309. The Timid Toreador (1940)

Release Date: December 21st, 1940

Series: Looney Tunes

Director: Bob Clampett, Norm McCabe

Story: Tubby Millar

Animation: Izzy Ellis

Musical Direction: Carl Stalling

Starring: Mel Blanc (Porky, Announcer, Maxie Rosenbull, Matador), The Guadalajara Trio (Chorus)

(You may view the cartoon here!)

After a period of familiar stagnation, a new director—not a returnee, as is Friz Freleng’a case—has finally entered the ring. Almost by accident.

Enter one Norman McCabe. Having been in Clampett’s unit since its conception, his animation career at Schlesinger’s stretches further than many of his coworkers. He was hired as an inbetweener in 1932, when the studio was still under the helm of Hugh Harman and Rudy Ising. It was in 1936 that he would finally become a fully fledged animator under the direction of Frank Tashlin. Then, he would move briefly into Ub Iwerks’ unit, and thusly ushered into Clampett’s control following Iwerks’ departure. Given the length of his stay thus far, the promotion makes sense.

While McCabe would pilot his own unit solo starting that following year, his stint as a co-director here was only temporary. Having to take sick leave, McCabe was enlisted to help usher a handful of unfinished Clampett cartoons out the door while he recovered. Porky’s Snooze Reel serves as the second half of this pair.

Trying to divide the cartoon into the “Clampett half” and the “McCabe half” is a bit of a fruitless endeavor; from the story to the gag sense to the execution (and to its flaws), it is unmistakably of Clampettian creation. There are a few beats that do seem more reminiscent of a McCabe cartoon, as well as some slight bumps that indicate a lapse in communication, but the short is still unmistakably Clampett. 

In his last appearance of the calendar year, Porky finds himself back in the bullfighting arena. Yet, instead of a willing participant (as Picador Porky demonstrates), his entry is accidental as a mere tamale salesman. In spite of his neutrality towards the fight, the bull has other plans, predictably landing him into trouble. 

Indeed, Clampett’s prominence in the cartoon is immediately cemented through its opening. All of his pet trademarks are stuffed into the beginning: still expository shots (this time of a poster advertising a bullfight), adjoining wordplay, an overlay of elements in the foreground parting as the camera trucks in to give the illusion of depth, and a song number. 

While it may seem obnoxiously menial to point out, some of the directorial dissonance between Clampett and McCabe is—possibly—hinted at. It’s all a matter of a transition; as the camera trucks in to the town square, the next shot is delivered through means of a jump cut. Given that there isn’t much of a difference between the two shots (the second shot only being slightly more close to the camera), such a sharp gesture seems sudden and dissonant. A cross dissolve instead would seek to cushion the blow more effectively and make for a more coherent ease into the action.

Little lapses in flow and continuity between shots are present all throughout the cartoon. While it’s not as though Clampett doesn’t face these issues on his own, such a poignant prevalence does possibly hint at the dissonance present with McCabe taking over what remained of the cartoon. Coherency, timing, little things that a regular audience probably wouldn’t have noticed in 1940, but subconsciously effect the overall viewing experience regardless.

In any case, the song number of choice is a spirited chorus of “La Cucaracha”. The Guadalajara Trio were contracted by Treg Brown to supply their vocal talents for the cartoon; they would frequent a moderate share of movies throughout the ‘40s. Here, their involvement brings a welcome authenticity where it can. Ambient yips and whoops and yells are just as prominent as the song itself, somewhat drowning the focus on their singing, but the talent and catchiness of their performance prevails.

Visuals accompanying the number are polite and serviceable. The largest standout happens to be a close-up of the animated trio singing, John Carey’s design sense particularly (and delightfully) pungent through the tall eyes, large mouths, and spherical construction. Here, the tallest of the trio shakes his fellow singers like a pair of maracas in a musical break—their singing halts to delegate further attention to the visuals, with opaque brush trails simulating a tactile motion blur.

Elsewhere, a woman beats the water out of her clothes in tandem to the music…

…who returns the favor. Sheer volume of the sound effects and ferocity of the beating are the most humorous takeaway, but the archaism of the underwear’s anthropomorphism—a common gag touted in the Merrie Melodies of the early to mid ‘30s—is somewhat novel in itself.

We thusly dissolve to our not-quite-star of the film. Predictably, in spite of the title’s allusion to his role, Porky takes the back seat for much of the short. His appropriation of “La Cucaracha” (“Hot tamales, hot tamales, eh-eh-see ‘em boilin’ in the pot… ah-hot tamales, hot tamales, ehh-gih-gee-get ‘em while they’re good an’ hot!”) to fit his sales needs accounts for about half of his dialogue in the film. Perhaps more, given that he repeats the same verses throughout his sporadic appearances. 

Interestingly, a shift between animators seems to occur after Porky finishes his walk cycle. Switching animators right in the middle of a scene certainly wasn’t unbeknownst to Clampett. Quite the opposite, if anything. While the actual switch in consecutive drawings is subtle, John Carey’s draftsmanship and sense of timing is unmistakable—it creates a somewhat curious dissonance given the staccato pep in his walk cycle and the comparatively glacial distribution of drawings with Carey’s section. Likewise, Carey is able to harness more specificity and appeal in his acting; a necessity when the short seems to halt everything to focus on him. Thus possibly justifies the reasoning behind the switch. 

Of course, the true intent behind the sequence is not necessarily for the audience to ponder the intricacies of animator switches that they themselves would likely never notice, but to serve as a segue into a visual gag. Taking a moment to rest from his sales barking,  Porky sets his box of tamales aside. A nearby chicken takes note. More trademarks of Carey’s animation style persist, ranging from the solidity of the hen’s construction to stock assets in his acting sensibilities such as grand head takes and wiggling fingers.

His proficiency with effects animation is appreciated through the burst of steam that erupts upon the box opening; it allows the moniker of “TOO HOT TO HANDLE” on the side to have some reputability, serving as a physical manifestation of the implied spiciness. That, and it remains more engaging visually than the alternative of revealing a static close-up painting. It ushers in believability where it can—menial of a gesture as it may be.

Broiling resolution of the gag suffers from John Carey-itis: a new animator’s handiwork seeming crude in comparison to the prior scenes with Carey’s involvement. The drawings are coherent and clear, and not “ugly” by any standards, but certainly feel incongruous in its vagueness. 

Part of such a deduction is on behalf of the director(s): after swallowing the tamale, the hen holds a triumphant pose to indicate its contentedness with the meal. That one pose overextends its welcome by just a few beats, sucking some of the air out of what little momentum is present. Thus gives the viewer more time to register the drawing and take note of its differences against the previous few scenes. An issue that is admittedly more prominent with the hindsight and availability of today than it would have been in 1940, but worth nothing nonetheless when thinking from the standpoint of a director.

Nevertheless, such a static spotlight reaps its benefits—it allows the impending explosion to seem more jarring and sudden in the process. Especially given that the chicken seems to disappear into thin air; the nebulosity regarding its whereabouts is almost a joke in itself. Even the camera seems to wander aimlessly for a few beats, indicating a purposeful, intended confusion on behalf of Clampett.

A steaming plate of chicken—rather cruelly—answers our question. Directing the camera to truck in onto the resolution is somewhat obtuse, as it loses the dry tone that compliments such a whimsically gruesome outcome so well. Regardless, it’s one of the most memorable gags of the short, with shock value and chemistry regarding Clampett’s sense of humor to thank.

Mild disgruntlement on behalf of Porky is an endearing, amusing acting decision, as though witnessing a chicken spontaneously combust before his very eyes is somehow an inconvenience to his business endeavors. Such a poignant reaction does seem to demand a line of dialogue, if only a snide aside; the jolly resumption of his La Cucaracha/Hot Tamales chorus seems a bit empty and brusque on its own. 

More indications of Clampett’s involvement with the film are through recycled bits of animation. Staging as well, in this particular case; the camera panning down to reveal a flurry of sombreros and confetti flying beneath the frame of an arch is directly lifted from Frank Tashlin’s Little Pancho Vanilla, hat animation and all. Tashlin’s execution is (unsurprisingly) more coherent; the camera comes to a complete halt before finishing its pan here, making for a somewhat fragmented sequence of ideas. The camera in Tashlin’s cartoon does momentarily stall at the same place, but doesn’t come to a complete, screeching halt—merely, it feels like a rhythmic, purposeful beat. 

Whereas Tashlin prioritizes atmosphere, his gags occurring as a natural product of a cinematographic crescendo, Clampett’s itch to rush right into the jokes is evident. Even through the toreadors marching into the arena, the jauntiness of the motion prioritizes mischief and playfulness above story. 

Such is cemented through a particularly diminutive straggler who rushes in at the last minute. 

As mentioned in the introduction, there isn’t a way to view the cartoon in chunks as “the Clampett portion” and “the McCabe portion”—such sheer objectivity is a luxury that we are barely privy to as historians. Any speculation on who did what, without proper confirmation, is just that; speculation. Thus, the deduction that McCabe could have had a hand in the toreador’s entrance is merely guesswork—the design sense of the fighters, with their long noses, rubbery necks, and spherical proportions, as well as a reigning graphic air to them, do feel as though they’d be at home in a cartoon under McCabe’s name. Regardless, it isn’t to say he directed this particular sequence. For all we know, it could just be animation that he was assigned to do prior to Clampett’s leave. 

Nevertheless, the introduction of the stadium ushers in an opportunity for new, contextually appropriate gags. One such spotlight follows a spectator’s difficulty seeing the fight thanks to a man’s large sombrero; perspective of the disgruntled patron maneuvering in and out of the foreground instills a believability and depth to the struggle, enunciating his inability to see—to just have him remain in the same position and frown wouldn’t be as impactful in justifying his annoyance.

All is taken care of through the courtesy of a needle. Clampett would reprise a similar gag in A Coy Decoy, with a large hat deflating to a shell of its former self. Here, its execution is relatively straightforward. No elaborate elasticity or tactility, which is more present in the latter example—its obedience isn’t necessarily a folly, however, given that it compliments the oblivion of the offending owner. He never moves once nor makes any indication of doing so. The execution of the gag being so understated fits given this understanding.

Our matador for the day is introduced as “Punchy Pancho”—a very generic, nondescript stand-in who serves mainly as a manifestation of wild takes and limber posing. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as the product is jovial and engaging visually. Posing even in his introduction is sharp and defined, with coherent silhouettes, poignant lines of action, contrasting angles, and plenty of squash and stretch in his movement. It isn’t the most wild bout of elasticity touted in these shorts—especially by Clampett’s standards—but is a very refreshing change of pace for much of the cartoon’s stagnation to this point.

Enter the opponent: one “Slapsie Maxie Rosenbull”, a very obtuse nod to boxer Max Rosenbloom. Pied Piper Porky tips its hat to him as well—likely unrelated to his profession as a boxer, but moreso the wordplay and opportunities that come with his name. Right up Clampett’s alley.

Tex Avery’s comedic sensibilities are channeled with the bull’s introduction, specifically regarding the door. Instead of the lock on the double doors bursting open to reveal a rip snorting bull, the entrance is revealed to be a mere curtain—a cue that seems to take direct inspiration from Picador Porky’s own zany door gag. It would, it should be noted, be borrowed by Clampett himself in his beloved iconoclast Porky in Wackyland. 

Here, the gag is made more convincing with the deliberateness of the chains extending to the walls. Such makes the reveal feel conscious and aware in its bending of reality—there are no steps carefully executed in the sake of ambiguity. It’s proud in its blatant disenfranchisement with physics. That in itself may be more rewarding than the visual of the gag itself.

Running animation of the bull is refreshingly sophisticated. Not running on all fours, but on his two legs, shaking his hooves fists in the glory; the multiple moving articles such as his legs, his arms, the robe, his tail, his nose ring, and so forth allow more avenues for the general motion to flow—the follow through and tracking of the robe and trail through their respective arcs is especially appealing. His triumphant galloping seems to possess a real, tactile weight; that, in tandem with the camera pan (which slows to accompany his slowing speed) makes for a very attractive visual flow between elements.

Given that the audience was provided a glimpse of the spectators with Pancho’s introduction, it’s only fair that Maxie has his own appropriate cheering section. It’s a polite visual, but one that gets equally polite laughs from its roots in logic. Of course his cheering section would be filled with cows.

To ensure that this isn’t the only takeaway, one particularly exuberant mother grabs her child by the neck and shakes him to convey her rowdiness. A camera truck in needlessly over clarifies the gag, again prompting it to lose some of its wry edge, but not to an extremely noticeable detriment. The protruding tongue on behalf of the calf allows the joke to ruminate in a macabre finish, to the point where it seems to nearly teeter on unpleasant; just ripe for Clampett’s sensibilities.

Issues in pacing and continuity continue to hint at the potential dissonance of Clampett’s leave. Though again not exceedingly noticeable to untrained eyes, the flow of shots seem somewhat stilted and slapdash—a brief shot of Maxie shaking his fists is followed by another arbitrary cut of his audience, reused directly from the same shot present not even 5 seconds before. Such seeks to cheat Maxie taking off his robe, which is implied to have been done off screen through the next cut. 

Instead, the lack of a hook-up pose makes the change feel jarring and sudden. If there were a longer shot in between, that would have provided a more realistic buffer for such a cheat to have been made. The end result seems rushed and abrupt. Again, not a deal breaker, but noticeable and worth pointing out to possibly illuminate any challenges presented in the unique production of this particular short.

Rather than allowing the action to speak for itself, Mel Blanc supplies one of his many stock accents in his role as an off screen commentator. All things considered, he does inject a certain energy that has been kept on the down low—the cartoon is halfway through, and there hasn’t been any sort of substantial action. Just fluff. From the ferocity and i joviality of Blanc’s vocals, you never would have guessed that’s the case.

Picador Porky allows its influence to be reaped yet again through a cut to the timekeeper. Here, said timekeeper hitting a bell with a party streamer has been traced from the aforementioned cartoon to match the design sense of late 1940 Clampett. It’s innocuous enough to fit with its surroundings, not out of place to unaware viewers, but does have earmarks of the earlier Avery’s drawing style—particularly the conjoined eyes, simple shapes, and long nose. 

Dissonance between design is most noticeable through a cut back to Pancho, who seems much more chiseled and elaborate in John Carey’s layout style than the Avery-Clampett layouts in Picador. Carey himself continues to inject some much needed fervor, which is at its zenith in Pancho’s wild take after the bull grimaces at him. 

The interaction between the bull and Pancho (the bull pausing in a bout of domesticity to inspect the “nice piece of material” of the cape) enables Carey’s versatility to shine—tight, appealing poses, intricate perspective, as well as loose limbed hysterics that put the feeling of motion as a priority. Likewise, both alternatives serve as an artistic antithesis to one another, bringing out the intended narrative elements in both; the intricacy of the more static moments and sculpted perspective allows the hysterics and zany action to feel more exaggerated, and vice versa. All while maintaining a sense of continuity under the prevailing art style of one animator.

We’d be pressing our luck hoping that the succeeding shots would follow the same expertise. Again, disjointed ideas (and at times, disjointed technical issues—the background pan as Pancho runs away from the bull comes to a sudden halt before a cross dissolve to the announcer is completed) lose further flow and coherency between shots. 

Dissolving to the announcer finally allows us to associate a face with a voice, but seems to be randomly inserted; with his excited narration, one would expect his cutaways to occur in more conservative areas of the fight. Not right in the middle of the action. Regardless, said cut does make for a proper band-aid in hiding a lack of substance in material, which is what seems to be the true purpose of the cut. Form the illusion of action through narration and off screen implications.

In any case, yet another interjection that follows is one shot in particular that seems to be rife with McCabe’s influence the most. Perhaps he animated the shot itself. Yet, a seemingly needless cutaway to a particularly toothy man guffawing on his horse (who shares his glee) seems particularly reminiscent to something that would belong in one of McCabe’s own cartoons. 

Drawing style and design are the biggest giveaway, but the general tone as well—his laughter seems to channel the crazy fish from The Sour Puss, if anything, but the graphic, streamlined approach and overall feel somewhat more conservative against Clampett’s approach. The “laughing” reflected in Stalling’s music score likewise matches the more situational musical direction of McCabe’s over Clampett’s prioritization of tangible melody.

Again, there is no objective way to prove that this was a scene McCabe directed. All speculation and nothing more, but noteworthy enough to muse about at the very least.

Moving forward, more hints from Little Pancho Vanilla are employed in a gag of the bull chalking his horns like billiard sticks. Carey’s animation supports the benefit of much more sculpted, competent character animation than the vagueness of the former. However, the former gag is particularly successful through its nonchalance; the bull’s utterance of “Hey. Watch this. The eight ball in the side pocket,” is amusing through how casual, and discreet it is, thriving in a certain matter of fact-ness that seems to be missing in its replication here. Stalling’s continuing “laughing” score does little in easing the tonal naïveté—the gag seems to call too much attention to itself, losing the intoxication of the natural delivery in the former,  through such maneuvers.

It is more fitting for the broader mischief touted in this cartoon. Tashlin’s suave, more understated approach to comedy (at least in his ‘30s cartoons) is a firm antithesis to Clampett’s sophomoric self indulgences. In Vanilla, the resolution has the bull knocking into his toreadors and having them roll around the arena like pool balls. Whimsical, but rooted in the logic established. 

Here, the punchline has nothing to do with billiards—the sheer force of the bull knocking into his opponent prompts him to turn into a befuddled centaur. As always, no one technique or approach is objectively better than the other; both have their own unique sets of needs and context. It nevertheless remains interesting to compare, enunciating how a director’s personal tastes can bring so much personal identity to a gag or idea that has been shared among directors. 

Enter Porky after a lapse of two and a half minutes; his aimless, pleasantly vacant wandering into the arena serves as an apt visual metaphor for his wandering into his own cartoon. Oblivious that a menagerie of other one off incidentals have usurped his screen time. Just here to show up and perform his daily obligations.

Facetious griping aside, his oblivion regarding the bullfight gets a laugh from the sincerity of the execution. As he continues to hawk his hot tamales, tripping up on his own sales pitch, Pancho and the bull come roaring (screaming, in Pancho’s case) into the foreground in joyous implication of unabashed violence. Such accentuates the danger of the sport that would be obvious to anyone but Porky—no place to be selling tamales. Even if he missed the visual of the two running past him, the screaming and running sound effects would still be enough of a cue.  Pinning Porky in the background likewise makes him seem even more insignificant and purposeful as an afterthought; the straightforward, nonchalant execution is much appreciated.

It moreover paves the way for some more attractive animation on behalf of Carey. For Porky, at least; it almost looks as though the bull is handled by another animator. The features aren’t as tightly wound onto his face, possessing a comparatively more stylized air about him—his blinking, which is often a giveaway for Carey’s animation if it is somewhat belabored, is relatively unimposing as well. Given the animator switch with Porky towards the beginning, it doesn’t seem impossible to rule out that two different animators would handle two different characters.

Indeed, Porky touts a broader specificity to his acting than what is present with the ambient breathing cycles from the bull. Porky conversing with the bull is pretty patronizing (“Yes, señor! Uh-how many, please?”), but is at home with his personality—it underscores the innocent oblivion and polite entitlement that Clampett loved to capitalize with the character. Especially given that, even with a lack of an answer, Porky continues to pursue his business endeavors…

…until his brain finally catches up to him. His wild take could stand to be timed a bit faster—all of the brush strokes conveying additional motion seem to overwhelm and drown the drawings rather than actively support them. Timing the reaction on one’s instead of two’s likely would have eased such an issue. Regardless, it’s all nitpicking and nothing more; the fervency of Porky’s exit is made exceedingly clear, and the drawings themselves are very attractive through their elastic looseness.

Through the prominently arched eyebrows to the graphic, stylized mouths, Norm McCabe himself seems to animate the adjoining sequence of Porky failing to spar with the bull. The drawings are almost regressive in that they seem like they’d fit comfortably in a Clampett effort from 1938–given how energetic, inspired, and confident his cartoons were at this time, that is anything but a critique. Such a bold, graphic art style aids in exaggerating the caricature of Porky’s ignominy upon his sword growing flaccid. 

Thus, the true “climax” of the short begins. Quotations are dutifully employed, as the shots of Porky and the bull running around the arena aren’t particularly substantial nor interesting. A visual gag of them running along the fence guarding the ring is politely amusing, but feels obligatory in its execution: no real embrace of the speed nor change in physics. Wider shots are more crude and visually uninteresting in comparison. They do succeed in establishing the depth of the surroundings—we know that the ring is big, and Porky and the bull convincingly occupy the space within, but little else. It seems like a forced menagerie of different tangents strung together to depict a vague illustration of a bullfight rather than a coherent sequence that creates a general idea. 

Perhaps the most notable portion stems from Porky digging a hole into the ground to hide as the bull sails overhead. Not for its ingenuity as a gag, but moreso on account of it first being applied in Porky’s Last Stand. Admittedly, the bull chase in that cartoon is less cinematographically ambitious than what is presented here—there are recycled shots of the characters running back and forth, there aren’t any incredibly elaborate wide shots or attempts to wow the audience with the illusion of depth in the environments, but there also don’t need to be. Comparatively basic as the layouts may be, the action itself is much more memorable, visually interesting, and fun. All benefits that don’t seem to extend to the circumstances here. 

In fact, the most engaging portions of the bill fight are rooted in the instances where they aren’t fighting at all. Again, John Carey continues to save the day through drawings that ooze with charm and purpose. He animates a sequence of the bull preventing a visibly terrified Porky from leaving the arena; some of the aforementioned fear is stalled when the bull catches a whiff of the tamales in his hands.

Speaking of hands, hooves on the bull are cheated into dainty, human fingers—they personify the bull, nulling much of his threats and garnering laughs from his sudden shift to a more amicable disposition. 

“Hot tamales?” A jovial laugh justifies Porky’s blank befuddlement regarding his situation. Such a warm demeanor seems unfathomable given his blood lust just moments prior. “Who’s afraid of hot?”

Nearly all of the box’s contents are unloaded into the bull’s mouth. Treg Brown’s hollow thunking sound effects add some necessary mischief; such completes the metaphor of the bull’s mouth seeming more akin to a trash can than an orifice. Animation is somewhat dry regarding the tamales tumbling outside of his mouth, merely passing as an overlay rather than as objects that seem to occupy a physical space, but the effort in indicating such a careless zeal on behalf of the bull is appreciated.

Similar pacing issues with the chicken and its impending explosion apply with the bull; the laden pause isn’t as effective comedically since we have already been introduced to the gag once before. Here, the priority lies not in the suddenness of an explosion at all. Rather, how to caricature said explosion and ensure it is rewarding in its wildness. 

Thankfully, in spite of the prior shot’s awkward lugubriousness, Clampett did feel the same. Any and all explosions from hereon out are metaphorical rather than literal—such as the bull clutching his mouth and rushing spastically through the ring. 

The greatest takeaway, however, stems from his exit. Through the courtesy of a wide shot, the bull plows through his spectators and into the streets of Mexico, knocking violently into spare houses and buildings along the way. Implications of the bull’s destruction are wonderfully gruesome; due to some (rightful) shortcuts in the background painting, spectators appearing as carefully placed blotches of paint instead of defined humans, it becomes all too easy to forget that the stands are indeed packed with adoring fans. Thus, the gaping whole left in the wake of the bull’s frenzy brings joyously haunting implications. 

John Carey closes out the cartoon as Porky is showered with congratulations and applause. Ever endearingly, he opts to revel in the newfound attention rather than play it humble and argue that he’s only a tamale salesman. His eagerness to go with the flow is an admittedly much more amusing route to take; it almost makes him seem even more out of place than he already is, as one would almost expect him to play it humble. Given all that he’s been subjected to, it isn’t a sin to indulge in the praise. 

Nor is it a sin to indulge in some celebrity caricature. Such a violent incongruity in tone seems to make up much of the joke itself—there is no possible way that Porky morphing into a pig caricature of Oliver Hardy (borrowing many design cues from similar circumstances in The Case of the Stuttering Pig) could fit with the narrative concocted by this cartoon, which is why the gag is embraced rather than downplayed. It’s all spurred on by a lowly bowler cap included in the celebratory shower of sombreros and boater caps and fedoras—bowlers, as loyal cartoon viewers surely know, are instantly synonymous with Laurel and Hardy.

In any case, the gag gets points through its confidence. It embraces its spontaneity and doesn’t make an attempt to ground itself; the only thing uniting Porky to the caricature is that he remains a pig. It’s a complete transformation in a moment of complete tonal whiplash—the only logical route is to embrace it with confidence, and that is thankfully just what happens here. 

Thus draws our final Porky cartoon of the calendar year to a close. It isn’t necessarily the most memorable note to go out on; quite the opposite.

The Timid Toreador is not a bad cartoon. Especially when understanding the circumstances it was made in; having to suddenly fill in for a director while he’s sick, regardless of how much work there is left to complete, is bound to erect at least a few hurdles. Many of the issues present in this short—most of them nitpicks—aren’t anything that we haven’t covered in other reviews. Especially Clampett’s cartoons who, in spite of all of his genius, had his fair share of shortcomings and oversights like any director. This is not the only cartoon to possess a somewhat abrupt transition between shots or to occasionally lose sight of how the parts make up a whole. The latter is a particularly common issue with Clampett’s cartoons even when he was at his zenith as a director. 

Regardless, these little blips—a jump cut instead of a dissolve, a lack of a hook-up pose, pauses that linger for a second too long—are regarded with a little more scrutiny than normal knowing the context behind the cartoon’s production. Not out of shame, but of sheer intrigue and an almost carnal desire to jump to conclusions. Aha, a technical error! Certainly this must be the result of Norm McCabe suddenly having to take over and nothing else! 

As mentioned earlier in this review, none of this should be regarded as cold, hard, objective fact. It is true that Clampett was on sick leave, and it is true McCabe had enough directorial involvement to get a co-director’s credit. Our knowledge stops there. How much McCabe was involved, we don’t know. Things that I speculated to be McCabe’s doing could have been pure Clampett, and vice versa. Again, there is no “Clampett portion” or “McCabe portion”. It is all pure speculation—it just becomes very easy to give in to the excitement of such comparatively extraordinary circumstances. Curiosity and a desire to justify decisions or errors that seem out of the ordinary are a natural impulse.

Back to the short itself, it’s a serviceable short understanding the hurdles it likely faced. With that said, it’s probably safe to say that Picador Porky remains a more engaging “bullfighter Porky” cartoon. It may be more crude artistically, but does boast more coherence than Toreador; the story is rather flimsy, with many of the gags being regarded as polite at most. There are certainly bursts of inspiration—many of them lie within John Carey’s involvement (though the presumed Norm McCabe sequence of Porky failing to spar with the bull and grinning shyly is a wonderful stand-out)—but the vacancy of the plot and vagueness in direction do seem to trump the little pockets of gold. In any case, it remains a playful, mildly entertaining means to pass 6 minutes.