Release Date: February 1st, 1941
Series: Merrie Melodies
Director: Chuck Jones
Story: Rich Hogan
Animation: Ken Harris
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Margaret Hill-Talbot (Sniffles, Mouse), Marjorie Tarlton (Mice)
This officially kicking off the third year of Sniffles cartoons is a testament to his longevity. Or, at least, longevity for 1941. Even then, that wouldn’t be too long to last—1941 is relatively important in the realm of Sniffles cartoons.
Most importantly, it marks the beginning of the end. Following this year, any Sniffles appearances would peter out into a trickle—one in 1943, an effort in 1944, and a last hurrah as of 1946. All of these remaining appearances would moreover be coupled with a complete overhaul of his personality. Rather than the soft-spoken, shy, yet friendly, earnest and good-natured observer, he would be transformed into a fast-talking, squeaky voiced pest with all but innocent intentions.
Jones very much would find his comedic voice all on his own, so this eventual change was bound to occur. Yet, it doesn’t seem to have been entirely in his hands—at least, not pertaining to Sniffles. It would be this year in 1941 that Margaret Hill-Talbot would retire from voice acting to start a family: a tough spot for both Jones and his star character to be put in. 
That’s where Marjorie Tarlton would come in. Who, ever coincidentally, makes her Warner vocal debut in this very cartoon. Not much is known about Tarlton’s personal life or career—aside from Warner’s, her voice can also be heard in select shorts made by Columbia Screen Gems and Walter Lantz in the very early ‘40s. She would assume the role as Sniffles for the mid-‘40s efforts mentioned above, the squeakiness in her vocals akin to Berneice Hansell’s in that both actresses were often employed to annoy rather than charm. Here, a taste test of her future stylings for Sniffles can be heard in her role as two of three nameless mice.
Self explanatory as the title may be, the short borrows a handful of themes from Jones’ Robin Hood Makes Good a few years prior. That is, Sniffles is the indisputable underdog of his group—such a lowly status renders him ripe for scapegoating. It’s he who is tasked with the feat of putting a bell around a pesky cat’s neck to warn against his premise. As his mice cohorts smugly put it, “You suggested it!”
A common criticism of the short is its often lugubrious timing. Yet, to Jones’ credit, he opens directly to the action: three mice are seen scrambling to out-run the camera from some unknown entity, a palpable urgency that is as playful as it is hurried guiding the tone. Carl Stalling’s peppy arrangement of “Three Blind Mice” bears a literality given the spotlight of the three mice in question.
Plus one. Sniffles is separated by a brief lag, caricaturing his inability to maintain momentum. Likewise, he’s noticeably smaller than his cohorts—that, coupled with his lagging behind and a brief beat where his hat slips off his head, indicate a certain lovable vulnerability. In just a few seconds, he’s already been established as the underdog of the group. A leading theme of the short.
As it can be inferred, the object of their panic is one, giant cat, galumphing behind with a clear objective. Staging is sympathetic to the mice in that the audience is eye-level with them; thus, the cat is much bigger in comparison, seeming more imposing and like a bigger threat. That the majority of his body is concealed off-screen, unable to fit himself to the bounds of the camera, justifies as such. Orchestrations of the music transforming to seem more laden, slow, and adopting a galloping pace add additional weight to its movements and intentions.
Staging a perspective shot within the bounds of the mouse hole allows the return to “home” seem all the more tantalizing—it seems to beckon the mice towards it, the composition hinting at their eventual arrival, whereas the opposite angle may adopt a more neutral lens. Instead, each action of every character can be seen clearly, their gradual approach possessing a tactility and pull in motion.
Music continues to be an imperative asset as well. After the three mice safely make it into the hole, the music stagnates. It conveys relief for the mice, who can freely shed their panicky music themes, but also indicates suspense as the audience wonders where Sniffles is. He lags behind so much that even the music has to wait for him—just like the lone mouse holding the door open.
Timing of the door slamming shut, effectively barring the cat outside, is very well handled. It would most certainly be twice as fast had it been handled just a year or two after the fact, but the feeling of suspense and anticipation is the biggest takeaway. The door only closes at the last possible moment—when the cat seems to cover the entirety of the mouse hole—to enunciate the close encounter.
And, in pure Jones fashion, a shot of the aftermath is necessary. The steely glare of the cat all twisted up against the mouse hole caricatures and likewise foreshadows one of Jones’ absolute favorite devices in a film: humiliation. With one eye contemptuously closed, his body in complete disarray, tufts of fur inked to give him a more worn and haggard appearance foreshadow many a similar pose touted by the Coyote in his Road Runner films. Jones’ directing would blossom and transform as the years went on, but many of his trademarks appear much earlier on than one might think—if only in their fledgling stages. 
Wordless curses from the cat seem to be another fixation of Jones’ presence; Bugs is seen doing the same in Elmer’s Pet Rabbit. An effective way to solidify a character’s humiliation, discontent, and ego—all emotions Jones handled masterfully. 
Construction of the cat, it’s worth mentioning, is very sophisticated; the head remains a bit soft and plastic, but it keeps him appealing and cute rather than wholly terrifying or disgusting. Likewise, muscle in his body is well defined—comparing this design to Sniffles’ previous cat adversaries in, say, Naughty but Mice or Little Brother Rat yields staggering growth for such a short amount of time.
The exact same applies to Sniffles as well (and, in this case, his larger lookalikes.) As has been mentioned in previous reviews, proportions are more carefully applied and varied for maximum appeal—his body is short, squat, making him seem cute and lovable, his cranium resting prominently on his jowls to create an organic flow of between shapes, and so forth. It seems menial to point out, but the rapid growth of Jones’ art direction deserves due praise—especially early on. It may have taken him a little while to adjust his habits in the grander scheme of things, but he excelled at what he was comfortable with and grew rapidly in that regard. That this short and Naughty but Mice aren’t even two years apart is mystifying. 
While all of this is important to mention regardless of the short, comments about Jones’ refinements—to Sniffles especially—are necessary when analyzing the coming dialogue sequence between the mice. As all four mice chat about their encounter with the cat (“Golly! Was that close!”) (“Yeah, I didn’t even hear 'im comin’!”), a wealth of dimensional and specific acting is on display. Head shakes are realistic in their weariness, a subtle movement that feels subconscious instead of a stock acting decision. Relaxed poses and slouched posture indicate both exhaustion at their run-in and a nonchalance pertaining to their idle chitchat. The audience is endeared to their personality and looks; an effect that wouldn’t have been the same with the more even ballooniness of the 1939 Jones’ style. 
Paul Julian, as he always does, hits it out of the park as the background painter. Lighting is warm, ambient, cozy, furthering the feel of the mouse hole as a sort of safe haven. Moreover, the sharpness of his brushstrokes give the environments a clear, visible definition. The audience is able to appreciate and absorb background details much easier this way. A pivotal contribution to storytelling.
Especially in this case—whereas the big mice all of their own respective pieces of “furniture”, tiny Sniffles is merely delegated to a naked spool of thread. He doesn’t have the luxury to lean back and lounge like the rest of his cohorts. No playful coziness of a matchstick chair or playing card to lean against. Furthermore, the door occupying the negative space next to him indicates a separation of sorts, as though the door is splitting the room into two. Sniffles is shunted to the rightmost corner, a visible distance away, whereas the others are all in a close-knit cluster. The social hierarchy is exceedingly clear. 
Such is proven through the scapegoating of the mice. Sniffles, partaking in their idle chitchat, muses over how the cat could be heard from a distance—his suggestion of “If he only had some kinda whistle, or… bell or somethin’ on him..." immediately catches the attention of his buddies.
That being a result of the decorative cowbell hanging on a hook high above the door. While the reveal is somewhat more plodding than necessary, its nonchalant pacing allows Jones to revel in the new ambience he’s orchestrated: sneakiness. 
A score of “Jimmy Valentine” indicates mischief and scheming, given that the lyrics of the song pertain to a delinquent. Likewise, the mice huddling together in the foreground indicates secrecy—they obviously don’t want Sniffles to overhear their plan. Thus, any communication of the scheme is through pantomime. A mere gesture towards the bell above the door suffices. While the camera trucking into the bell is somewhat arbitrary, given that the idea is communicated just as clearly through the pan upwards, the scene itself is staged very clearly and mindfully.
Sniffles’ innocent oblivion is key to ensuring the setup is successful. He can’t have any suspicions as to the activities of his cohorts—and, sure enough, the camera cuts back to him lost in thought, still mumbling about the bell. Cruel as the scapegoating may be, it’s made more palatable through his earnest and lack of awareness. Knowing he was lowest on the social hierarchy would only instill an uncomfortable sense of pity. The audience feels sympathetic, but his comparative perkiness allows the exposition to roll along more smoothly. 
All of the above are furthered through the sudden crescendo in his voice as he finalizes his plans, making bright-eyed eye contact to indicate his confidence. 
“Hey, fellas! I guess what we oughta do i-is…”
Execution on the mice holding the bell is sublime. Casting them at a slight up angle makes them seem more imposing, perhaps even threatening; Sniffles is obviously beneath them. Conceit drips from their faces—their expressions get an immediate laugh from their specificity. 
Moreover, the hard cut to them holding the bell elicits a genuine response of surprise. Not to the point of disorientation; their intentions were made very clear just moments before. Instead, withholding any notion of a follow-up—audio cues of the bell gently clinging, the mice traveling in or out of the foreground, even just the projection of their shadows against the wall—allows the audience to be fully immersed in Sniffles’ point of view. That sudden jolt, that shock, no matter how telegraphed their ideas may be in advance, justifies Sniffles’ wilting as we see what he sees in real time. Great sympathetic and immersive storytelling.
Given that the short is intended to be lighthearted rather than pitying, Sniffles’ reaction is purely comedic. Comedic, seeing as it’s so rooted in sincerity: while his shrill, elongated squeak of “MmmmmmmEEEEEEEEEEEEE?” is intended to be nothing but warmly asinine, much of its impact is rooted in knowing that the bewilderment is absolutely genuine. Jones’ early Sniffles may not be a purely comedic character, but his strongest comedy does unfold in moments exactly like these. Complete happenstance.
That goes doubly for his soft, unsteady but convicted “No.” The complete opposite end of the spectrum, and amusing for very similar reasons. 
It’s nothing that hasn’t been said before in these reviews, but deserves reiteration for this cartoon especially: Margaret Hill-Talbot’s vocals are essential to Sniffles’ charm. The warmth, personality and authenticity of her deliveries are at some of their strongest in this cartoon. There has yet to be a short where she sounds “bad”—no such thing with her—but there have been lines that feel misdirected or not emphasized in the right places. Here, no such issue occurs. Sniffles has a considerable amount of dialogue in this one as well, rendering this factor particularly important.
Such sincerity in his vocals is also instrumental in constructing an antithesis against Tarlton’s voices as the mice. Tarlton herself is quite the talent, but she was more in the vein of Berneice Hansell in that her voice was often used to annoy or to humor rather than strictly charm. The squeak of her voice perfectly accentuates the disingenuous slyness of the mice, their declaration of “You suggested it!” rendered even more slimy and mocking.
“But it isn’t a very good idea because it isn’t… because it… it isn’t a very good idea!” continues to justify the above praises for Talbot. It’s a line written with her sensibilities in mind, possessing a solid cadence, an easing in and out of volume and intensity to demonstrate Sniffles’ hesitation. Sincerity in Talbot’s vocals is unmatched, and said sincerity is captured perfectly in Sniffles’ mannerisms.
“…Is it?" withstands the same praises.
An incongruously disingenuous “It’s a WON-derful idea!” from the mice is, this time, communicated off-screen. Cutting to the same shot of them holding the bell for a third time would grow monotonous; the viewer has a good idea of the character geography within the scene. Focusing only on Sniffles places the focus—and, therefore, sympathy—on him as we are privy to his reactions. Moreover, the disembodied voices seem more stubborn without a face attached to them. It’s as though the mice are so sure of their plan that the camera won’t even cut to them; we don’t need to see them to know that they aren’t budging. Keeping the camera focused on Sniffles makes him seem more trapped. (That, and it’s helpful in differentiating the flow of shots.) 
Moreover, it offers a smoother segue into Sniffles’ protests, where character acting continues to be a forefront. He opens his mouth to speak, with the comparative vacancy on his face indicating a lack of conviction—more hemming and hawing. Yet, there’s a beat as he balls up his fists, looking at his chest; the gears are turning in real time. It’s obvious he’s putting in a discernible effort to stand up for himself. Given the prior context clues surrounding the other mice, it’s probably something he doesn’t have much experience in.
His “I won’t do it,” is firm, but still affectionately soft-spoken. It’s delivered as a fact rather than a focused declaration or argument. Body language attempts to support this; flicking his chin up and gripping the edges of the spool communicate further adamantine.
Yet, as he continues to protest, his true emotions regarding the matter manifest more noticeably. His chin flicking morphs into a slight slouch—the scowl on his face maintains (as do his circuitous objections of “No sir, I won’t!”), but that little gesture does indicate a growing flimsiness.
Of course, the audience understands that the argument is dead on arrival. The short is titled Sniffles Bells the Cat, not Sniffles Argues with the Mice; a fade to black while Sniffles continues talking, only to open to him being shoved out of the mouse hole (bell and all) completely speaks for itself. A very clever rebuttal against Sniffles’ argument that is both gentle, but clear. Even as he’s being pushed out the door, bell in hands, his protests ensue with his eyes screwed shut. It doesn’t even seem like he has any awareness as to his present situation.
Such is confirmed through the slam of the door, interrupting his adamant argument of “I won’t take one step out of that door!” Interestingly, his surprised take ushers a very brief usage of dot eyes. It looks a bit odd considering that his scleras return upon the settle of the pose, but the stylization does aid in ensuring the take looks—and feels—different. A clarity measure, the shortcut allows the viewer to get a general idea of what Sniffles looks like. The drawings are incredibly small, so to ink both the eyes and pupils could risk looking sloppy or nondescript. Less strain is put on the inkers. 
A cut to one of the mice reassuring Sniffles ushers more creative art direction. Lighting inside the hole is much more sparse than before, justified by casting the mice in the foreground under a silhouette. Such a prevalence of shadows again furthers the idea of the mouse hole as a safe haven—free from light and free from danger. They feel much more secluded, close knit and safe, whereas Sniffles has to deal with the vast, brightly lit horrors of the house.
Stalling’s musical orchestrations are as gentle, warm, and earnest as Sniffles himself, yet another notable highlight of the short. He even manages to transfer a melody to mere line deliveries: “Is that all? Honest?” and a reply of “Honest, that’s all!” are both reflected accordingly into the music, reflecting the cadence of their voices. With such a prevalence of dialogue, little flourishes like these are pivotal to introducing purpose and coherence. Timing the music to a line delivery, no matter how insignificant, prevents the audience from boredom or feeling as though their ear has been talked off. 
Thus, Talbot is enabled to flaunt her vocal talents even further. Sniffles’ monologue is in the vein of his earlier protests: circuitous, unsubstantial, with his actions and expressions visibly betraying his words. Again, only could Talbot deliver such fragmented, repetitious statements with the charm, easy listening and sincerity as she does. These lines are written with character and intonation in mind, not substance.
“Well, that’s different! Why didn’t ya say so in the first place? Shucks, if all I have to do is put this ol’ bell around that cat’s neck… why, that’s diff’ern’t! That’s simple.”
As he trudges along with the bell, however, his face begins to visibly wilt. Lapses between his deliveries grow, his voice itself slowing as he does a very poor job of disguising his fear. His reassurances are nothing more than flimsy words. 
“Sure… it’s… simple…“
Nervous chuckles and occasional throat clearings add a great deal of authenticity to his vocals. A realistic, charming buffer that adds more rhythm to his deliveries—fragmented as they may be—and allows the dialogue to feel less aimless. Aimlessness being, of course, the intent.
“That’s what… it is… anybody could do it… sure…”
Sniffles proves to be the exception to his own words.
An old reliable timelapse serves as a narrative transition. Casting the clock at such a dramatic up angle makes the amount of time elapsed seem even grander in scale, the clock having an added authority to its ticking—the viewer wonders what the other mice are thinking, seeing as nearly four hours have passed. Do they think Sniffles is dead? Do they even care at all to think about such things? Nevertheless, the clock is an easy way to communicate the time elapsed, adding an extra layer of severity to Sniffles’ mission. Even though there’s no time limit, the stakes seem higher; all of that is communicated through the manner in which the clock cuts into the filmmaking. It commands attention. 
As such, we arrive to a much more spry and cognizant Sniffles. Admittedly, the cartoon is about halfway over without anything substantial happening as of yet—this will be subjectively defended later—so cutting to a belabored scene of Sniffles waking up would be futile. Jones’ milking of time is purposeful, but even he knows when to get the ball rolling. Therefore, after an establishing pan to reacquaint the audience with the geography of the house, the opposite end of the spectrum is teased by demonstrating Sniffles engaging in a heated argument with the cat.
Except, there is no cat. There isn’t anybody at all save for Sniffles and the bell. Audiences are given more context after a pause; the confrontational demeanor fades to inquisitive hesitation as he rubs his chin, scratches his head thoughtfully… another deliberate highlight dedicated to unadulterated character acting.
“Look here, mister cat! You put this ol’ bell on before I get sore an’…” soon morphs into “It’s the very latest style in bells! All the cats will be wearin’ em this year… here, slip this one on for size.” Ever thorough and innocent, Sniffles even takes the time to practice the best approach as to how to achieve his mission. That alone speaks to his character—he’d rather take the time to rehearse, and thoughtfully at that, than rush right into the action. It’s clear this isn’t as “simple” as he was letting on.
Jones’ priorities do seem to be somewhat skewed regarding this cartoon; character acting is so prevalent that the story may seem thin in comparison, and it is. Discounting the opening chase, it takes Sniffles four minutes to even encounter the cat. It would be a lie to say the pacing isn’t lugubrious or bloated, but, at the same time, there seems to be a much stronger purpose behind the slow pacing than in other cartoons. It isn’t out of directorial incompetence or a lack of awareness. Rather, these pauses and lapses are integrated to allot more time to character beats: showing Sniffles’ confidence be sapped out of his body in real time as he trudges along with the bell, demonstrating every notion of conceit from the cat as he lusts over the shell game.
We never find out which is his preferred method of bell-slipping-on: threats of brute force or domestic sales pitches. Not because he gives up, but because the remainder of his sales pitch (now with promises of a money-back guarantee) is interrupted through the introduction of an audience. 
Stagnation on the cat is unnerving. As Sniffles mulls on the next line of attack, the camera adjusts to accommodate the cat leaning into frame to listen intently. He doesn’t move a muscle as Sniffles talks, not even daring to blink. Likewise, the comparative vagueness on his face is just as haunting—his contented conceit is clear, but little else. Such a pleasant expression proves to be more unnerving than a grimace or a scowl; he’s more threatening through his nondescript demeanor. It indicates a level of confidence through restraint.
While it does take a few moments, Sniffles does eventually catch on. Specificity in character acting continues through his reaction; it would be all too easy for a sly, guilty grin to smother on his face, sweat beading his face as he slowly reaches for his bell and prepares to dip out in a flash. 
Instead, a sort of half grimace briefly flashes onto his face, as though he’s too paralyzed to entertain the aforementioned expression. The flickers of his facial muscles moving feels much less voluntary, more natural, a genuine, subconscious impulse. It may not look as flashy or as funny as a big, toothy grin, but Sniffles isn’t a character who requires those sorts of reactions. His quavering is charming and unique in its own right.
That flash of an exit does eventually occur, but isn’t as hyped up in its cinematography as it could. Again, that seems to be a purposeful decision. Given that Little Brother Rat opens to synonymous circumstances—Sniffles running through the house, away from the cat in varying angles and perspectives—we do know that Jones is more than capable of such cinematography. 
His decision to merely have the camera pan from one corner to the other is to understate the circuitousness of Sniffles’ route. He just runs in a giant circle, landing right where he started. Barely moving the camera and obstructing the majority of the action inserts a tone that is ironic more than sympathetic to the chase; there’s no need for such theatrics if he’s just going to end up right back where he started, that in itself being the main takeaway. 
Instead, Sniffles ends up even worse off—so caught up in the adrenaline of the rush, his “safe haven” turns out to be sitting right on top of the cat’s muzzle. His lack of a bell on hand is notable.
“Gee, it’s certainly good to be somewhere where it’s safe!” has a slight lapse in its delivery—a little stutter manages to eke its way between “somewhere” and “where”. It very well could have been an accident, but the slip-up instead adds all the more organic charm and believability to his vocals instead. Sniffles’ early status as a creature of sincerity is greatly justified even through his vocal deliveries in this short alone. Likewise, the pause could have been a part of Jones’ vocal direction; whichever the case, the end result is remarkably organic.
Ditto for his acting as he feels the cat’s whiskers beneath him; his realization is not marked through beads of sweat, a laborious gulp, or any other means of endearing exaggeration. Instead, much like his initial run-in with the cat, any indication of acknowledgement is conveyed through the slight constriction of facial muscles. How underplayed and natural the reaction is almost proves to be funnier than the reaction itself.
Moreover, such stillness anticipates the eventual climax—one that is genuine, rather than a fake out, as dictated through comparatively more inventive and immersive layouts. A take of Sniffles running down the cat’s back and literally splitting hairs is particularly inventive. Execution in itself is a little wooden, with the timing and spacing of the drawings feeling conservative and even, but the idea of the take prevails. It provides a caricature of urgency and fear. 
Dramatic up angles of the layout communicate motion, dynamism and action, all of the above particularly poignant in the last shot where the chase comes to a halt. Paul Julian paints a bottom sliver of the screen completely black, arranging the camera on a slant and forcing the audience at ground level. It manages to both make the cat seem huge and small in comparison to the everyday household objects; very immersive perspective that communicates a lot.
The chase comes to a halt upon the arrival of the kitchen, where the cat has momentarily lost sight of his target. Yet, following a patient pan from the cat’s point of view, the camera settles on three perfectly arranged cups upon the counter. A tip-off. Quickly cutting into the cups on the counter is another arbitrary camera move, as the mere act of panning back to the cups speaks for itself. Yet, the quick truck-in nevertheless solidifies clarity—the brevity of its speed likewise instills intensity, as though to capture the cat’s excitement at cracking the code.
Perhaps the scene that encapsulates all of the aforementioned praises about intricacies in personality and character acting best is the one of the cat playing the shell game with said mugs. Animated by Ken Harris, the sequence is lengthy—it nears close to a minute. While it certainly could be delivered faster, its leisure here serves to place Harris’ intricate acting on full display. Something that cannot be rushed. 
His draftsmanship is structurally sound and solid, sharp construction allowing the cat to tilt his head, his paws, and his body at a menagerie of various perspectives. Spacing and timing of the drawings are varied to give the cat’s actions a tangible weight, flicks of his wrist feeling light and airy, clicks of his claws against the tops of the cups sharp and weighted. 
Personality proves to be the biggest takeaway of the scene: playful conceit overwhelms the scene. Rather than thrashing the cups around, swatting and hissing and scrounging for his meal, the cat entertains the domesticity of the situation. That he even bothers to stop and play the shell game at all is the biggest gag—there is absolutely no need to, but it indicates his confidence at finally cornering his prey. Might as well have some fun with it. And, indeed, that self assurance is communicated through half-lidded eyes, thin smiles, haughty flicks of a wrist, and various other actions that are staggeringly human. Much of this character acting is, again, not incomparable to the acting touted by Jones’ Coyote in later cartoons. 
Especially upon his investigation of the final cup. Sniffles manages to press himself up against the middle mug, obscuring himself from the view of the cat. Thus, the cat believes that the final mug is indeed harboring his prize. To enunciate his victory, the cat even wipes his mouth in anticipation, simulating his mouth watering eagerness. It elevates the stakes all the more, which in itself is a feat considering the audience knows that Sniffles is safe. 
If only for the time being. Using the handle of the mug to frame the action of his getaway is absolutely genius—very immersive, very dynamic and very clear staging. Frank Tashlin wasn’t the only one with an eye for cinematography.
Inclusion of the mug provides one last bit of comic relief as the inevitable chase unfolds. That is, after Sniffles unearths himself from its depths, thinking he’s safe, he soon finds himself caught in the mug once more as he desperately attempts to outrun his visitor. Execution of the motion is somewhat stilted, the mug lacking a pronounced weight as it rotates, but that in itself almost accentuates the difference in texture between it and the much more organic Sniffles. The mug seems to pose a greater obstacle because of its rigidity.
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Much—if not all—of the chase seeks to reprise earlier beats of the film, whether it be through music cues, camera angles, locations, or explicit parallels (such as the mice holding the door open for Sniffles as he approaches.) It seems rather routine at the surface level, and, admittedly is just that, but it serves as a nice way to wrap up all of the previous ideas conclusively. We recognize the wide shot of the living room, we recognize the corner of the wall as both characters turn it in a frenzy, we recognize the close-up of the wall and crown molding where Sniffles’ bell still lies. It makes the action seem less aimless and more motivated.
And, as luck would have it, the bell still lying in plain sight brings more good to Sniffles than misfortune. Running into it doesn’t slow him down and render him a casualty. Instead, it is knocked into the air, providing a launchpad for the bell to ever conveniently land around the cat’s neck. 
A close-up shot of the bell around the cat’s neck is again somewhat arbitrary, as the action is already made clear, but nevertheless runs the point home. Likewise, the size of the bell remains somewhat inconsistent; the close-up demonstrates a much larger bell than what was seen in the prior shot. Nothing egregious, and a necessity more than anything; the bigger the bell, the more clear it is to the audience—an important asset for close-up shots where clarity serves as a foundation. The bell has to be small enough for Sniffles to knock into it and send it into the air believably, as well as be large enough to considerably inconvenience the cat and remain visible. Given the vast size disparity between Sniffles and the cat, striking that middle ground can be a difficult task.
But, indeed, Sniffles does make it safely back into the mouse hole as the end of the cartoon serves as a deliberate inverse of the opening. Frantic race inside of the mouse hole, a near miss with the door slamming shut, a shot of a battered and discouraged cat outside of the hole, and a conversation about the aforementioned events. Again, a very cohesive way to wrap up the cartoon, and one that allows the audience to compare the progression of events. Outside of adjoining to the current narrative, the biggest difference between both segments is that a heavier pause lingers after the door closes to accentuate the battered reactions of the cat. Loud, ear-splitting slams and thuds and crashes completely dominate—shutting the cat out feels more rewarding and grave as a result. 
Stalling’s sentimental orchestrations of “You’re a Lucky Guy” now carries a slightly different meaning than it did at earlier portions of the short. Instead of being ignored in the corner, Sniffles stands at the center of attention, modestly listening to the praises of his cohorts but proudly receptive to their feedback. It, much like Sniffles’ character himself, is genuinely wholesome and sweet. Not in a way that burdens the cartoon or feels cloying, not an obligatory happy end. There is a sincerity to the praises of the mice and the contented reactions of Sniffles, and one that is very well executed.
Perhaps some of that organicism stems from the ending reveal; “Shucks, it was easy! I just walked right up to ‘im an’ said ‘Look here, mister cat! You put this ol’ bell on before I get mad an’…” is answered with a camera pan to reveal that Sniffles has his fingers crossed behind his back. A very slight ironic end that doesn’t discredit the earnest of the previous scenes, but adds more character and charm. 
Sniffles Bells the Cat may not be one of the strongest cartoons out of Sniffles’ filmography, nor one of the most interesting. Yet, to get a bit more candid, it happens to be one of my favorites—it’s the very short that made me fall in love with Sniffles to begin with.
With this short placing such a particular emphasis on personality and character acting, Sniffles’ own charisma and demeanor is given a much bigger spotlight than in other cartoons. While it’s not to say he doesn’t have personality elsewhere, more shorts are focused on him reacting to or being thrust into a situation, whereas this one places character dynamic and acting at the very forefront.
Talbot’s vocal deliveries ooze warmth and sincerity, with little accents and directing decisions actively contributing to the charm; Sniffles and his brothers speak with a slight accent, “him” sounding more like “eem”, g’s often dropped at the ends of sentences to seem more natural and less crisp, as well as little stutters or pauses in a sentence to lessen the sensation of any deliveries being a dutiful line read. As stressed beforehand, Talbot’s voice acting is consistently charming throughout all of the Sniffles shorts. Yet, her deliveries here really make the difference—especially for a short that is so reliant on dialogue.
It is the Sniffles cartoon I like the most for Sniffles and Sniffles only. I adore the sentimentality of Little Brother Rat, and I am absolutely captivated by the filmmaking of Bedtime for Sniffles. Naughty but Mice is wonderful through the humor of its situation. Sniffles Bells the Cat, I love for Sniffles—how he looks, how he acts, how he speaks, how he interacts.
It is a very character centric cartoon and is an absolute feat for the Jones unit’s animators. Great specificity, great personality, great avoidance to stock acting decisions. It’s no masterpiece, and is a short best admired through little details rather than the overall product, but nevertheless continues to demonstrate the rapid growth of Jones and his animators. While it’s a sentiment I’ve echoed with many of Jones’ cartoons before, the point still very much stands: the kind of visuals, character acting and genuineness touted by this cartoon are exactly what Jones was killing to replicate when he first started directing. The same extends to Leon Schlesinger in the midst of their mid-‘30s “make ‘em cute” period.
Jones may have been a few years past such a prime, but that doesn’t discount that he was excelling in the very vision he sought to achieve.
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