact of life rather than a bizarre disregard of physics.
Perhaps surprisingly, Ceiling Hero does boast some semblance of a plot—perhaps a climax is a better description. Bruce orates about the dangers of testing a new plane, which will serve as a point of focus for the remaining three minutes of the cartoon.
Thus, our test pilot is introduced. Specificity of the pilot’s design commands attention, as awkward as the design itself may be. Purposefully smarmy attitudes suggest a coolness that soothes Bruce’s claims of a test pilot’s dangers. The cigarette, the scarf, the demeanor all communicate an unspoken motto of “I got this.”
All of the above are furthered through the reveal of his jacket, a nod to the 1938 film starring Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy. “From the picture of the same name” gags are far from new in Avery’s world, but are an endearing staple—Stalling’s appropriate, suave accompaniment of “You Oughta Be in Pictures” elevates the gag to a comedic sophistication.
Takeoff is a go. Though subtle, the shot of the plane heading into the horizon in direct perspective to the camera is a response to the opening shot of the planes soaring towards the camera. A sense of continuity—no matter how loose—within the film is thusly encouraged, making it feel somewhat more tight, controlled, purposeful.
Just like Johnny Johnsen’s background paintings. A shot of the plane soaring through the clouds is particularly striking in its beauty; it’s clear that the background is the focal point and not the action itself. While that has a dangerous tendency to slip into territory that can be detrimental, the idyllic paintings greatly boast the action here and maintain a sophisticated, sleek visual interest for comedic material that is anything but. It’s a nice interlude of earnest. It’s clear Avery greatly respected Johnsen’s work as a background artist, often sectioning pieces of his films to deliberately boast his talents. Miraculously, the gesture hardly ever feels pompous or braggadocious.
At least, not until it’s intended. Avery banks on the audience getting lost in the visual splendor of Johnsen’s paintings and the admitted monotony of the plane flying—it allows for the visual of a Good Humor advertisement (penned as Good Rumor), suspended by a lone balloon flying in perspective towards the screen, to serve as a deliberately simple antithesis to the grandiosity of the visuals.
And, just as he relies on the audience to get caught up in the painterly visuals, Avery also relies on the audience to be hypnotized by the monotony of the sequence. Droning plane engine noises melt into a blur, reused shots of the plane soaring upward stress the longevity of the flight and ease the audience into lowering their guard. Avery was an expert at crafting purposefully monotonous situations to milk any and all humor as succinctly as he can.
Thus, the audience having fallen into such repetition, the visual of the pilot using a pay phone within the plane comes as a bold surprise. A year or two prior (or even a matter of mere months, as The Bear’s Tale asserts) Avery would have sought for a wilder approach with the phone. Make it rain a slew of quarters as in Thugs with Dirty Mugs. Have him fish out any lingering quarters like Goldilocks in The Bear’s Tale. Instead, Avery is confident enough to realize that the presence of the phone is a joke in and of itself, and that’s all he needs. That, and the nod to the 1939 Cary Grant film Only Angels Have Wings with the pilot’s steely repetitions of “Calling Barranca.” Bruce, of course, supplies the austere vocals of the pilot.
An awkward close-up of his report ensues. Much of it stems from the specificity of his design as a whole, not being a shining beacon of appeal, but animation to match his dialogue is stilted, repetitious. After he delivers the punchline of “Air speed 35… oil pressure 21… USC 14, Tennessee, nothing…”, 4 seconds of static film footage proceed to play out Stalling’s appropriate music sting of “Frat”. A little bit of silence on the dialogue front is fine, but that the pilot doesn’t move at all makes for a rather uncanny delivery that feels underwhelming and stilted.
No stranger to the ever concentrated “Los Angeles City Limits” gag, its inclusion here is possibly one of the most effective as a consequence of the scene’s manufactured monotony. The rolling pans, the repeated shots, the plane whirring, all purposefully lull the audience into an inadvertent stupor. Thus, the surprise aspect of the sign itself and the sheer dedication to a simmering conflict are just as effective as intended.
Likewise, a shot of the pilot’s altimeter—appropriately outfitted for the demands of his quest—proves to be an amusing, mischievous incongruity against Stalling’s intentionally domestic, leisurely music score.
Even then, tone of the music shifts to match the tone of the filmmaking, which takes a turn to one of apprehension when the pilot reports ice on the wings. While the layout of his previous close-up is reused, motion itself fares better through smoother, organic drawings and acting.
A fine contrast against a positively inorganic punchline; Ceiling Hero continues to assert itself as a film of antitheses.
With about a minute of the film remaining, potential conflict hinted by the pilot reaches its climax as the plane gives out and soars back towards the ground. Continuity within the film is again maintained through parallels to previous shots, whether as recent as the altimeter falling rapidly or a reprise of Johnsen’s earlier background work. Likewise with the plane plummeting towards the ground—a stark disparity against the slow ascent of the plane seen previously.
That the pilot has to lift the cover of his aircraft exaggerates his struggle to pull the brakes further. A clever precaution that inflates the gag just as much as grounds it—it’s funny because it’s such a conscious, human decision. On behalf of both the pilot and Avery.
Storytelling prioritizes background shots in a fresh way to demonstrate the impending action. Again, a firm contrast against the repeated, slow, straightforward shots of the ascent. Cutting is now fast, rapid, direct aerial shots place the audience directly in the cockpit to introduce empathy and excitement.
Yet, in spite of such frenetic filmmaking, the pilot maintains his steely demeanor. His calculating exactingness in which he reports back to his colleagues, uttering a neutrally morose drawl of “I wish to report an accident” again thrives through such utter nonchalance. All signs environmentally enable ample opportunity for the pilot to freak out—screaming is funny, but completely contradicting the filmmaking and retaining an eerie calmness is funnier.
Altimeter adjusts accordingly to the situation.
In its final moments, the plane catches and reflects glints of sunlight—another anchor to the prior scenes of the reflections and shining effects serving as a stand-in for luxury, grandiosity, innovation. Now, it’s like a dying ember, a wink, a final encore.
Of course, this is a Tex Avery cartoon, and viewers accustomed to his subversive, contradictory sense of humor know that the pilot will somehow emerge. Then again, Circus Today ended with a fatality that succeeds another one minutes before, so life isn’t always guaranteed. Regardless, having the pilot emerge from the plane as Bruce (serving as the narrator, that is) screams about whether or not the pilot is dead as he moves and maintains the casual smugness exuded in his introduction is—at least for the demands of this cartoon—a more rewarding, humorous solution.
And, in true 1940 fashion, the pilot answers the pleas of the narrator through the vessel of radio catchphrases: “Mmmm… could be!”
Ceiling Hero, as mentioned in the introduction, certainly fits the bill for Avery’s pattern of film releases—masterpiece, comparative dud, masterpiece, comparative dud. “Comparative” is an instrumental term, seeing as the masterpieces set such a high standard that anything following it will surely seem to falter next to it. That applies doubly for A Wild Hare, one of the most iconic films in the history of animation.
It isn’t a particularly riveting cartoon by any means, but is certainly serviceable. It’s a cheater—old gags of Avery’s are recycled dutifully as a means of filler (such as the time honored tradition of the traffic intersection gag), shots are recycled, pans are elongated, certain pauses linger. It is a short that’s one the lengthier side; some of that is purposeful, with the monotony of the test pilot’s ascent seeking to make the climax seem all the more riveting. Others, such as the awkward freeze frame of the pilot after talking on the phone, are not.
In any case, like so many of Avery’s other cartoons it’s a great display of growing artistic sophistication. Johnny Johnsen yet again asserts himself as the MVP of the cartoon, whether it be through his scenic paintings of the clouds in the sky or the sleek, painterly overlays of the many planes themselves. In that regard, it’s a visually striking cartoon that couldn’t have been achieved just a few years prior.
It’s not one of Avery’s most invigorating, but that again stems from the high standard Avery inadvertently places upon himself. There is still plenty to be endeared and amused by, and is a succinct example of Avery’s tightening control in both art direction and filmmaking.
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