Release Date: May 24th, 1941
Series: Merrie Melodies
Director: Tex Avery
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Kent Rogers (Cary Grant, James Cagney, Bing Crosby, Edward G. Robinson, Mickey Rooney, Lewis Stone, Jimmy Stewart, Peter Lorre, Clark Gable, Ned Sparks, Henry Aldrich, Groucho Marx), Mel Blanc (Jerry Colonna), Sara Berner (Greta Garbo, Ann Sheridan, Receptionist, Dorothy Lamour, Henry Aldrich’s mother), Kay Kyser (Himself)
(You may view the cartoon here!)
Following Porky’s Preview, Tex Avery marks a return to the prestige of color. Not counting his Speaking of Animals shorts at Paramount, he would exclusively work in color from hereon out—especially regarding the earlier days of Warner Bros, that was quite the status symbol.
The short functions as both a paradise and a headache for animation historians. As mentioned above, the short once touted material that has since been declared lost, and a rather significant chunk of footage. Historian Devon Baxter recently posted a wonderfully illuminating article on some production details that will undoubtedly be parroted here—I encourage you to get the information straight from the source. In his findings, the original runtime of the short clocked in at 8 minutes and 27 seconds. Surviving now at 7 minutes and 44 seconds, a 43 second difference has been lost to the sands of time—substantial given Avery’s usual brisk pacing.
Even something as basic as who wrote the short is a mystery. Ditto for the animation credit, though that’s much easier to surmise given that the animators rotated much less frequently than writers. Bob McKimson, Rod Scribner, Virgil Ross, Sid Sutherland and Rev Chaney: at least one of them had their name emblazoned on the title card. As for a writer, it would still be a few years until the story men would be frequently associated with one single director. That, too, is anyone’s guess for now.
In any case, this short is fascinating from a historical perspective, and befuddling for the general public of 2023. Indeed, the short functions as a gala of celebrity caricatures, featuring all of Hollywood’s favorite big shots in 1941. This would later prove to be as much of a detriment as it would a point of focus.
So, without further ado, the audience is plunged into the nightlife of Los Angeles circa 1941. Johnny Johnsen’s establishing background pan is breathtaking, much to the surprise of nobody—his brushstrokes are soft and defined, illustrating a palpable depth and perspective through the buildings growing less defined in the background, values softening. A bright, white and yellow glow reflects directly off of the buildings right in the heart of downtown, operating in symbiosis with the spotlights waving in the air.
In static images, the shot doesn’t seem like anything special. Gorgeously rendered, absolutely, but straightforward. Thus, it should be noted that the spotlights swing to and fro in conjunction with Carl Stalling’s conga music stylings. The lights jerk in opposite directions when cued by the music—a playful sentience is therefore constructed, offering a mischievous dissonance against the lushness of the backgrounds. Pedestrian or only politely amusing as it may seem now, such is a clever reassurance from Avery. A whisper that screwball antics lie ahead. That convention will be tossed out the window.
Animating caricatures is a lot of work—expensive work, especially when said caricatures are meticulously sculpted through highlights and shadows on their faces, their hair, their clothes. So, to alleviate the budgets, the stress of the artists, and the attention span of the audience, the first opening minute of the cartoon is dominated through pans and other static shots of backgrounds. Avery is able to cleverly disguise his economy through movement in the camera or the barest definition of animation (such as the methodical blinks of a neon sign.)
Our celebrity gala is held at Ciro’s, which indeed was a real nightclub on Sunset Boulevard. Having opened in 1940, its novelty was fresh at the time of this cartoon’s release (and even more so for its production, assuming the short began production sometime in 1940.) It was retooled from Club Seville, which had opened in 1935–the club was opened by William Wilkerson, who was also the owner of Café Trocadero. That, too, was a nightclub subject to animated parody; Porky at the Crocadero, for one.
The building, surprisingly, still stands. After the club’s closure in 1957, it later reopened as “The Boss”, adopting a rock theme that proved fitting for the mid-60s. It would later be remodeled as The Comedy Store in 1972, a comedy venue that still stands and operates today.
Back to 1941. Avery does an interesting camera move—the camera dissolves to the exterior of Ciro’s, allotting a few seconds to pull away. A few beats pass to allow the audience to admire the sights before the camera trucks back in, making another dissolve to the puny neon sign on the building’s façade. A common vice of Avery’s Warner shorts was excessive camera movement; perhaps “trait” is a more accurate descriptor, as it’s an incredibly menial nitpick to take issue with.
While the restlessness in the camera could be attributed to directorial restlessness, attempting to disguise the immobility of the shots with artificial movement, the maneuver also seems purposeful. It’s akin to a tourist stepping back to admire the sights before heading in, taking that time to get the full view. Whether such an idea was intentional or not, it works regardless.
Always a lover of his signs, the next gag lampoons the luxuriousness of the entire event—meals are so expensive that the mercy of down payments are advertised… if met within the terms of 6 months. Porky at the Crocadero features a synonymous gag that shares the same goal of ridiculing and lampooning such extravagance. Here, the implication that said Hollywood actors may have to indulge in such a plan is particularly amusing.
Atmosphere within the confines of Ciro’s is much more high class and ornate. Thus, we are introduced to the first glimpses of our caricature caravan—Ben Shenkman serves as the resident caricature artist, whose work could be previously seen in Malibu Beach Party. Indeed, a number of caricatures from that short (such as Claudette Colbert, who is the first caricature the audience sees) are transplanted into this one. Avery’s unit handles them more confidently and solidly, less feeling like animated bobbleheads and more like eccentric, odd figures from head to toe.
Seated in the foreground next to Colbert are Don Ameche, Adolph Menjou, Norma Shearer, and Cary Grant, whose elevated stardom grants him the intimacy of a close-up.
Hinted in our dissection of Goofy Groceries, Hollywood Steps Out is Kent Rogers’ Iliad—doubly impressive given that this is only his second cartoon for Warner’s (third if you include the line reuse from Groceries in Farm Frolics.) Cary Grant is just a fraction of the subjects selected to carry his talents. Rogers has the ability to not only masterfully impersonate, but to find and embrace the humor in it.
For example, Grant’s monologue here references three of his films right off the bat. His delivery is convincing enough to not arouse any suspicion from modern viewers, assuming instead he’s just spitballing nonsense, but is also delivered with a certain bombastic quality to it that enunciates the facetiousness of his dialogue.
“What a place—what a place! It’s as pretty as a pit’cher! …But if I told my favorite wife the awful truth, I’d land right on the front page!” An allusion to The Philadelphia Story is more subtle through associations of a front page headline, whereas My Favorite Wife and The Awful Truth embrace their obtuseness. The implication that Grant communicates only in sentences that allude to his filmography is incredibly entertaining, and a great way to caricature the Hollywood elite and their stereotyped conceit in a new way.
“Yessir-ee Bobby!”, likewise, offers an amusing contrast from how juvenile it sounds. Both on its own and especially juxtaposed against the extravagance of listing out his filmography.
Enter Greta Garbo, whose face is no stranger to the Warner cartoon filmography. This is certainly the most brutal of her caricatures yet—lampooning her big feet is a given (which, of course, is the case here, using the soles of her heels to light Grant’s cigarette), but her face is certainly much more exaggerated, as is her role of a mere cigarette girl instead of a fellow hotshot.
Granted, 1941 would mark the year of her retirement with Two-Faced Woman, which released later in November. It garnered some particularly unfavorable reviews, whether at the film itself or Garbo’s performance, further justifying her retirement. Her roles had dwindled to a trickle within the latter half of the ‘30s, and, in spite of receiving offers all throughout the ‘40s, she remained out of the public eye. Casting her as a “lowly” cigarette girl, poking at her dwindling relevance was both a purposeful and an accidentally prophetic jab.
Elsewhere, Edward G. Robinson proves to be a more familiar face in the Warner cartoons than Ann Sheridan. Granted, the cartoonists had more jokes for Robinson they did Sheridan—first alluded to in a sign gag in Porky’s Last Stand, Ann lives up to her status as the “Oomph Girl”, greeting Robinson with a series of “oomph”s and nothing else. As is the case with all of the caricatures, her animation is handled with grace and dimension. Without the benefit of sound, it looks as though she’s genuinely engaged in a conversation.
The laden pause wedged between one final “Oomph,” is masterfully executed as well, partially because it’s so confident in its stupidity.
Now that the audience has been thoroughly accustomed to the machinations of this short (that is, that it’s not one to be taken seriously), the tone adopts one of leisure and good humor not drowned by sophistication. A rolling pan of the camera sweeping down an array of tables allows Avery to indulge in some sight-n-sign gags, always a favorite with him.
Likewise, it offers the opportunity for some self-caricaturing of the Warner staff. Audiences in 1941 may have been clueless to the two men sitting at the first table, proudly accompanied by a jovial sting of “Merrily We Roll Along”; however, historians and the Termite Terrace crew alike are quick to identify Henry Binder and Leon Schlesinger. As mentioned in the Porky’s Preview analysis, Binder was certainly no stranger to these shorts (and neither was Leon, considering he plays a considerable role in You Ought to Be in Pictures). This very well may be the kindest and most forgiving caricature of Henry to be found in these shorts.
Bette Davis is a name and face—unfortunately not shown here—more recognizable to the theatergoers of 1941. Her reserved table sets up the remainder to follow; Kate Smith’s, for example, is much more grandiose in its seating to accompany Avery’s need for a fat joke. Offering a glimpse of a “normal” reservation allows for the ones following to seem more absurd and amusing with a means of comparison available.
Such as the table accompanying Blondie and Dagwood, with accommodations made for Baby Dumpling—a gilded high chair—and Daisy, whose fire hydrant is pure Avery indulgence. What is a Warner Avery cartoon without an allusion to dogs pissing? The comic strip Blondie was such a hit in its heyday that it spawned a whopping 28 film adaptations from 1938 to 1950; such a reference here serves as a testament to its popularity as a franchise.
Elsewhere, a coat check girl performs her duties while remaining casual with her celebrity run-ins. A written transcript of the cartoon merely labels her as the “check girl"—odd, considering she seems to bear such a specific design. Sara Berner lends her the nasal Brooklynite drawl heard in so many of Berner’s performances, hinting at no specificity. If she was a caricature, then there would presumably be tighter attempts to mimic her speech patterns. Nevertheless, for the time being, if she is a caricature then it is lost as to who.
However, a Mr. Weissmuller is much easier to identify. The appearance of the Tarzan actor is at its most chiseled and defined yet within these cartoons—comparing his construction here to his appearance in The Coo-Coo Nut Grove reveals a world of difference (and evolution.) He strips his suit jacket to reveal an animal skin; the bow-tie and collar is a nice addition to both ground him back to reality and accentuate the asininity of his ensemble.
Even the camera trucks out to reveal the entirety of his build, as though he’s too big to fit within the regular confines of the screen. Such makes the menial act of removing a jacket seem much more grandiose and tactile.
Strip tease artist Sally Rand receives not one, but two caricatures throughout the short—ironic, given that she was evidently touchy regarding her likeness being used in parodies. Perhaps a double dose was compensation on Avery’s part.
Likewise, such a handicap proved helpful for the sake of a gag. Here, the check girl takes Rand’s feather puffs, implying that she’s strutting completely nude into the nightclub. Obscuring her face enables the censors to be pleased, the implication to be stronger than what would be evoked by an actual reveal, and for the real Rand to remain appeased. Stalling’s sultry accompaniment of “You Must Have Been a Beautiful Baby” fills in any missing cues lost amongst audiences.
Priorities in tone shift to one that is furtive and confidential. Enter some of Hollywood’s most notorious tough guys: James Cagney, Humphrey Bogart, and George Raft, whose nefarious coin flipping has previously been displayed in outings such as Ali-Baba Bound.
Even if their relevance is lost on modern audiences today—perhaps save for Bogey—they can still admire the conscientiousness in the staging. A very purposeful layout from all accounts; some beer taps linger indiscriminately in the foreground, hinting to the audience that they lurk at the bar. Always a hot spot for nefarious goings-on or pressing conversations in the movies, as well as indicating a gentle delinquency through the reference of alcohol. Meanwhile, the layout is split into two by a wall corner. Said corner likewise offers a further air of confidentiality, as it indicates that they’re corralled away from the main bustle and free to indulge in their business.
Armed with their chisled bobble heads, the mugs flip their coins in tandem. Cutting to the wide shot suffers from a brief lack of hook-up poses that thankfully isn’t life or death. Having them turn around in the mid-shot is enough to guide and inform the viewer on an impending chain, but there seems to be a slight jump as they don’t get out of the chairs that are implied to be at the bar. A disconnect that is admittedly menial.
Said coin flipping soon amounts to arguing as they’re transformed from gangsters to penny pinchers; the juvenility of them arguing like referees over a football play is a nice touch.
Elsewhere, Avery returns to the Garbo caricature, which he clearly can’t get enough of. A caricature of Harpo Marx is immediately recognizable from audiences back in the day, whether it be from his expansive and iconic filmography or his occasional cameos on synonymous Hollywood cartoons. The former is the more believable option.
Giving someone the hot foot was also commonplace in Hollywood cartoons—Tex Avery’s especially. Thus, Greta’s giant feet are subject to Harpo’s tomfoolery. Execution of the gag is sharp and conscious, much more than a typical hotfoot gag. Namely because the act of burning her feet isn’t the priority, but the stolid, delayed reaction that’s as slow burning as the flames. The camera travels the length of her body, eventually settling on her face; save for her head, her entire body is painted to convey a rigidity that gets laughs from its inactivity. Keeping her confined to a painting means that there is no room for flailing hysterics, no chance for elaborate gestures or acting. There is a palpable commitment to an under reaction, which can be just as—if not more so—rewarding as an overreaction.
“Ouch,” is her wildly engaging think-piece on the matter. Having her eyes actually open for a few seconds is the closest the viewer gets to a wild reaction.
Those who assume a shot of Clark Gable admiring a sultry woman in the night club to be haphazardly sandwiched between Garbo’s scene and a segue to Bing Crosby would be correct in their assumptions. The transition from Garbo to Gable is relatively smooth—a bit sudden, but spontaneous enough to mesh with Avery’s style. However, the transition to the next sequence is a bit rough, with the music cue of “The Lady in Red” melting into a triumphant fanfare to accompany the scene’s needs.
This, too, is thanks to some cutting to accommodate the Blue Ribbon reissue. In the original, Clark Gable was seated with Carol Lombard. He initially had a few lines: “Well, Carole, here we are. And it’s pretty swell, if I do say so myself. This is class, baby. It’s okay. Yeah.” Then, it would cut to the reveal of the woman strutting past the table, prompting Gable to “excuse himself” (“Er, excuse me, honey. I gotta make an important call. I’ll be right back.”)
Carole Lombard tragically died in a plane crash the following year, presenting trouble for the 1948 reissue. Likewise, implying Gable’s unfaithfulness was likewise touchy enough to warrant the sequence’s excision. The scene (and its subsequent butchering) certainly makes much more sense knowing the context, and to the credit of the editors, nobody would have known any different since the cut is as indiscriminate as it can be. Gable’s head casually twists an entire 180° to admire the woman, offering a nonchalant visual gag that justifies the cutaway (as well as the continuing shots to follow.) Cutting the original material is an unfortunate loss, but the attempts made to disguise such edits aren’t nearly as slapdash as they could be.
Where there’s Bing Crosby, there are racetrack jokes, which is exactly what unfolds as Crosby gives a speech. The design of the horse and its jockey offer a powerful antithesis against the specificity of the Hollywood caricatures; it renders their interruption more obtrusive by proxy. It’s not as though they’ve only entered the wrong nightclub, but the wrong cartoon as well. Likewise, Crosby’s association with these decidedly more simple, less sophisticated derelicts all the more heinous to the Hollywood elite. How embarrassing to mingle with these Tex Avery-minded fools!
“Get away from me, boys, ya bother me.” Rogers’ impression of Crosby is spot-on, whether it be projecting his voice to introduce the coming musical act or his hush-hush asides to a visibly dejected horse.
With that, Leopold Stokowski is introduced as the club’s musical entertainment. He, too, is approached with an amusing abundance of informality that would likely be left unappreciated by his real-life counterpart. Bing addresses him with a slew of colloquialisms that are the complete opposite of his associations and stylings. Stokowski is not a “make it mellow, fellow” fella or a purveyor of the “South American jive.”
If Crosby caricatures garner horses, then Stokowski caricatures garner hair gags. Friz Freleng would memorably reuse the hairnet in his own Hollywood nightclub tour de force cartoon, Slick Hare.
And, just as Bing implied, Stokowski directs a conga beat… albeit not without a dramatic buildup of complete silence. Enough ambiguity is instilled for the audience to wonder if Crosby is babbling nonsense, and that Stokowski will stick to his traditions of classical masterpieces. So, even though he does exactly as Bing says, the “reveal” is made all the more novel through such suspense. It’s funnier to keep the audience guessing and justify their assumptions rather than immediately obey the script.
Rod Scribner takes the helm to animate a powerfully lively and appealing conversation between Jimmy Stewart and Dorothy Lamour. Not that the acting is restrained in this cartoon by any means, but Scribner’s animation feels much more flexible and alive, giving further life and personality to these big shots rather than focusing on keeping the caricatures looking like themselves. His animation provides the perfect marriage to Rogers’ own charismatic performance of Stewart, with all of his awkward mumbling and hemming and hawing.
Stewart reluctantly agrees to dance with Lamour, per her flirtatious requests. Such inspires a sequence of her conga-ing away, the occasional kick offering an amusing antithesis to the stolidity of her rotoscoped animation.
Ditto with Stewart’s wide-eyed reactions, which again is a powerful incongruity to the conservative (but amusing) rotoscoping. Avery’s personal indulgences are more concentrated in this particular shot, whether it be on account of his trademark head shake take, a pop culture reference, or the sign gag heralding said pop culture reference. Cheating the hat and suitcase onto Stewart by having him duck behind the table, obscuring the “transformation” that occurs is both economical and very smart, not glaring in any inconsistencies.
Back to the Gable caricature, whose comparative stiffness in the rotoscoping gets a laugh for the same reasons Lamour’s dance did. The believability of the movements paired with the exaggeration of his face encourages a juxtaposition that is celebrated and embraced; the animators deserve a lot of credit for being able to pull off such a contrast and have it read purposefully. It’s far too easy to have it look like an accident, with the head awkwardly pasted on an entirely different body. Such could be a recurring and fierce problem with Hollywood caricature cartoons of the past. Thankfully, this short largely proves to be an exception.
“It’s me again,” he explains in the same obtuseness that was celebrated in Porky’s Duck Hunt when Daffy said the exact same line. The line isn’t funny because of the writing—it gets a laugh because the audience already knows who he is. It’s funny because it’s arbitrary. It’s funny because it’s stupid.
Meanwhile, another slew of caricatures persists in a self explanatory showcase of their dances. Such a barrage is executed in a similar stream-of-consciousness format as the seat reservations—no commentary, just actions speaking for themselves. Actions such as Sonja Henie dancing with one Tyrone Power, who pays no attention to her ice skating garb substituting a more “proper” ensemble.
Boris Karloff is caricatured only as Frankenstein’s monster rather than himself, which is a great dedication to the role and even greater incongruity in tone. It reads bizarrely out of place, especially in a modern context. That in itself is a strength. History buffs may likewise be interested to know that, as far as Warner cartoons go, this is the first time he’s been depicted as green—other shorts have him as beige or gray, depending on whether he’s been in a Looney Tune or Merrie Melody. As expounded upon further in the dissection of Sniffles and the Bookworm, the green coloring had been used as early as 1931 for Karloff’s makeup, but was obscured by the black and white film.
The circuitous rhythm of the conga music proved helpful in disguising edits and cuts within the short, as the only indicator of there being a cut between this scene and a shot of the Three Stooges doing their thing is a momentary lapse in accompanying sound effects. Sharp eyes will also notice that the background in that shot is the same background used for the Frankenstein tangent—another economical move that is rendered more blaring thanks to a series of cuts placing the two scenes back to back.
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Sure enough, a highlight between Edna Mae Oliver and Ned Sparks was once in the original issue of the film, with one of them commenting on how “silly” the whole ordeal was. Oliver’s passing in 1942 likewise prompted the scene to be cut in the reissue. It is worth noting, however, that Ned Sparks does appear later on in the film.
Elsewhere, the cut after the Stooges scene is also lost to time. Only a cel for publicity purposes remains: a spotlight of Gary Cooper and a young Shirley Temple dancing together was cut to accommodate that, by 1948, Temple was 20 years old by that point. She would retire from acting only two years later in 1950 after a few middling movies in the late ‘40s. Thus, the caricature was deemed irrelevant and sentenced to the cutting room floor.
Oliver Hardy is subject to the second of Avery’s two fat jokes in the film, dancing with two women instead of one. This, too, is a gag recycled from Avery’s 1938 The Penguin Parade—the growth in draftsmanship and motion alike continues to be nothing short of impressive.
Cesar Romero and Rita Hayworth are both subject to the classic Avery camera reveal that Sonja Heine and Tyrone Power were sentenced to. A mid-shot of the couple dancing seems completely innocuous, allowing enough time for audiences to pat themselves in the back for recognizing such figures…
…only to reveal the synchronized jelly legs between the two. A clever take-off of gags first scene in Detouring America, the animation—while purposefully discordant—still manages to abide by the reigning rhythm. So, while there it is chaos, it is a chaos that is controlled to still read coherently and rhythmically. Little attentions to detail, such as Rita’s dress being torn to shreds (implying she’s lost half of it to Romero’s giant feet) enrich such a lighthearted, brief sight gag all the more.
Audiences today may be able to point out Judy Garland, whose animated caricatures remain surprisingly sparse. Her seating with Mickey Rooney serves an allusion to their roles together in the Andy Hardy films, the pair first starring together in 1938’s Love Finds Andy Hardy. Rooney starred in all 16 Hardy films, spanning almost a decade from 1937 to 1946. One final film was made in 1958 as a failed attempt at a revival.
Knowing this, Rooney calling a caricature of Lewis Stone “pop” (who played the role of Rooney’s father in the Hardy films) makes much more sense. Rooney is hit with a $50 bill—$1,037.79 in today’s money, which is especially burdensome for an intended teenage boy (ignoring that Rooney was 20 at the short’s release) to pay.
It turns out to be a burden for his “dad”, too; the fade out and in to the pair washing dishes in a conga rhythm is again brilliantly executed. Stalling’s melody subsides, allowing only for the repeated beat of the drums to take the reins. In a way, that added “quietude” adds further emphasis to the punishment of the Hardy father and son, as though they don’t even receive the privilege of a complete musical beat to accompany their dishwashing duties. Such doesn’t seem to be a deterrent, as the timing of their movements to the conga remains refreshingly tactile and snappy.
“Don’t go away, folks,” reassures a still dancing Clark Gable. “This ought to be good!”
Back to Bing, whose emcee-ing alludes to a feature attraction. To aid in a smoother flow of ideas, the spotlight fanfare is reused from earlier to introduce him with more ease. Suddenly cutting back to him onstage, already giving a speech may be just a bit too much for the viewer to process too quickly. Thus, the seemingly arbitrary re-introduction works to his favor.
It moreover buys more time before the horse and jockey reappear, the horse putting his hoof around Bing like an old buddy. A decidedly human gesture that garners a laugh from such nonchalance—the horse’s earlier affection of nuzzling against Bing, while funny, could be chalked up to regular horse behaviors in displaying fondness. Here, there’s a bizarre colloquialism with the horse adopting a much more human and sentient attitude that enunciates any humiliation to be had by Bing.
Same rejection and dejection occurs.
Without further ado, Crosby introduces the second caricature of Sally Rand for the evening—dubbed as “Sally Strand”—which includes her famous bubble dance strip tease. It was a tease she developed to cope with any wind that may disrupt her outdoor performances, particularly those involving her feather fan dance routines. Even the 1938 film, Sunset Murder Case, features the bubble dance in action.
Her dance is well rotoscoped, but serves a stronger purpose than stimulating the audience: inviting the comedy relief of all the male celebrities crooning over her. One of Avery’s most iconic performances of his career would be born from the egg that is laid here. Given the back and forth of Rand’s sultry dances and the decidedly extravagant reactions of her peers, the sequence garners comparisons to the climax of Red Hot Riding Hood and the wolf’s own uninhibited histrionics towards Red.
A Kay Kyser caricature yelling “STUDENTS!” (prompting a barrage of recognizable Hollywood faces to wolf whistle in unison) may not nearly be as outrageous or funny now as the wolf committing suicide over Red’s looks, but the familiarity of all of the faces certainly would get a helpful amount of amusement from 1941 audiences. Likewise, there was no Red Hot Riding Hood to compare it to at that time. Hindsight fascinating as it can be frustrating.
Interestingly, voice historian Keith Scott identifies Kyser’s voice to be himself, citing reuse from his cameo in Africa Squeaks. There have been some subsequent Kyser caricatures that do reuse voice lines from that cartoon (such as Slap Happy Pappy), but this instance does not seem to be one of them. If it isn’t Kyser, then it’s logical to assume Kent Rogers is responsible.
Said “students” consist of William Powell, Spencer Tracy (both of whom touting animated caricatures of themselves in prior Warner cartoons), Ronald Colman, and Errol Flynn, with Noah Beery and C. Aubrey Smith remaining seated. Their synchronized whistle and “BAY-bee!” was, likewise, first conceived in Avery’s 1938 film Cinderella Meets Fella.
A Peter Lorre caricature breathing “I haven’t seen such a beautiful bubble since I was a child,” still gets laughs today from Rogers’ vocal delivery, and line itself, and the looks of the Lorre caricature—the first of many to be featured in a Warner cartoon. There is a longevity to the exaggeration of his looks that still resonates and amuses even today.
Meanwhile, a Henry Fonda (who, like Judy Garland, was seldom caricatured in classic cartoons) caricature is subject to another pop-culture reference: echoing “Coming, mother!” upon his mother’s calls à la The Aldrich Family. The third cartoon Kent Rogers has starred in, and the third allusion to radio program.
Only, unlike the other two instances, he doesn’t run coming to his mother. A disembodied hand leans in and yanks him by the ear—thus, he is soon devolved to the ranks of a politely disobedient teenager rather than a hotshot celebrity.
J. Edgar Hoover is the proud recipient of one of the short’s lamest gags. That is said as an endearing compliment more than a complaint—the woodenness of his “Gee. Gee! Gee. Gee!”s in accordance to his badge is directed much too artificially to be taken seriously whatsoever. Again, it’s a gag that Avery himself knows is colossally stupid; that’s all the more reason to embrace it rather than shun it. It’s the sort of gag that Ben Hardaway would suggest with unironic zeal. Here, the irony communicates well enough for the audience to laugh at the stupidity of the gag and the gag itself.
Meanwhile, Boris Karloff and Ned Sparks—both receiving their second caricature of the night, taking Sparks’ previously excised scene for account—are among a number of stone faced actors admiring the scenery with an obedient stoicism. Also among them are Arthur Treacher, Buster Keaton, and Mischa Aeur; proudly, they make up the Deadpan Club.
“You boys having a good time?” drawls Sparks, whose monotone deliveries were as ripe for caricature as his face.
No further comment is needed following a resounding “Yes.”
Elsewhere, a Jerry Colonna sighting ushers in a reference to Yehudi (collar and binoculars marking his appearance), which was likewise just referenced in Farm Frolics. Yehudi refers to violinist Yehudi Menuhin, who was a regular talent on Bob Hope’s radio show in the ‘30s. Colonna would thusly repeat “Who’s Yehudi?” in multiple shows, even when Menuhin himself was not present. Thus, Yehudi soon became slang for someone missing or absent—it was so popular that the Navy dubbed a stealth mission as “Project Yehudi” during the war.
Animation of “Strand”’s dancing is impressive, but cumbersome after awhile; it’s clear that the reactions are the focus over the intricacies of her dancing. Thus, Avery opts to tease the audience by having her throw the bubble in the air. The camera follows, encouraging the viewers to chew on the notion that she is now completely nude. He depends on the real life audience members to get just as transfixed on the act as the animated audience themselves. Her show includes us as patrons, too.
A show that is quickly ended through the antics of one Harpo Marx. Ironically enough, Bing Crosby introduces the act by telling the “boys” to put away their bean shooters—such a menial, sly remark doubles as a piece of foreshadowing.
Thus, Rand is revealed to be spouting a barrel; such a cornpone “outfit” is more humiliating to her than being caught completely in the nude. A very Averyesque payoff that is again endearing through how much of his taste and influence can be felt. The barrel is amusing, but the incongruity between a clunky, giant barrel and such an attractive burlesque artist is even more so.
Curtains promptly give her the privacy she desires.
With the short having reached its “climax”, only one last piece of business remains. A change in animation and tone regarding Gable’s pursuit of the woman, as well as her standing on the balcony—indicating here’s no way out—clue to the audience that the mystery will finally be solved. Gable’s line of “I’m a man of few words, see?” would have carried more irony and weight if two of his scenes with more dialogue weren’t cut, but the gag can still be appreciated through his quips and repeated self awareness to the audience.
“I’ve been chasing you all night. Now, how about a little kiss, baby?”
Enter one Groucho Marx. Said punchline serves as a derivative of a similar bit in The Coo-Coo Nut Grove, where a bird caricature of Harpo continually pursues a shrieking woman. Her face is strategically hidden by a large sun hat—when the time is ripe to reveal, Groucho steps up to the stand.
Avery’s execution of the bit feels less aimless and more rewarding, primarily through its blatant betrayal. Just as there were no visual clues to Rand wearing a giant barrel from behind the bubble, there are no clues of any kind that the woman in red is Groucho. No thick eyebrows, no glasses, no hint of any kind alluding to any sort of animated unfaithfulness. The punchline is made all the more successful and impactful as a direct result, as such a maneuver is one of confidence. Teasing the audience with hints isn’t as rewarding nor shocking—just the surprise aspect alone is enough to get a reaction, much less all of the laborious setup that led to it.
As one might guess, the sudden fade to black was not intended in the original release. There are a few conflicting accounts as to what the end entails. According to Sody Clampett, Bob Clampett had told historians that Gable said something along the lines of “Awww well, I still want what’s comin’ to me, and I’m a-gonna get it!”, prompting him to kiss Groucho. Evidently, the real Clark Gable had caught wind of the ending and demanded that Warner’s remove the gag.
Written transcriptions of the short survive in its original form, and such a line isn’t present. Clampett has a history of inflating certain facts, but, given that this isn’t his cartoon, there doesn’t seem much of a reason to lie—likewise, the removal of the gag could have occurred before it was transcribed or even fully animated.
One thing is for certain, however: the short originally ends with Gable glancing coyly into the camera, parroting a catchphrase of Lou Costello’s that would soon be heard in practically every other Warner cartoon: “I’m a baaaaaaad boy!”
Even if most of the references in this short are lost to modern audiences today, it is a fascinating time capsule. A history lesson cartoon—a short that forces you to get involved, to investigate, to ask who, what, when, where, why. Obviously, these prerequisites weren’t the original intention of its release back in 1941, but to dismiss the cartoon as being entirely obsolete today is misguided. The angle of being a lone spectator getting a glimpse of the Hollywood night life, a look at the elite is strengthened for the viewers of today. Not only do we get a glimpse of the elite, but a glimpse of the elite 80 years in the past.
Among all of the Hollywood celebrity gala shorts in existence, this is easily one of the best—if not potentially the best. The draftsmanship in Avery’s unit plays to its benefit greatly; the caricatures actually feel like living, breathing, abnormal humans rather than distant facsimiles. There’s a real consciousness regarding the character acting, particularly in the bits that are dependent on such acting—Scribner’s tour de force animation of Jimmy Stewart, for one. Looking back, cartoons such as The Coo-Coo Nut Grove (which were impressive for their time) seem completely sophomoric in comparison, with faces slapdashedly plopped on vague bodies that seem to struggle to merge together. Even in other Hollywood caricature cartoons that are somewhat more involved (such as Disney’s efforts), they feel like celebrities in name and face only.
Steps Out still falls into this mentality somewhat, but that’s part of the territory: allow the audience to enjoy the novelty of being able to identify who is who. There are true bits of genuine personality and character acting that really do shine and amuse, and not just because they have a recognizable face attached.
That the short remains intact with so many cuts and edits involved proves to be a bit of a miracle in itself. Knowing the full story and what was once there obviously piques curiosity and perhaps even a little remorse at missing out, but the missing material isn’t completely detrimental to the surviving state of the cartoon. Even if modern audiences don’t completely recognize all 40-some caricatures within the cartoon, they can still laugh at how odd Peter Lorre looks or the speech mannerisms of Clark Gable and Cary Grant. Likewise, the care and deftness regarding the animation deserves accolades.
It’s an oxymoron of a cartoon that both has and hasn’t stood the test of time. Relevance of caricatures aside, it looks fantastic even by today’s standards—imagining just how much of a ripple it made at the time of its release is almost unfathomable. Easily one of Avery’s most visually ambitious cartoons yet.
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After your first still of Cesar Romeo and Rita Hayworth, I think it should be: "A cleaver take-off of gags first SEEN in Detouring America..."
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