Release Date: November 23rd, 1940
Series: Merrie Melodies
Director: Chuck Jones
Story: Rich Hogan
Animation: Bobe Cannon
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Margaret Hill-Talbot (Sniffles), Gill Warren (Announcer), The Sportsmen Quartet (Chorus), Jeanne Dunne (Soloist)
Of all the Sniffles cartoons in the world, Bedtime for Sniffles is probably the most well-known. This can be attributed to a number of factors: one, it is one of the only Christmas cartoons in the Warner cartoon catalogue. While holiday cartoons are comparatively sparse as is, any allusions to Christmas are usually contained to punchlines or gags in a cartoon rather than at the forefront. Shorts such as Gift Wrapped don’t necessarily feel like holiday cartoons to begin with—rather, the occasion is just another set piece.
That the cartoon is endearing and soft, placing a heavy emphasis on an immersive, sympathetic atmosphere rather than wild gags is what seems to clinch comparisons. Comparisons that are reasonable, but not staunch fact—there are certainly enough shards of the Warner identity to keep it from being totally enigmatic.
As the title suggests, the short follows Sniffles’ determined attempts to stay awake for Santa.
Paul Julian’s painting work is the perfect match for a cartoon that seeks to instill shameless ambience. A strong discrepancy in values, tight brushstrokes that still communicate an artistic flair but don’t distract through blobs of texture or color, a tangible, tactile difference in color temperature and a prevailing knack for control suit the needs to depict a landscape that is realistic and human, yet possesses enough flair to still attract the eye. 
Seeing that the cartoon is introduced by means of a 40 second long pan of a quaint village snowscape, it is certainly helpful that the paintings themselves be worthy of such attention. The effect wouldn’t be quite the same had Art Loomer still been Jones’ painter, illustrating the aforementioned issue of his paintings feeling more like amalgamated blobs of texture. To maintain visual intrigue with the pan, it’s split into two directions: a vertical climb and a horizontal crawl. Jones initiates the faux multi-plane effects for the horizontal stretch, with ambient pieces of effects animation stemming from the overlay of chimneys to give them further depth and functionality. 
On the topic of depth, Margaret Hill-Talbot’s voice replaces that of The Sportsmen Quartet’s arrangement of “Joy to the World.” Sniffles’ singing of “Jingle Bells” is made to sound tinny, far away, somewhat concealed to convey the vastness of the cityscape. Such attention to detail melds him convincingly to his surroundings and ensures that he is living, interacting, and thriving with his environments rather than just a prop on a set.
Even then, his formal introduction is still obscured through a series of close-up pans and dissolves. Said pans reveal his own humble abode to be a barrel nestled against a chimney on top of a roof—a wreath, welcome mat and the works rightfully declare it as a home. Obscuring his introduction continues to preserve the overarching theme of believability and naturalism—it’d be all too perfect for Sniffles to be stage present the minute the camera landed on him. Having him lag behind for a few seconds, a shot of the closed door lingering before his eventual reveal embraces the humanity and earnest this short achieves so well. It’s thanks to little touches like these that it can.
Likewise, an absence of a music score is profound. Ambient church bells and the endearingly off-tune singing stylings of Sniffles are the only form of background accompaniment. Such a decision again roots the cartoon in realism—Jones aspires for the audience to be in Sniffles’ shoes, or at least right there next to him. Not watching his daily life through the filter of a cartoon. Background accompaniment does come and go, as complete silence would grow distracting, but the lack of such in the introduction is yet another successful means to immerse the audience into the story. 
Even props within his house are presented through the courtesy of a faux multi-plane pan. Environments do not cease their dimensionality and depth just because the primary location changed. Indeed, Sniffles’ abode is adorned with an array of household objects transformed into handy utilities—a matchbook serves as a dresser, a spool of thread as a chair, and even a shaving brush is adorned like an upside down Christmas tree. Cute and contextually appropriate, the decorations do not feel disingenuous or cloying—they are just a mere fact of Sniffles’ life. Sharp eyes will catch a nod to ACME engraved on the foot of the bed. 
Though Rich Hogan receives the writing credit for the short, writer Dave Monahan is given a shoutout through the hanging pocket watch on the wall. A pan casually showcasing the calendar, the time, and a Christmas list wedged in between (filled with Sniffles’ polite requests for various cheeses, of course) not only builds further contextual awareness that it’s Christmas Eve, a day that Sniffles seems to revere greatly, but also seeks to further meld the audience into his point of view. The vast, exaggerated up angle rendering these little household objects to be huge and obtrusive places the viewer directly in Sniffles’ shoes, sharing what he sees and what he experiences. Sympathy is further expounded upon through shared experiences, making Sniffles seem more likable, empathetic, and endearing. 
In spite of Bob McKimson having settled into Tex Avery’s unit, his influence continues to linger in Jones’ cartoons. A close-up of Sniffles enthusiastically counting the hours until Santa arrives—eagerness of “In one hour, and thirty three minutes, and forty seven seconds…” endears the audience through its sheer specificity and is a much greater commentary on his excitement—heralds some incredibly sculpted, dimensional and tactile animation perfectly in-tune with the McKimson school of animating. Head tilts, subtle acting choices, a continuous flow between poses. 
Such a close-up also hints towards the short’s conflict: Sniffles has to stay up in order to see Santa. A yawn indicates that it may not be such an easy feat, even through the mention of using coffee as a band aid. 
In a way, the cartoon is an inverse of Good Night Elmer. Whereas Elmer struggles to go to sleep, Sniffles has difficulty staying awake. Both cartoons have their similarities—certain directorial choices are synonymous between the two, both are regarded as a representation of Jones’ Disney influence, and both put a pleasantly overwhelming emphasis on atmosphere. Even with these similarities in mind, both cartoons maintain a sense of individuality and concrete identity that keep them distinct and separate from each other. It isn’t so much a case of Jones repeating or twisting similar ideas as it is a piece of insight into his priorities of the time.
Thus, the coffee preparation ensues. The action itself isn’t particularly riveting, but therein lies its entire purpose: organicism. Furthered especially through Sniffles pausing his resumed chorus to correct a particularly pitchy note, the vulnerability seeks to capture a believable, naturalistic snapshot of his routines and approaches. The point is not to rouse the viewer through the intricacies of making coffee, but, rather, to give Sniffles humanity by demonstrating the aridity of his routine. Another lapse in musical accompaniment maintains the intent of the viewer experiencing and living the events as a third person perspective of Sniffles himself. 
Amusingly enough, the adjacent shot of him turning on a radio directly contradicts as such. Here, the camera is positioned at a rather drastic down shot—it coincides with the earliest establishing shots of his home to exaggerate just how tiny he really is. An overhead view is purely from the eyes of a detached spectator, privately intruding upon Sniffles’ routine rather than participating themselves. On a more simplistic level, the shot merely seeks to introduce variation and interest in the filmmaking. 
Phil Monroe animates a self indulgent but very charming tangent of Sniffles waltzing to Strauss’ “Kuensterleben”, which has been cast over the radio. Monroe keeps the facial features and expressions rather simple and nondescript (furthered through a lack of visible eyebrows), but the motion and complexity of the moves themselves are immaculate. Weighted, constructed, rhythmic, the various moves flow together well and are strong enough in their posing to remain distinct and clear. 
Even the camera tracks his every move to encourage a free flowing sense of motion from the viewer. Constant swaying and staggering that again places the viewer in Sniffles’ shoes, feeling as though they themselves are dancing to the same rhythm. In spite of so many factors, the dance never feels overwhelming, choppy, or disorienting. .gif)
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It could be argued that the sequence is somewhat useless—extended segments of actions and ideas seemingly unrelated to the story are quick to be panned as a means to fill time. While that could be true, the dance sequence is actually quite necessary. It again asserts the sympathy of Sniffles’ character necessary for the interest of the story. When segueing into the portion of the cartoon dedicated to Sniffles’ attempts to fight off sleep, giving a spotlight to little mundanities such as these—off key singing, coffee preparation, innocent dance numbers—it’s very important for sympathy to be the prevailing reaction from the audience and not annoyance or even apathy. Little spotlights such as these that demonstrate how Sniffles is a charming, charismatic character aid in supporting the warm, gentle atmosphere intended and concocted so meticulously by Jones.
Likewise, Ken Harris handles the next near-minute of Sniffles at his mirror. Prioritized shift towards more specific character acting and personality animation rather than lush, flowing movement; gentle head tilts as Sniffles converses with himself to the mirror (“Thank you!” “You’re welcome!”) are an endearing acting choice all in their own, evoking innocence and curiosity, but likewise flaunt depth and dimensionality in his construction. Animation of his reflection talking is handled very confidently and proficiently. No lapses in synchronization or confusion with its execution.
Music from the radio is not only a polite means of musical accompaniment. To the cleverness of Jones and Hogan, it is used as a plot device. Keith Scott cites actress and singer Jeanne Dunn as the soloist behind “Sleep, Baby, Sleep”, which impedes Sniffles’ shadow boxing session as he shows off in front of the mirror and lulls him to sleep. It’s a very effective directing choice—especially seeing as a majority of the short’s background music stems from the radio itself and is mostly cushioned through silence or other ambient background noises. Noticeability of the music makes it a more powerful tool, and is understandable in how it’s sudden shifts could be reflected in Sniffles’ own demeanor.
Harris’ acting as Sniffles struggles to remain awake is sublime as well; anchored with weight, dimension, the buckles of his body as he struggles to maintain his energy all exude an authenticity that is still approached with enough caricature to be funny, clear, and endearing. Likewise, the shadow boxing in general makes for a very effective antithesis, as it is an action that requires a certain amount of energy and force. Having said force be depleted is much more noticeable and effective than if Sniffles continues to remain idle by the radio.
Keeping the flow of events in balance, the very same shift in music that put him to sleep is the one that prompts him to wake up. Specifically, the juxtaposition inherent to a jolly chorus of “Jingle Bells” from The Sportsmen Quartet. Having fallen asleep on the brush within his locket, red dots indicating the positioning of its bristles pepper his face—much to his horror.
“Measles!”
Talbot’s delivery is great through its volume and urgency, as well as sincerity. Such a drastic assumption is meant to get a laugh from the audience, but not necessarily at Sniffles’ expense—just another touch of innocence offered by the cartoon. 
Tracking of the bristle imprints does become somewhat convoluted; the dots aren’t anchored in one place and seem to flash across his face. Given the specificity of the detail and how difficult it would be to track every little detail, it’s understandable—the red coloring likewise may be a bit too harsh, reading as a physical object on his face rather than a mere imprint, but aids in providing a justification for Sniffles’ outburst. There is more alarm to be had with the glaring red color of the dots than a mere pink or tan.
In any case, Sniffles deduces that all is well and measles-free, escorting us to the next narrative priority. A time lapse of the pocket watch is made more novel through the built in seconds counter at the bottom; the variation between the two sets of clock hands seems to make the amount of time elapsed more vast and dramatic, just as it maintains greater visual interest through the separate intervals. 
That too is solidified through an endearingly humorous close-up of Sniffles fighting to keep his eyes open. Identifiable through the thick lines when he closes his eyes and the prevailing softness in form, Bobe Cannon places particular emphasis on the manner in which Sniffles’ cheeks bounce and hang on his face. More specifically, the forced, bright eyed, joyously disingenuous grin in an attempt to mimic alertness that immediately turns flaccid. Dropping and follow through on his cheeks gives a permanence to the shift that makes it more effective and clear.
More mundanities are thusly in order to keep momentum flowing; Sniffles washing his face sparks a return to routine, taking focus away from gags explicitly centered on his staying awake. The action isn’t particularly interesting, but, as the short’s opening proves, doesn’t need to be. It provides more of an opportunity to flaunt the ingenuity and functionality of household trinkets turned appliances—eye dropper faucets, cigarette paper towels, and a walnut trashcan. All executed with enough nonchalance to maintain a polite novelty that doesn’t wear out its welcome.
With how solid and lush Julian’s background work has been throughout the whole cartoon thus far, it seems fruitless to pick out an innocuous shot of Sniffles standing in the doorway as an example of his many talents. Yet, even the most simple of layouts have their artistic intentions that contribute to the mood and coherency of the cartoon. 
Color temperature between the warm, rich browns and oranges of the wood against the dark, cold snow create a tangible barrier that the audience can almost feel for themselves. Richness in the warm colors makes the coziness seem all the more enticing. On the other hand, the coldness of the nightscape isn’t particularly harsh—light from inside reflected onto the snow introduces a warmth that keeps the outside surroundings ambient.
The purpose of his standing in the doorway isn’t necessarily to flaunt Julian’s painterly talents relating to color temperature and ambience, but to result in a fitting sight gag as well. That is, the snow-laden face of Sniffles as he turns inside. While the snow in itself is an amusing detail, the groggy, almost apathetic expression on his face is what elevates it further. 
A dissolve to him settling down with a thimble of coffee is more hopeful, spirited, peppy in its energy. Such reflects again the perky effect of the coffee, but also the naïve security from Sniffles regarding his plan. With the events of the cartoon thus far, the viewer has an idea that success won’t be as rife as is being let on—we opt to humor him nevertheless.
Jones feels the same. The reveal of Sniffles having fallen asleep yet again is executed through a bookend of camera pans—the camera shifts to the pocket watch, a courtesy time lapse ensues, and settles back to a much different picture and tone regarding Sniffles’ confidence. Simplicity and coherence of the pan itself dictates an endearingly ironic commentary. Coffee spilled upon the floor is one of the most poignant details, almost representing a sort of vulnerability and serving as a physical manifestation of his failed efforts to remain awake. A total lack of background music likewise cements the shift.
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A lack of background music that is soon replaced through the gentle tones of Gil Warren on the radio: “This is station KFWB, signing off. Good night, all.” As has been mentioned before, KFWB was an affiliate of Warner’s themselves and referenced liberally throughout their cartoons. An interesting note when taking account that the chimes exclusive to NBC play cushion it right before—it isn’t a lapse of logic, but merely another cheat to familiarize the audience with the radio theming. Those notes are that recognizable.
A truck-in on Sniffles’ face beneath the narration is somewhat unnecessary; motion feels extraneous and arbitrary, especially with all of the motion relating to the prior camera pan still fresh in the minds of the audience. A defeated cracking open of the eyes can still be visible at the same camera registry as before. In any case, it’s a very minor nitpick—the implication that even the radio programs have retired before Sniffles is one that is very effective in establishing just how late he’s making an effort to stay up. No music to distract oneself with.
All of the above are communicated through yet another shot of the pocket watch. Taking up the entirety of the screen, the time commands the attention of the viewer (and, by proxy, Sniffles.) Likewise with the emphasis on the ticking—it’s just as threatening as it is ambient, seeming to mock Sniffles for his inability to keep the pace. 
A shot of his eyes watching the hands tick away again establishes this.
The same applies to his cheeks sliding down the side of the radio. A perky score of “Grandfather’s Clock” furthers any and all clock allusions that are rather purposeful—the intervals and timing of which he slides down the radio mimic the jaunty ticking of the clock. Likewise, it serves as a coherent accompaniment piece to the visual of his “eyes” ticking in the previous shot. It’s on a grander scale here.
When in doubt, turn to some reading to stay awake. The “Good Mousekeeping” pun is on the more obtuse side through a deliberate focus on it, but is still more of a passing detail than a full on spotlight. Such preserves its innocence.
It isn’t so much the cover of the magazine that matters, but the contents inside. Jones yet again embraces pathos and sympathy by directly plunging the audience into Sniffles’ shoes; looking at the magazine from his point of view, the camera lens fluctuates in and out of focus. A cruelly appropriate adaptation of the famous Fisk Rubber Company “Time to Re-tire” ad (gorgeously and convincingly rendered by Paul Julian) provides enough context to assert his drowsiness—trying to stay awake, advertisements implying going to sleep do little to help—but the additional detail of the lens focusing introduces a physical component that makes Sniffles’ plight all the more sympathetic. 
A mousetrap serving as a direct metaphor for bed (as indicated through the camera panning up to reveal his bed, again maintaining his point of view) is morbid, but appropriate. Both objects drawn at the same perspective and being relatively synonymous in shape clinches comparisons, but the meaning behind it—the bed is his trap, cutting off any chances of seeing Santa if he were to get into it. There would be a point of no return. 
Avoiding the bed proves to be more difficult than avoiding the Time to Re-tire ads. Taking inspiration from Good Night Elmer, a glance at Sniffles’ mirror reveals the reflection of the bed to be staring right at him. Shrouding much of the composition in darkness, save for the bed in the mirror, gives it an even more palpable luminous and ethereal quality. Such makes Sniffles’ attempts to ignore it seem more difficult. And, by proxy, more sympathetic.
He’s taunted even through the absence of light; the shadow of the bed projected against the wall manages to remain warm and inviting through the highlights and warm palettes of Julian’s painting. It provides a solid inverse to the mirror, uniting the two and again encouraging coherency between shots and ideas.
Likewise with a return to Sniffles’ sink. As it turns out, his face washing from earlier was not entirely to demonstrate how he performs menial, everyday actions just like us—it prepares the audience to be more receptive to the next plot point. That being the vision of himself that he sees when submerged in the water.
Jones exhibits a commendable amount of restraint. It would be all too easy for Sniffles to do a wild take, jolting his head out of the sink and blinking dubiously at his bed. Instead, Sniffles’ own restraint—restraint out of drowsiness, not directorial intuition—naturally keeps the audience more curious. We aren’t sure what to think of this mysterious Sniffles doppelgänger in his bed; a surprised reaction would at least inform us of how the characters feel about it. That there is no reaction at all keeps us wanting more and seeing what that reaction, if any, will be.
Anticipation is milked (and maintained) through another particularly effective snapshot from Sniffles’ point of view. Rather than depicting the same point of view, altered only to get rid of the ripple glass and bubble overlays, the extra step is taken to maintain water droplets cascading from the top of the screen to more accurately depict Sniffles’ vision. Likewise with the inclusion of the sink at the bottom of the screen. Very immersive filmmaking that thrives especially well with all of the previous attempts to put the viewer in Sniffles’ shoes. 
The doppelgänger is revealed to be an illusion, but only at the last second. Viewers could assume as such, as it seems highly unlikely that this short would earnestly concoct a surprise reveal about Sniffles’ secret twin, but there is just enough restraint to keep the audience guessing. Primarily by hiding the double exposure effects until the close-up. Again, we are meant to be sharing Sniffles’ point of view in the previous few shots; he doesn’t know whether it’s an illusion or not. Thus, in that moment, neither do we.
Much of the cartoon’s remainder lies in a back and forth between the two—Sniffles’ conscience beckons him to bed, which Sniffles refuses. Yet, over time, it becomes more difficult to resist. The scene runs long, but it is a length that is warranted. The tone, the ambience, the sluggish back and forth and tantalizing comfort made a priority cannot be rushed. 
To further the sensation of the back and forth of both characters—Sniffles’ conscience beckons him, Sniffles refuses, conscience continues to beckon, Sniffles’ refusals weaken, etc., etc.,—the camera repeatedly slides back and forth between the two. Not a cut, not a dissolve; the same, continuous layout. Some may argue that this is monotonous, especially given the length of the sequence—that is exactly its purpose. Sniffles can only refuse for so long, and even he seems to realize that arguing is monotonous and arbitrary; Jones does what he can to mimic this in his cinematography.
Jones embraces the surrealism of the scene. Rather than Sniffles trudging to bed on foot, his walking on the ground turns to levitating in the air before landing in the gorgeously excessive softness of his own bed. It’s a cute little bit of caricature that again upholds the ethereality of the bed. It’s not just a bed, but an oasis. Lugubriousness of the timing gives a unique tactility to the animation that translates to softness, gentility. Even if Sniffles hasn’t succeeded in his mission, there is still an overwhelming sense of finality and even satisfaction at this end instead. All of the steps taken to ensure the audience sympathizes with the character pay-off; if anything, seeing Sniffles get the sleep he deserves is more rewarding than forcing himself to stay up.
Sniffles’ conscience returning to its rightful owner is elegantly executed. No issues with the double exposure as he slowly melts into his physical counterpart, fading into nothingness—movements are constructed, coherent, charismatic. A staggering difference between lighting and color after his conscience extinguishes the candle is perhaps one of the most striking of all. It is effective in that shot by itself, but with the lengths taken to make the cartoon as cozy as it is through warm, rich lighting, the mere change in hues from yellow to blue is a damning finality in itself. A point of no return. 
Even then, we do get a bit of a compromise. Aided by a reprise of “Joy to the World”, the sound of sleigh bells and eventual silhouette of Santa’s sleigh indicate that Sniffles has received his fated visit after all. Even if it’s not face to face. To elevate the importance of the moment, a glimpse of the moon illuminating the tips of the cityscape is executed through a faux multi-plane pan, with the sky as the base layer. Thus, an innate sense of grandiosity is instilled through the depth of the environments.
The circular shape of the window just so happens to fit the concentric iris perfectly. Snug and content—just like Sniffles.
There is a reason as to why this short is as remembered as it is. Being one of the only few holiday centered shorts is one reason, as is circulation on VHS and DVD. Yet, the real reason is that it is an incredibly well directed cartoon that is unequivocally one of Chuck Jones’ best to date, if not the best.
Because the short is so earnest and slow, it is quick to get panned by critics. Another symptom of Jones’ Disney influence. Where is the raucous humor and antics? Why isn’t it explicitly, gut-bustlingly funny? Who even cares about Sniffles beyond this cartoon? It faces similar comments directed towards Good Night Elmer. It’s these aspects—the earnest, the nonchalance, the painstaking preservation of atmosphere and sympathy—that make these cartoons so special and irreplaceable. They’re noteworthy because it’s not trying to be overtly hilarious, it’s noteworthy because it is so wholly sincere and heartfelt, it’s noteworthy because its art direction is so jaw droppingly gorgeous.
Like Elmer, many instances that feel arbitrary or lugubrious are out of necessity. Even moreso than the former cartoon, one could argue. As harped on throughout this review, one of the main objectives is sympathy. Jones explicitly wants to make the audience sympathize and relate to Sniffles so that they can be endeared by his attempts to stay awake, rather than be annoyed. And, likewise, it allows the ending of his going to bed to feel like a more earned and satisfying payoff than seeing Santa—we all know that he was much more committed to the relief of rest. In order to do that, the viewer must get acquainted with Sniffles. A lengthy dance sequence isn’t to waste time, but to give us an idea as to how he spends his time and upholds a whimsical, lighthearted attitude. Showing his making coffee step by step isn’t an insult to the viewer’s intelligence on how coffee is made; it’s to demonstrate that Sniffles is an everyday coffee drinker like one of us, and watching him make it grounds him down to stronger levels of relatability.
I personally am a big fan of Sniffles at his most endearing, and this short is a large reason as to why. It oozes nothing but charm and charisma and sincerity. Some may be quick to label that as a sign of weakness, but, if anything, is a sign of great strength instead through a palpable restraint that avoids clichéd reactions, punchlines, or ideas in the name of comedy. Most cartoons are about characters struggling to get to sleep—not stay awake. That’s due in part to an arguably wider range of comedic potential. In a way, it’s a nobler pursuit of Jones to have taken the path he did with this one. Especially since it’s a path he was very obviously passionate about—it shows through the art direction, the cinematography, the existence of this cartoon as a whole. This level of craftsmanship and clarity was once a far off dream when Jones first began his stint as a director—that he’s managed to make it his reality in just two years is phenomenal.
As an added bonus, this particular cartoon happens to have a wealth of production art available. Presented for your viewing pleasure:
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