315. The Haunted Mouse (1941)

Release Date: February 15th, 1941

Series: Looney Tunes

Director: Tex Avery

Story: Mike Maltese

Animation: Sid Sutherland 

Musical Direction: Carl Stalling

Starring: Walter Tetley (Mouse), Mel Blanc (Cat)

(You may view the cartoon here or on HBO Max!)

For such an innocuous cartoon, The Haunted Mouse does mark a number of important “first”s. The most important being that, for the first time in 11 years and 315 cartoons, this is the first short in the Looney Tunes series to not feature the reigning studio mascot of the time.

In other words, no Porky.

It also proves to be the first Looney Tunes short directed by Tex Avery since 1937, picking up after Porky’s Garden. Such is the result of a short-lived studio mandate that extended to Friz Freleng and Chuck Jones as well, with Freleng already having been doing double duty between black and white and color cartoons since his return. Merrie Melodies were more expensive to make through their lush Technicolor costs, so money could be saved—always a priority with Leon Schlesinger—by churning out the cheaper black and white cartoons. Likewise, studio output could remain high. 1941 would see a total release of 41 cartoons for the year; one of the most dense years on record. 

Granted, such a change would become insignificant in a few years. It would be in 1942 that the first short in the Looney Tunes series was released in color with Bob Clampett’s The Hep Cat. Soon, Norm McCabe would be the sole black and white director, with that role later usurped by Frank Tashlin upon his own return. 1943 would herald the last of the black and white cartoons, and soon the differentiation between the Looney Tunes and Merrie Melodies series was completely nonexistent. Only the opening and closing title cues would be the sole indicator. 

Perhaps just as notably in the long run, this cartoon marks the first on-screen credit of writer Michael Maltese... almost, barring that his name is spelled incorrectly. Yet, no amount of typos can discredit his influence on these cartoons. It wouldn’t be hyperbole to call him the greatest of the golden age storymen. 

The son of Italian immigrants, Maltese first got his job as a cel washer at the Fleischer studio in 1935. It was there that he would meet Warren Foster, who joined the studio the same year as a cel opaquer. He, of course, would also end up as one of Warner’s top storymen. 

With ambitions of becoming an in-between animator, Maltese moved to the west coast and joined the Warner studio in 1937 as just that. Yet, soon enough, he found himself a part of the story department. He would recount his troubles starting out, with others—such as Ben Hardaway—rejecting his gags and giving him little wiggle room. Maltese was nevertheless able to triumph, and would quickly rise up the ranks as one of the main writers. He and Tedd Pierce would collaborate for a few years before splitting apart (which will be elaborated at another time), and would then find himself the chief story man for Chuck Jones—the best possible outcome for Maltese, for Jones, and for the studio as a whole.

Interestingly, this wouldn’t be the only time Maltese and Tex Avery would work together. Both of them working a stint at Walter Lantz’s studio in the ‘50s would see a reunion; The two would remain lifelong friends, but had very different attitudes and indulgences regarding what they wanted out of a cartoon. Avery’s perfectionism was cited as an issue regarding their professional partnership, and he found more success with laying out and writing his own stories. 

Meanwhile, The Jones-Maltese collaboration is hailed for a very good reason; they both played off of each other’s strengths, and said strengths were aligned. Such is not exactly true for Avery and Maltese’s relationship, but that is a more general note rather than one explicitly pertaining to this very cartoon.

Though, it is worth noting that this cartoon isn’t necessarily the product of a superstar writer and director combination just unleashed to the world. To be candid, The Haunted Mouse is a bit of a misfire. Curious, since it’s a rather by-the-books execution of Avery’s current pet dynamic: abrasive heckler against dim witted adversary. Yet, in this case, the adversary isn’t much of an adversary at all: the ghost of a plucky mouse opts to torture a starving galoot of a cat in the name of cat-and-mouse revenge. 

One thing is for certain, however—there is a great novelty of seeing the Avery unit’s art direction in black and white. Given that the black and white cartoons have been dominated by so much sameness for so long (that is, almost nothing but Clampett cartoons for the past four years) it’s very refreshing to see them rejuvenated through consistently lush animation and background paintings. A lack of color doesn’t impede the quality of Johnny Johnsen’s backgrounds in any way; discrepancies in color value are bold, clear, brushstrokes are tight and motivated, and even differences in texture are poignant.

Differences in texture are particularly noticeable through an old, haggard wooden sign pointing an equally haggard cat to “MA’S PLACE — HOME COOKING”. Paint seems chipped on the dry, knobby wood; these elements allow the sign to stand out boldly in the desert. An important factor when fetching the attention of the malnourished feline.

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” Mel Blanc attempts his best impersonation of Tex Avery for the deliveries of the cat. Why Avery didn’t voice the cat himself, it’s unsure—perhaps he worried the role would come off as too “same-y”, considering that cartoons with the Avery voiced Willoughby both precede and succeed this very short. 

“FOOD!”

Speaking of Willoughby, his wild, floppy-limbed galloping is similarly appropriated by his cat inverse. Here, his spindly limbs allow for a cleaner silhouette, which allows more room for exaggeration. Motion and weight as a larger priority with the former, whereas the clarity of the drawings themselves pull more metaphorical weight. 

Avery likewise caricatures the run even through its preparation—the cat lines up as though he’s preparing for a race, the crack of an off-screen gunshot spurring him on. It happens rather quickly, potentially confusing the audience rather than allowing them to bask in the gag, but that can also be attributed to how the shots flow together. Admittedly, not very well. The camera cuts too quickly to the next scene, making it seem as though the poses jump together. Thus, the starter pistol aspect of the gag—a very clever exaggeration of the cat’s eagerness—is lost through such a quick flow of multiple ideas. 

Nevertheless, the run cycle does usher in an opportunity for inventive layouts. Here, the cat weaves in and out of perspective, allowing the environments to feel more realistic and natural through their formation. Likewise, obstacles such as a broken bridge or winding curve give justification to the cat’s exhaustion.

As it turns out, the fabled “Ma’s Place” resides in a literal ghost town. Avery keeps the direction of the ghost town as obtuse as possible, which is greatly aided through Maltese’s wordplay. Ghost puns are rife at every turn, the population prioritizes ghosts over people, the “M” in “BOOM TOWN” is notably crossed for the sake of further wordplay, and the town itself is labeled as ghost town—as exceedingly obvious as it gets. No reliance on clichés such as shutters banging, breezes whistling, disembodied voices, or any other invoker of such ambience.

Close-up shots of the ghost puns do instill their own atmosphere; Johnsen’s backgrounds are rightfully chilling, as are Stalling’s adjoining music stings. Dramatic angles of the various shots indicate urgency and dynamism. It is exceedingly clear that the town is abandoned and not exceedingly welcoming, but a lighthearted air is prioritized much more than any spine tingling antics. Gags take precedence.

Likewise, such obvious signage allows the complete oblivion of the cat to be even more amusing. His ignorance could be justified through the aforementioned schlock. Yet, even with all of these ghost puns staring him right in the eye, furthered through the disarray of the town, only the sign for Ma’s Place can catch his eye. 

Arbitrary camera movement contributes to the obtuseness of the storytelling in a less desirable way. When focusing on the sign that catches the cat’s eye, the camera closes in too close for comfort. That in itself can be excused—Avery wasn’t exempt from getting trigger happy with his close-ups, but they are often harmless. Yet, in this instance, the camera never stops. It instead cuts back to the cat doing a gleeful take, with the camera immediately pulling out. Thus, an aimless, restless product results. Filmmaking seems cluttered and unfocused, unstable. 

It’s an easy habit to fall into, seeing that camera movements are a great way to indicate dynamism and emphasis, but allowing certain actions of layouts to speak for themselves is just as powerful. Given the stagnation of the ghost town, these intricate camera movements aren’t necessary. At least not for a close-up of a sign and a cat’s adjoining reaction. 

It proves nevertheless difficult to argue with the cat’s ridiculous bouncing as he approaches the building. For such an emaciated fellow, he maintains a lot of spirit—his asinine walks and blissful ignorance do their best to endear himself to the audience. 

A shot of him looking around the interior of the house lingers a few seconds too long, but is successful in conveying his oblivion. One expects him to do a thorough inspection, realize the place is abandoned, and wilt at the prospect. No such luck—he maintains his dopey, vacant grin the whole time. In this particular shot, his pupils are drawn to be elongated and thin, rendering him even more catlike and haggard.

It is Bob McKimson who first introduces the audience to its eponymous star. Or, more accurately, antagonist. 

“Well, for the love a’ Pete!”

Voice artist and actor Walter Tetley, perhaps best remembered for his role as Sherman in Jay Ward’s Peabody and Sherman shorts, offers his trademark boyish vocals for the mouse. Tetley was no stranger to the business of voice acting; he would voice Felix the Cat in the few shorts produced by the Van Beuren studio in the mid-‘30s, and would later go on to voice Walter Lantz’s Andy Panda—the gateway to Woody Woodpecker. Tetley had a condition that, throughout his lifespan, made him look and sound like a teenage boy; it proved helpful for live action, radio and animated roles alike.

Tetley’s vocals have a novel charm in this short, but that’s about all that can be said for him. He isn’t a bad voice actor by any means—if he was, he wouldn’t have struck all of the aforementioned roles. Instead, he feels misdirected and miscast. The mouse assumes the wise cracking heckler role in the vein of Bugs or Gregory, keeping it relevant to Avery’s recent string of releases. Yet, an odd dissonance occurs with his personality and Tetley’s voice—there’s a certain naïveté to his deliveries that don’t communicate the same irony or playfulness as the other roles. As such, the mouse just seems to berate the cat rather than play with him for his own amusement. Tetley is directed to sound accusatory, inciting; such is one of the biggest problems of the short.

Everything involving the mouse offers the biggest problems of the short. His motivation to mess with the cat is flimsy at best, and cruel at worst—“Y’know, those guys used t’ run me ragged. Now it’s my turn to have some fun!” would be more justified if the cat actively posed a threat of some kind. Instead, he’s starving, stupid, and only looking for something to keep him going; this grudge of the mouse’s, even unintentionally, automatically reads as unfair and mean spirited. A pleasant watching experience does not stem from such a formula.

If anything, this little bully is at least animated well through the aid of McKimson’s character acting. Gestures actively compliment the line read, and the solidity in construction results in some of the most sophisticated character animation the black and white Looney Tunes have ever been privy to. No matter how misguided the story nor directing may be, merit in visuals alone keeps the cartoon watchable. If anything, it makes these aforementioned lapses all the more painful knowing what the short has the potential to be.

The mouse’s first act of brutality nevertheless manifests in delivering a bowl of milk that is just as much of an apparition as the mouse himself. Avery conveys the setup completely through auditory clues—the pop of the milk bottle, the eerie quietude of milk pouring. More time is saved and the audience is left with the same takeaway regardless. Likewise, more time can be delegated to the mouse’s peppy, constructed walk cycle as he delivers the bowl and turns transparent in the process.

Transparency extends to the bowl itself—but not until the cat begins to gorge himself. As mean spirited as the fake-out may be, it is very well executed. Maintaining the opacity of the bowl until the last possible moment allows the reveal to be as much of a surprise to the audience as it is the cat; it hooks the audience’s attention, wondering what the mouse could gain by actually feeding the cat. So, having the bowl fade to nothingness as the cat licks it is almost more rude than if the bowl disappeared before the cat could act. Feelings of the metaphorical rug being ripped out from under the cat are stronger. That’s great on behalf of the mouse’s mission, but not so pleasant for the audience’s sympathies regarding the cat.

Avery’s razor sharp timing isn’t as visceral as is present in his other cartoons; continuous, loud licking follows nearly ten seconds after the bowl has completely faded. That, and the delivery of the bowl itself—while well animated in terms of solidity of the bowl, motion of the mouse, and effects animation on the milk spilling from the sides—encouraging similar amounts of lugubrious timing make for a very plodding sequence of events whose payoff isn’t worth the setup. Namely because there doesn’t seem to be much of a payoff at all. That, too, is another continuous factor of the cartoon.

However, there does prove to be one continuous benefit of the short: the ways in which the mouse appears in front of the cat. Every time he materializes on screen, the animation and method differs. He grows into his proper size, he splashes like a water droplet, a mere fade speaks for itself, and so forth. Such little details embrace the spectral properties of a mouse. A constant reminder that he is a ghost, and not just in name only.

“Hey, stupid! Lose somethin’?”

A shift to Rod Scribner’s animation is exceedingly clear. Movements from the cat especially are more visceral, unrestrained—details such as his fur and hair tufts are as lively in their movement as his face and his body language. His drawings are solid, serving as a worthy successor to McKimson’s previous scene, but executed with a stylized, pinched finish that give the cat especially more personality and character. Likewise, the mouse is drawn to be more cute—his head is much larger in tandem with his smaller, giving him a squat, infantile appearance.

Dialogue on behalf of the cat feels somewhat pedantic when it really doesn’t need to be. Nothing criminal, but long winded explanations such as “I was sure hungry for that milk, ‘cause my stomach’s empty!” aren’t usually reserved for Avery’s cartoons—just an “I was sure hungry,” could communicate the same thing. 

It’s possible some of that rests on Blanc’s deliveries; as funny as they are, they feel somewhat extravagant, over-acted. The comparative sincerity from Avery’s own take on his stupid characters is lost. Thus, the cat almost seems like a caricature of himself. It’s very well an issue of voice direction rather than a faulty voice itself—there’s no such thing when regarding Mel Blanc—but nevertheless does make it more difficult to feel genuinely sympathetic for the cat. 

In any case, the comment about the empty stomach (no matter how expository it may be) does prove to have some use: it provides a jumping off point for the mouse to stick his head into the cat’s mouth and see for himself. Squeaky hinge sound effects inject both a playfulness and certain pain to his mouth being pried open. A tinny echo upon the mouse’s reaction (“Holy CATS! It is empty!”) nicely compliments the mechanical physics, exaggerating the vastness of the cat’s insides. Scribner’s detail of the cat’s pupils rolling around in a gagged daze serve as the only indication that the cat is still a living, breathing animal; not for long, by the looks of it.

Virgil Ross’ sense of timing is immediately recognizable upon the close-up of the mouse—even, smooth, a sort of gracefulness that compliments the airiness of his gestures. While these are consistently attractive aspects of his work as is, they are especially beneficial to encapsulating the conceit of the mouse. And conceited he is—he’s bold enough to suggest that the cat eat him for sustenance.

Excessive salivating at the prospect of a “little, fat, tender mouse” ensues. Consistency between poses of the mouse, however, is sparse. In one shot, his arms are outstretched, chin tilted down. That being followed by a more neutral pose of his arms behind his back, head up, makes for an inadvertent jump between shots. Given that the cat is the intended focus of the following shot, it isn’t too egregious of a folly—it nevertheless deserves pointing out, as Avery wasn’t the type to let such inconsistencies fly. It isn’t a matter of being picky; these decisions and errors do impact the flow of shots and coherency of the film, no matter how subconsciously. 

“Hey—YOU’RE a mouse!” Instead of sounding accusatory or predatory, the cat just seems surprised and confused; confused as to why the mouse would give himself away so easily.

The cocky mouse nevertheless retreats into his mouse hole, and is quickly pursued by his not-quite adversary. Timing of the cat slamming into the wall is very well executed. It almost happens too quickly, as there’s barely any time for the action to register—such brevity gives a frankness to the motion that is nonetheless funny and tactile. Such a collision seems more like an inconvenience rather than a harbinger of pain through its bounciness. 

“H’lo, jerk!”

Pitiful blinks from the cat accentuate the issues of this cartoon: the cat is helpless and hapless. Withstanding such insults from the mouse isn’t exactly funny or rewarding. Instead, the audience just pities the cat, and not in a way that’s particularly out of endearment. 

Another lack of hook-up poses leeches into the next scene: a pitiful glance at the camera is then thrust into an accusatory glower at profile. Nevertheless, it serves to accompany the cat’s aimless threats at the mouse as he attempts to goad him out. Again, his actions don’t feel particularly motivated or rooted in a sincere drive—it feels like he’s threatening the mouse because that’s what he’d assume someone else would do in his situation. No matter what he does in this cartoon, the cat will never read as a threat.

Regardless, such a highlight does spur on one of the more tolerable antics from the mouse. He dutifully joins the side of the cat, and wastes no time in mirroring the same insults, threatening himself to come out of the hole. It’s a gag Avery would reprise again throughout his career; here, it’s tolerance stems from the lack of physical violence or other means of cruelty. It does just seem like mischievous fun that doesn’t prey on the cat’s weaknesses. Or, at the very least, not as strongly.

That the cat actually has the opportunity to pounce on his prey is another bonus. If only for this fleeting moment, it seems he’s finally come out on top…

And he would have, if the mouse wasn’t an apparition who can teleport at free will. 

“Didja get me, punchy?” follows the same physics of the cat-and-mouse team berating towards the mouse hole. That is, both appear to work together in spite of the mouse “hiding” in plain sight.

Upon the realization that his paws are empty, the cat casts his sallow, forlorn gaze at the audience first. Such is an attempt to make him seem more sympathetic, pitiful—it does indeed work, if only a little too well.

Bugs Bunnyisms persist with the mouse to arguable degrees of success; he lacks all of the charm that makes Bugs work so well. Regardless, the mouse disappearing into a hole in the floor is exceedingly reminiscent of Bugs’ many playful retreats into his rabbit hole. The mouse plugging his nose as he descends would be another synonymous exit from the rabbit.

If there is a benefit to such cat abuse—both psychological and physical—it’s that it ushers in the opportunity for more Rod Scribner animation. As the cat reaches into the hole (rolling up his “sleeves” for added humanity), Scribner accentuates the folds in his ribs quite prominently. The audience is therefore reminded of the cat’s plight, for better or worse—the attention to detail does nevertheless give him more personality and organic charm.

Animation of the mouse is only seen for a second; disappearing into nothingness to kick the cat’s rear—another leftover from A Wild Hare—takes priority. Even without the mouse visible, the context clues leading up to the impact are exceedingly clear. The gingerness in which the mouse moves the tail out of the way, the climactic drumroll hinting at the buildup, and (of course) the manner in which the cat’s butt is suddenly thrust into the air. 

That is soon coupled with the mouse tying the cat’s tail in a knot and tugging. Very visceral, cruel stuff that is painful more than funny. Yet, the point still stands: if it must happen at all, at least it has the benefit of being accompanied through solid, charismatic animation. Scribner is best remembered for his wild acting sensibilities and off-kilter sense of caricature, but he also had quite the handle on firmness and solidity in construction. This is especially evident through the animation of the tail seeming to tie itself—it reads very clearly and with great grace. Optimal for the juxtaposition of the mouse‘s adjoining violent tug. Dry brush strokes before the tail is pulled simulate tension, which serves as an intriguing shorthand.

“Painful more than funny” persists through the cat’s various “OW”s and “OOH”s. The gravity of Mel Blanc’s voice would normally be amusing in less dire circumstances, but even the dopey aside of “This hurts,” doesn’t do much to ground the gag back down to reality. Overplaying his reaction (which is justified given that everything about the mouse’s grudge is overplayed) elicits discomfort rather than comedic extravagance. 

For better or worse, the audience isn’t given too much time to dwell on the pain: more gags between the mouse and cat ensue. And that is exactly what they are—gags that lead to absolutely nothing. A stream of consciousness that pads the cartoon out and supports the one-sided conflict between cat and mouse.

For example, a mouse marching into the screen with a sharp pencil encourages the audience to share the cat’s confusion. Is he going to stab the cat with it? That would be horrifically cruel, but, given the pattern of the short thus far, would at least make sense. 

Not quite. 

The portrait of the cat is cute, but amounts to absolutely nothing. No payoff or resolution, no indication of any sort of purpose served by the writing on the walls. It’s merely to assault the cat some more—thinly—and provide a segue for the next equally thin means of abuse.

In this case, tickling the cat’s ribs. Given the pronunciation of said ribs, one would expect the mouse to run his finger down his stomach and have a xylophone sound emit. Perhaps a xylophone themed musical number would ensue. Sure, it would be corny, and certainly nothing new. It would also, however, at least lead somewhere; there really is no payoff with the cat reduced to hysterics. He’s tickled. He laughs. He calms down. That’s it. Onto the next gag.

That too is just as aimless. To Avery’s credit, he does maintain a slight musical theme—rather than having the mouse turn the cat into a vehicle for a one-man band, he instead marches out with a snare drum, beats the cat’s head to a brief jazz rhythm, and leaves. Musical timing is sharp, accurately percussive, and the absurdity of the random snare drum is certainly felt, but the cartoon’s flimsiness grows more pronounced. 

It isn’t necessarily that the gags are bad. Rather, they aren’t applied in a way that actively benefit the cartoon. No contribution to the narrative. Instead, they’re just a dutiful, animated transcription of what is on paper. Gag happens. No payoff. Move on to the next. Repeat the process. Again, very stream of consciousness means of directing—well animated stream of consciousness, but little else.

It feels like Avery doing an approximation of shorts such as A Wild Hare and Of Fox and Hounds, rather than actually contributing to the “genre”. Such is especially noticeable through the mouse’s “Guess who?” being followed by a kiss—both faithful beats from A Wild Hare that lose their impact here. The mouse’s heckling feels like an obligation, a direction rather than out of genuine mischief or survival. 

On the topic of Of Fox and Hounds, Avery appropriates the hot foot gag to fit the needs of the mouse. Thankfully, this gag actually does lead to something—it better, seeing that less than a minute and a half of the cartoon remains. Literal slow burning cinematography of the match isn’t as much of a priority here as it was in the former, but it’s just as well; the aforementioned length teetered a bit too ferociously on the long side. Instead, the means to an end is most important.

While not a major detractor, a layering issue regarding the match should be noted. Rather than burning completely under his foot, the match is stuck underneath the black part of his fur markings. It almost seems to hurt more this way, as though the black is instead a skin flap that the match was forcibly stuck into; such is nevertheless not the case. 

A pathetic stare from the cat is one of the most well-directed beats to come out of the cartoon. It’s well timed, feels thoughtful in its intent, and is genuinely funny first and foremost. It still elicits a strong tug of sympathy, but there’s a sort of all-knowing vacancy to his expression rather than confused misery. Smoldering effects of the fire blazing at his feet contribute a lot—the juxtaposition between such an alarming hazard and the lugubriousness of his reaction is powerful.

More manly screaming courtesy of Mel Blanc ensues as the cat engages in a series of wild takes—caricaturing this impact against the ceiling is a particularly memorable takeaway. As he is propelled into the air, the cat crashes into the ceiling; the screen flashes white to exaggerate the impact and make it feel as though the audience themselves have been blindsighted.

The camera truck-in on the cat flopping to the ground is a bit overkill, but proves to be helpful in disorienting the audience. It feels as though the cat is genuinely getting thrashed around beyond his control. Thus, his reactions likewise seem more authentic—for better or worse, given how unjust his treatment is.

To bookend the opening of the cartoon, his crazy, loose-limbed run cycle—once a symbol of carefree ecstasy and freedom—is now appropriated to convey wild urgency and fear. So much so that the cat isn’t concentrated on where he’s headed; as long as it’s anywhere free of mice. 

Such as a closed window.

Again, Avery reprises a technique from Of Fox and Hounds that would be repurposed to even greater comedic lengths in his next cartoon, The Crackpot Quail: about 11 seconds straight of unadulterated, ear-splitting cacophony. Conveying the impact purely through auditory clues enlists in the audience’s imagination to fill in the gaps. Thus, the power of the mind allows the viewer to visualize an appropriately gruesome outcome; potentially more gruesome than what could ever be conveyed on-screen. The power of the unknown is great indeed.

Patronizing tuts and a “Too bad,” from the mouse indicate that the prognosis isn’t good. Indeed, the silence that follows the noise is eerie, heavy. The audience can freely draw their own conclusions regarding the cat’s fate.

“Aahh, but the slug had it comin’ to him!” could not be more objectively false. 

Thankfully, the spirit of the cat seems to agree; the camera trucks out to reveal one vengeful pussycat who is now on the same physical plane as his adversary. Thus, he is finally able to pose a significant threat with some degree of fairness. 

According to Mike Maltese himself, the cartoon was originally slated to have nine feline spirits gang up on the mouse instead of only one. Its simplification seems to be out of necessity—that’s a lot to animate and cram into one shot. And, through the looks of the animated lushness that has already been presented, nine of the same character couldn’t have been a cheap expense. Reducing it down to one cat does allow for the gag to read better, but the frightened reactions on the mouse as he’s confronted with his own ego doesn’t receive the same justification as it would with the original game plan. 

Nevertheless, all of that fuss too manifests in one last punchline: the population of the ghost town finds itself down a number. A cute end… but one that admittedly doesn’t make much sense. Even if the town is down a spectral denizen, wouldn’t the population remain the same with the ghost of the cat splitting the difference? Who knows. Who cares. If it doesn’t benefit the gag, it’s thereby irrelevant. A running theme for this cartoon.

The Haunted Mouse is a bit of a dud for the Avery unit. A very well-animated dud, but a dud nonetheless. Yet, given Avery’s standard of quality, some directors could only dream that their best shorts would be on the same level as a misfire from him. It’s a cartoon that, in the barest of essentials, is competent. It moves funny and it sounds funny. It entertains an audience for 7 minutes.

Regardless, the story is misdirected in its intentions, and the directing of the cartoon itself seems to be just as aimless. The mouse proves to be the biggest culprit—his aggression is uncalled for, his motives unsustainable. If the cat were actively preying on the mouse, that would be a different story. Instead, he abuses for the sake of abuse, and the poor cat is too stupid and too emancipated to be regarded with anything but pity. Likewise, both characters aren’t excessively charismatic. The audience is inclined to feel bad for the cat, but he doesn’t possess the same charm as Willoughby in Of Fox and Hounds. Thus, it proves hard to be endeared by him, again reducing the only takeaway to pity.

Likewise, that the gags don’t seem to have a tangible payoff proves to be another major issue. There are multiple ideas, sure, but that’s about all they are—bullet points and fragmented thoughts that don’t necessarily lead anywhere. So, the cartoon really just feels like a circuitous display of abuse that never gets off the ground. No justification for the abuse nor the gags.

There isn’t necessarily one culprit to pin the blame on. Given that it’s Mike Maltese’s first story, holes and inconsistencies are bound to be present. The only way to get proficient at something is to do it at all. Likewise, he does prove to have a nice start—there are some genuinely intriguing ideas that unfortunately just aren’t given the room to go anywhere. The needs of the story aren’t nurtured by the directing, and the directing isn’t supported by the story.

Indeed, it’s clear this was one of Avery’s obligation films. Get something out to meet the quota and move on. There are many gaffes and inconsistencies within the filmmaking that aren’t typically the norm for him—especially not as the perfectionist he was. A lack of hook-up poses, arbitrary camera movements that reduce coherency, bloated pieces of timing, misguided voice direction. 

His heart and attention were clearly elsewhere; like Bob Clampett, he thrust so much of himself into his work that it’s very obvious when he was invested in his work versus when he wasn’t. This is an indubitable case of the latter. Thankfully, shorts of this kind were much more the exception than the norm. It’s almost refreshing to receive a dud that prioritizes story and character—or lack thereof—over a dud through a travelogue. 

Avery really was on the upswing for this year, as his next effort would assert. Even cartoon masterminds such as Avery have their off days. Better that be expended on an innocuous black and white cartoon with one-off nobodies than a rich, Technicolor Merrie Melody.