Release Date: October 11th, 1941
Series: Merrie Melodies
Director: Tex Avery
Story: Dave Monahan
Animation: Rod Scribner
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Robert C. Bruce (Narrator, Ant), Mel Blanc (Fly, Horsefly, Bull, Firefly, Caterpillar, Moth, Bird, Cootie, Termite, Ants), Billy Bletcher (Caterpillar, Spider)
(You may view the cartoon here--albeit unrestored--or on HBO Max!)
There’s a certain poeticism in the final pure Tex Avery cartoon—that is, the last short that wasn’t finished or adopted by Bob Clampett’s unit—being a spot-gag short. His legacy at Warner’s is not defined by these travelogues, of course; this is the same man who fathered Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and (to a somewhat convoluted extent) Elmer Fudd. The past six years at the studio have seen him as a cartoon trailblazer, always innovating, always subverting, always surprising, whose effects touched neighboring and competing studios just as it touched its own.
Still, easy as it is to dismiss these travelogue shorts—oh, they’re repetitive, they’re droll, a figment of the past, just something needed to meet a quota—they, too, had similar effects on the industry as many of his greater cartoons. There’s a reason why many of the other Warner directors were trying their hands at this format. Same with neighboring studios—Walter Lantz and Columbia Screen Gems both boast their own travelogues undeniably structured in Avery’s mold. One could even argue that Disney’s “How to ___” series, initiated with 1941’s The Art of Skiing, borrows principles established through Avery’s mockery of the real life travelogue newsreels shown before many a movie.
Even if they are seen as Avery’s lesser entries by the critics of today, their historical significance remains true. The Bug Parade may not be an earth-shattering masterwork on its own, but it is certainly fitting as a nail in Avery’s proverbial coffin. An indication of the sorts of cartoons he was leaving behind as he tested new waters elsewhere.
Once under the rather blunt working title of Bugs, the short’s new name is a pun that has partially been butchered in its 1952 re-release; excising of the “The” loses its connection to the 1925 King Vidor film, The Big Parade. Just as one may guess, the short takes a more intimate look at the antics and explorations of various insects.
A backing track of “Garden of the Moon” serenades the viewer in the short’s opening moments. Stalling’s frequency with that selection has dwindled since its initial heyday in the late ‘30s shorts, but follows its contextually appropriate obligations here given the subject matter: droves of insects coexisting amongst the grasses and flowers, Robert C. Bruce’s familiar orations to guide them.
Though not the most extravagant shot of Avery’s career, the simplicity of such a stagnant composition allows the variances in timing, motion, and insects to shine. Ants crawl, inchworms inch along, butterflies and dragonflies flit about as grasshoppers pounce beneath a spider’s descent. The action is arranged in a rather concise, almost obtuse manner (such as many of the insects moving in perfect parallel formation from one another), but through those maneuvers succeeds in its production value. Everything feels perfect and orchestrated. A production. Very fitting for the aesthetic convenience of this cartoon.
At this point in his career, conciseness begins to dominate Avery’s cartoons. No longer is he interested in slow burning introductions—that energy is saved for laborious, crawling spectacles instead, as The Heckling Hare so proves. Thus, the opening shot of the bugs amongst the flowers and grasses is merely tangential as the camera promptly dissolves to the interior of a house. A far cry from a bug's natural habitat.
“Wait a minute!” As customary for these cartoons, we have our brief moment of faux-realization to give the narrator a sense of vulnerability that translates into interest. “There’s something wrong here!” Bruce observes in reaction to a ceiling light hanging erect.
The camera trucks in almost as a pause, which doesn’t exactly seem necessary. Perhaps such a deduction stems from the knowledge that the camera will soon rotate to normalcy, restoring order from a right-side-up point of view; the close-up doesn’t necessarily boast any functional purpose. In conjunction with the reversal, it reads as visual noise.
Sharp eyes will note a brief error in which the cel depicting the lamp’s chain becomes unanchored from its base. It is incredibly slight, and mainly disguised by the audience absorbing this change in registration. Same applies to the arbitrary truck-in. Little errors like these are nevertheless worth noting to celebrate the human hands that went into these cartoons. Human error means human involvement, and human involvement gives us human viewers something to relate to. A reminder that these shorts weren’t made in a magical vacuum… even if this is a particularly innocuous error to make such a connection to.
“To enable him to defy the law of gravity, Mother Nature has supplied him with small suction cups on the bottoms of his feet.”
Interestingly, Avery cuts to the punchline while Bruce is still narrating—perhaps a concession of the punchline’s literality. The visual is certainly charming, a great tactility on the suction cups and dizzying attention to detail regarding the inking on the fly’s eyes. Waiting until the narrator had finished to cut to the companion piece would potentially lessen any novelty of the gag, reading more paint by numbers rather than a humorously obvious conclusion. This quickness to cut does its part in lessening that, marrying the gag to the dialogue rather than serving as a byproduct.
Meticulousness in inking the eyes of the fly is not the result of a concerning obsessiveness in attention to detail. Instead, the short dissolved to a close-up of the fly’s face—much less honorable of its real life counterpart and more akin to an alien—as Bruce educates the audience on the fly’s many eyes.
Its obedience to Avery’s directing is almost as funny as the punchline itself; there is nothing realistic about the fly waiting for its cue, remaining completely stolid, a pleasurable grin on its face through the most presentable, front and center close-up possible. That Avery and Bruce do treat such an arrangement with the nonchalance and condescension that they do is why it works so well.
A topper of all of its eyes blinking at once asserts they are not just for decoration. Avery succeeds in his mission to disturb and to humor—which option takes heavier precedence varies person to person.
Keeping things topical, our next introduction is that of the horsefly. Avery and his animators do a great job of ensuring they are differentiated from the housefly not only in design, but movement at all. Gentle yet prominent smears encapsulate the “remarkable speed” so indicated from Bruce, an organicism in how rapid their movements are. Stalling’s continuous orchestrations of “Garden of the Moon” quicken to match this new development.
Ever obedient to the rule of threes, two of the horseflies take off in perfect tandem right after the other, their sporadic flitting no more. Loud whooshing sound effects and a lapse in the music call attention to such abrasiveness.
As does a lack of music and sound effects; the viewer grows fixated on a straggler, whose indolence is practically a skill in itself.
Everything is immediately clarified through the reveal of a horsefly molded in Bing Crosby’s likeness. Avery was the first one to do the “Crosby’s horse” joke starting in Porky’s Preview (which, in case you missed it, you can find a relatively more in-depth explanation on the gag’s origins in our analysis of said short), so he has a right to indulge.
The visual alone is amusing, but Avery attempts to give the gag more substance through a monotone explanation from the fly: “Ahh… I been hangin’ around Bing Crosby’s horses too long.” Imagery of a horse’s head imposed on a (horse)fly’s body likewise goes back to some of Avery’s earliest films—Milk and Money in particular integrates such a hybrid into its story. Back then, the absurdity of the visual’s literality was enough to rouse a laugh all its own. Now, even the integration of Bing Crosby’s likeness—while still very amusing—wouldn’t exactly be enough to carry the gag without an additional topper or comedic concession of some kind. Such goes to show how much Avery has raised his own standards over the course of his career. Even relating to something as innocuous as a literal horsefly.
“Here is the vespa germanica, or wasp.” Stalling’s music of choice is now “If I Could Be With You One Hour Tonight”, which often bodes lascivious, flirtatious connotations; the audience is thusly invited to question why such an anthem would be used in association with a mere wasp.
Avery answers our queries in a matter of seconds. Bruce orates about the origins of the term “wasp waist”, noting the wasp’s “trim little figure”: wasp obliges to such a cue with swift regard. The transformation, against all odds, actually feels warranted and orchestrated, not a random non-sequitur or eye candy for the sake of eye candy. As many of his cartoons prove, Avery certainly did love his ladies; the change nevertheless feels warranted through pre-existing details, such as the red in the wasp’s mouth serving as a fitting candidate for its lipstick (rather than said lipstick summoning out of thin air.)
When thinking of his work, “grace” isn’t often a word that comes to mind in association with Rod Scribner. His handling of the wasp’s walk cycle nevertheless dispels such a notion with reckless abandon—her arm sways back and forth in a guided arc, the swivel in her hips and strut are anchored and convincingly weighted. Multiple features are accounted for and tracked, moving at different intervals but still feeling united and conscious of one another.
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Once more, Stalling is deserving of praise for his musical prowess. As the wasp begins her walk, he manages to tack an additional score of “Pretty Baby” on top of the continuous trend of “Hour”. What should sound like it would end in disaster—two different songs playing at the same exact time—is executed masterfully and with ease, as if it was no sweat off of Stalling’s back. All of this being timed to the animation, no less, is certainly no small feat.
Similar to the Crosby’s horse(fly) gag, the Avery of yesteryear may have capped off the sequence right then and there. Have Bruce thank the wasp for her time, allow her to revert back to her natural state, fade to black. Instead, Avery opts to cap everything off with the reveal that the wasp’s own waist was supported through the same means from which the term stems from: a girdle.
Ripe for Scribner’s talents, who famously err on the extravagant side. Animation of the wasp’s gut protruding is elastic and energetic, but never abandoned from its construction or driving sense of weight. Sound effects from Treg Brown—the velcro rip of the girdle, the timpani drum “BOING!” as her entire lower body bounces off the ground—instills a clarity and sense of permanence in the gag. It isn’t just a visual gag, but a real-time shocker for a visibly mortified wasp. Leaning into that bit of humanity from her surprised reactions and frantic attempts to strap herself back in really elevates the routine beyond visual nonsense.
The flow of the short thus far has namely operated through tangents. Fly goes to horsefly. Wasp is a new idea, but still fits within the realm of well known winged insect. Following that, then, is another connection related to the overarching theme: where there are wasps, there are (queen) bees.
Admittedly, the design of the bee isn’t as concise or bent on accuracy—a term used very nonchalantly, given that there is nothing accurate about a girdle-wearing wasp—as its companions. Even without Bruce’s narration, the audience is immediately able to distinguish the bee. Its comparative low detail and endearingly goofy eyes nevertheless distinguish itself from the tone set by the preceding acts.
Antics with the bee are comparatively subdued and a means to keep the flow going regardless—Avery doesn’t labor over the sequence as he does with, say, the wasp. In fact, the visual of the bee laying dozens and dozens and dozens of poultry eggs is rather familiar to avid observers of Avery’s filmography: it’s the same thing we’ve seen in efforts such Porky the Rainnaker and Fresh Fish. Still, it remains innocuous and chipper.
Now, focus is delegated on a tree spider. Comments about the bee’s less strict appearance are not for naught, as the spider follows the theme of a looser, decidedly more “cartoony” appearance. If anything, these drawing styles for the bee and spider in particular are transitionary—the level of caricature with the bugs continues to grow and grow as the cartoon progresses. So much so that some of the bugs seen later on seem as though they are from an entirely different cartoon, their geometric shapes and range of emotion a far cry from the stolidity of a housefly on the ceiling. We are eased into this sense of caricature gradually to lessen the shock of the tonal whiplash.
Bruce introduces the tree spider as “treeirus spiderus”, which, of course, is joyously incorrect. His delivery remains the same in its confident condescension, velvet patronization unwavering; perhaps many an audience member was tricked into believing that all arachnids are instead to be addressed as spideruses. It’s a very subtle gag, one easy to miss—its casual inclusion is a masterful touch from Avery.
Comments on the spider’s “flimsy” web seem to degrade him. Not out of purposeful ridicule, but to lower the defenses of the audience in preparation for the subversion growing off-screen. Deeming the web as unstable and flimsy makes his remarkable catch all the more impressive. And remarkable it must be, if the loud racket of grunting and screaming off screen is anything to go by. The web is animated in rapid pulsations, convincingly upholding a genuine sense of panic. Audiences are naturally inclined to investigate.
Enter the victim many times the spider’s size, per Bruce’s words. Conviction in which the gag is handled once again renders it all the more successful. Following our theme of easing gags just a bit further and further past its base, Avery seeks more from the sequence outside of the satisfaction of a bizarre non-sequitur. He could stop at the mere sight of the cow, but where’s the fun in that? Its frantic grunting and equally frenzied convulsions are sincerely distressing; Avery makes a point to ensure that the absurdity of the reveal doesn’t undermine his calculated melodrama.
Lighthearted relief can be found through an intermission instead: Blanc’s calm, collected, “normal man” delivery of “This is hard to believe, isn’t it?” offers emotional sanctuary by giving the audience permission to laugh.
Back to our regularly scheduled panic, as most gags in this nature go. Avery does a great job of ensuring the two narrative tones don’t undermine or overwhelm each other—the visual is still funny, just as it’s played to be alarming. Animation of the cow is solid, believable, stolid out of necessity for the audience to really buy into the oddity. Its intended punchline wouldn’t land as effectively if the cow were more streamlined, more caricatured, more cute and cartoon-friendly. Much of the shock stems from that lingering sense of realism. Otherwise, a decidedly cartoon cow doing cartoon things just reads as yet another piece of cartoon business.
Continuing our own cartoon business, Avery defaults to fireflies as his next subject. One would think that the segment would work best after the queen bee, given its maintenance of small, winged insects—however, the “interruption” with the spider pulls more weight in keeping the flow varied and interesting. Domesticity lingers in both the bee gag and, to a lesser extent, the fireflies. Injecting a raucous, surprising punchline that provides a noticeable shift in tone keeps the audience engaged and offers a rhythm to the overall flow of the short through such ups and downs.
An incredibly minor jump cut does momentarily disrupt the flow—while subtle, the camera cuts to a close-up of said fireflies, lightbulbs contentedly affixed to their rears, before Bruce has finished talking. Such conveys a sudden jolt that isn’t exactly intentional. Waiting until he’s finished to cut or cushioning the blow through the less abrasive cross dissolve are both potential solutions. Nevertheless, the cut certainly isn’t egregious enough to warrant any strong critiques.
Once again, Avery’s best friend—the rule of three’s—arms this impending punchline. A visibly discontented firefly enters into the scene, bulb noticeably unlit as his aggressive demeanor marks a strong incongruity against the demure, juvenile music score in the background.
Bruce predictably interrogates the firefly on his lack of illumination, to which he receives a sneering drawl in response: “Ahh, I didn’t pay my light bill last mont’!"
Next up, Bruce introduces our “interesting little fellas”: caterpillars. Its geometric segments, stubby, boot-like legs, giant human (at least, human in a cartoon sense) eyeballs and amiable smile all point to prior observations about the short’s gradual style change. Comparing the design of the caterpillar to the horseflies or the housefly yields a world of difference. This is by no means a weakness, as Avery does a fine job in gently easing the audience into such a change. However, it does prove rather amusing—stolid designs juxtaposed against ridiculous antics have their own unique comedic potential, but it’s clear that Avery’s heart lies in exaggeration and simplicity.
“Here’s one caterpillar meeting another.”
Said “another” is distinguished through his cooler hues. Parallels between the caterpillars are enables to flourish and read more clearly with this subtle difference—it makes the caterpillar population seem more vast and more interesting as the audience is left to ponder all of the various shades and hues these little bugs come in.
Moreover, and perhaps most importantly, the variance eases any unintentional monotony that may eke its way into a gag that partially strives to be monotonous. Comments on the legs of the caterpillar from the narrator opens the floodgates for a long-winded “how d’you do” session, both insects making a point to shake each and every one of their legs turned hands. The whole point of the gag is to seem repetitious, extravagant, and wholly arbitrary, and marking a subtle difference in coloration allows the action to read more clearly. Avery prevents the audience from boredom in watching what would essentially be mirrored animation for 18 seconds straight otherwise.
Our next subject happens to be a moth, who is utilized as an unwilling test subject regarding such idioms like “a moth drawn to a flame”. Those wishing to nitpick may note that the composition of the scene is very similar to the former sequence: high horizon line, similar colors, emphasis on the ground. With how close the two horizon lines are between scenes, they almost seem to blend together… absurd as that may seem, given that one scene is dominated through prominent pink flowers and the other is not. At the end of the day, it’s an incredibly minor note, but making a stronger effort to differentiate the staging allows each segment to read independently from one another.
Those comments may very well be dictated through similarities in the moth’s design to the caterpillar. Hardly a moth at all, the only thing keeping its identity is Bruce’s introduction and the moth’s involvement in the scene. To look at its design independently, the moth could just as easily (and, realistically, moreso) be mistaken for a fly or a bee or any sort of winged insect the cartoon demands.
Either way, its design interchangeability certainly doesn’t detract from the punchline. In asserting the phenomenon of a moth’s attraction to a flame, the narrator—always reduced to a disembodied hand in Avery’s world—lights a small piece of paper ablaze. Moth sure enough swoops in to haughtily stomp out the fire rather than gaze at it; great attention to detail from the inking department, who indicate the blues and purples of the flame where its touches base touches the paper. This comparative sense of realism elevates the threat of the flame that the moth is trying so hard to dispel; the impact wouldn’t be the same with opaque blobs of orange and yellow.
“HEY, STUPID! WHADDAYA TRYIN’ TA DO, START A FIRE?” The echo of Blanc’s harsh yell reverberating off of the Warner Bros soundstage makes this outburst—like every Blancian outburst—all the sweeter.
“One of the liveliest of insects is our old friend, the grasshopper.”
To the potential surprise of some, Avery doesn’t indulge in the “grasshopper spitting tobacco” gag like so many of his contemporaries have in similar circumstances. Instead, he adopts a more grounded approach: observing the grasshopper’s height as he jumps.
Arcs on the grasshopper’s jumps allow the movement to read clearly and pleasingly. Not only do his hind legs curve in a way to guide the arc, but his antennas and even his body. It’s a subtle touch, but one that really boosts the quality of the animation and movement. An important priority in a scene specifically framed to observe said movements.
Likewise, the arcs are necessary for the punchline to deviate from. Allowing the grasshopper to rocket out of frame (rather than his usual circuitous arcs) communicates to the audience that something is wrong, routine has been broken, a punchline is imminent. A surprised “Well! Where did he go?” on behalf of the narrator reassured viewers that this is all part of the plan.
Stalling’s music score dips out in tandem with the grasshopper, so that his absence is more notable in the silence. Between this and the camera panning aimlessly about, simulating the gaze of the narrator helplessly searching for his subject, the sense that convention has been breached is incredibly palpable.
“Say—you haven’t seen a grasshopper, have you?”
As customary, explanations from the bird are communicated through radio catchphrases. Variations of Mr. Kitzel’s “Mmm… could be!” or “Mmm… it’s a possibility!” (the latter of which being the subject here) from Al Peace and His Gang maintain the quote’s status as one of the studio’s pet catchphrases of the era.
There lingers a pause between the bird’s concession and the erratic, uncontrollable convulsions that ensue, indicating the grasshopper’s presence in its stomach. Avery could stand to have cut the pause ever so slightly—still prevalent enough for the audience to soak in the comedic beat and formulate their own conclusions of the outcome, but not enough to lose that whip of momentum. The “reveal” of the bird jumping around does seem to deflate under the bloated pause.
Nevertheless, the sequence is more than such a minor flaw. Drawn convulsions and protrusions from the bird are exaggerated, snappy, convincing in their ferocity that justifies his frightened expression. Barring the brief music sting heralding the bird’s arrival, Avery directs Stalling to hold off on the music; the idea that all of the background accompaniment is derived from the hopping of the grasshopper is maintained.
For what music is absent in this tangent, Stalling more than makes up for in the coming sequence. Bruce’s observation of a “centipede” again falls into the same notes about the humorous simplicity in the caterpillar’s design. So much so that the two of them are practically indistinguishable from one another, save for the differentiation in color palette and prominence of the centipede’s shoes to drive the narrative home of its many legs.
“Jeepers Creepers” is our contextually appropriate music score. An acknowledgement and manifestation of the term “creepy crawly”, nobody else but Carl Stalling would ever think to take such a staple of ‘30s jazz and transform it into a pompous march. It works magically.
Especially since it carries more directorial weight in this scene than others. Its sole mission isn’t entirely to please the ears of the audience, but to meld itself to the action. Bruce’s commentary on the centipede’s “perfect marching unison” just begs to be refuted—one of Avery’s favorite pet gags first seen in Detouring America. Indeed, its segment at the very end jubilantly defies order, skipping and even walking at a much more strident pace.
This is all upheld in the music score: a flighty flute motif conveys the action of the segment’s hops and jumps and other disorderly compulsions. Over time, it almost seems as though the accompaniment—ever so subtly—grows disenfranchised from the beat, lagging behind just a nanosecond or two to convey the centipede’s growing lack of control. Never once do these manufactured musical imperfections impede the structure of the main music score. Again, this should not work as well as it does. That it does is just a testament to Stalling’s musical prowess (and, by proxy, Avery’s input as director.)
Control isn’t the only asset slipping away from the centipede, but his temper, too. Thus initiates the reveal. Yet again, Avery strives to elevate his gags past serviceability. Instead of casting the unruly segment as the butt (groan) of the joke, that honor is bestowed to the visual absurdity of the bug’s head attached to an independent segment.
Kicking rear segment and abandoning it, too.
Highly amusing as the visual itself may be, its main source of success (like many things) boils down to execution. The manner in which he detaches from himself is approached with the utmost nonchalance. No attention is called to the action: no surprised reaction from the narrator, no obtusely ironic music sting, no knowing glance at the camera or any other concession that undermines the confidence of the joke. It happens so flippantly and perhaps even innocently that the audience is left to revel in Avery’s intended dubiousness. A shock value, no matter how small; it certainly is effective. Unwavering pompousness in the centipede’s demeanor plays a hefty role in tying the confidence of the sequence all together.
Moving right along. Here, Bruce introduces the “common cootie”—a WWI-era nickname given to the body lice that so plagued many of the soldiers and trenches.
His bindle touting does indeed take him to the entrance of an army camp. Little did Avery and his colleagues know that in the span of a few years, Warner’s would be shipping off shorts made exclusively for the eyes of the army about the importance of staying protected from malaria carrying mosquitos and other similar pests. It’s been exceedingly clear that war has been on the rise for the past few years now, but always remains interesting to stumble upon these innocuously foreboding gags in a pre-Pearl Harbor world.
That observation may be more fitting for the cootie’s utter rapture upon discovering the bountiful feast before him—if he only knew. Blanc’s melodramatic performance is on-point as always; the acting itself errs on the more generic side, the bug gesticulating without any grounded sense of emphasis or guidance, but succeeds in capturing those same histrionics. His movements are vast, dramatic—any artifice in the acting almost works to the benefit of this playfully insincere revelation.
In Tex Avery’s world, snails are also categorized as “bugs”—gastropods be damned. Given that the short boasts such impossibilities as a cow caught in a spider’s web or a “centipede” (in the most leisurely sense of the word) detaching itself to kick its segmented read into submission, a snail substituting as a bug is the least of our logical worries.
His prominence out of all the segments is rather thin regardless. Moreso a means to fill the gap, to provide a transition from one idea to another rather than offer a genuinely titillating piece of comedic artistry or filmmaking. Such is evidenced through the gag, from which Avery and his contemporaries have sought multiple times: a literal transcription of the snail “carry[ing] his house on his back”.
Disposability of the snail gag compensates for the lengthiness of the coming sequence. Another follower of the rule of threes, Avery turns his attention to the destructive nature of termites—something he, Virgil Ross and Sid Sutherland understood quite well as the inhabitants and founders of the original Termite Terrace. Termite chews through tree with ease, yells “TIIIIIMBEEEEEEERRRRRR!”—another pet gag of his soon to be utilized to greater strengths and memorability, as there is perhaps no more famous utterance of that cry than Spike’s in Wags to Riches—and repeats the process.
Innocuous in all… save for a rather confounding detail. A rather noticeable line splits through the center of the tree, communicating where it is slated to detach from itself and split apart. While it gives away the punchline, it nevertheless provides a clear line of thinking as to how the gag will go. Thus, it is all the more confounding to realize that the jagged line serves no purpose whatsoever; the termite chews through the area, with the top painted half of the tree somewhat lazily rotated to flop off-screen.
Inclusion of the line when it serves absolutely no relevance is puzzling. Perhaps the gag’s execution was reworked in the process, and Avery didn’t find it necessary to make Johnny Johnson toil over another painted tree. Especially given that the tree’s realism plays an important role in the gag: the absurd strength of the termite is exacerbated through the disconnect provided by the painting. It feels like a real, genuine tree has been effected. An opaque, cel painted tree lives in the same universe as the termite, thusly lessening the desired juxtaposition. At the same time, inking the tree and animating it other than rotating artwork could probably prove beneficial.
Taking the time to animate the trees would likewise enable the resolution to yield a stronger impact. Charging up for his next meal, the little termite is violently flung off-screen through a tree that refuses to budge; its painted hues of a chalky white are enough to set it apart from its contemporaries…
…as well as the giant sign indicating it as a petrified tree. This would be a punchline that would occasionally find itself pop up in various shorts, with Bob Clampett’s Book Revue perhaps being the most notable. Execution of its build up is strong, Avery correct in his assumption that the audience would be lulled into a false sense of security with the repetitious chewing. White coloring of the bark sells the antithesis—even if it does come at a detriment of clarity with the white termite on white wood.
Next up: silkworms. Who, again, are comedically indistinguishable from the caterpillars (and, to a lesser extent, the centipede) boasted prior. Differences manifest not through design, but demeanor; their sullen meandering about and steely inactivity evokes the narrator’s inquisitively.
A unified cry of “LOOK!” is surprising in its high pitch. Given their visible discontent, one is led to believe that their voices would be surly, deep, a chorus of adult voices to drive their demeanors home. Instead, the pitchiness of their voices is almost more surprising—it’s a coyness that feeds into the docility so often associated with caterpillars. Us viewers of Warner cartoons are so accustomed to the opposite, the constant subversions, that abiding by the regular “rules” (even if their high voices are intended to be humorous in their own right) seems like a shock.
In any case, a more intentional shock is the reveal: two striking worms outside of a comedically convenient nylon factory. This short does come on the coattails of the 6 day Warner strike that May—such a gag likely received many laughs for this reason amidst studio screenings. Integration of a factory building in the background as the camera pans away cleverly and coherently introduces the building, so that it doesn’t seem to materialize out of nowhere.
Our bug escapades now find us fraternizing with some ants, whose designs are the first in a few minutes to boast some semblance of accuracy. A rather innocuous scene of ants greeting each other is, ironically, rather significant historically: its background accompaniment is the first usage of “Five O’ Clock Whistle”—soon to be a favorite of Stalling’s and heard at practically every turn throughout the early to mid ‘40s.
A gag of the ants greeting each other by name (“Hello, Red”, “Hello, Blackie!”) isn’t so much a deep rooted quest for comedy, but a transition to ease the viewers into the next ant sequence. That is, streams of ants passing between a weed and uttering countless “Bread and butter!”s. Avery used a similar gag in A Day at the Zoo—as mentioned in that review, the saying stems from a superstition, abiding by the compulsion to say “Bread and butter” when two people walking together are momentarily separated by an object.
It does seem somewhat confusing that one line of the ants isn’t colored black. By keeping both red, the introductory sequence does seem as though it was an attempt at a concrete gag rather than a way to ease the audience in, which, in turn, makes it seem all the more arbitrary. Perhaps the equity in color makes the ant population seem larger through such colors blending together. Nevertheless, a small nitpick; the animation is brisk, swift, given an identity through the circuitous boogie rhythm underneath that enunciates their constant walk cycles.
True to Avery’s traditions, the routine stretches on juuust a few seconds longer than necessary in hopes of annoying the audience. It certainly doesn’t share the same accidental insufferableness as The Heckling Hare’s climax, but lingers long enough for Avery’s motives to be playfully clear.
A brief aside: note the discarded Del Monte can in the background. Unlike most brand shout-outs found in this short, there doesn’t seem to be a visible play on words or parody regarding the can. Specificity in the inclusion of such a detail offers its own amusement.
So, with that, Avery escorts us to the final act of his final solo spot-gag effort. He maintains the tradition of saving the melodrama for last—something to undoubtedly captivate the audience’s attention and offer something to invest into, so that the close of the iris will feel more earned upon the inevitable resolution.
“A defenseless little fly”, Bruce orates with that lovable condescension and pity in his voice. “Poor little fly…”
Prominent lipstick and eyelashes on the fly prove difficult to take seriously. Given that Avery has shown himself to master such restraint with the earlier wasp sequence (knowing how to incorporate design elements that don’t give the punchline away but nevertheless feed into it), it wouldn’t be surprising to discover that the comparative coyness on the fly is entirely intentional. Perhaps a commentary on the “kidnapper snags desirable damsel in distress” shorts that so dominated the ‘30s; Bletcher sure has his fair share of experience as the villain in those efforts, after all.
Bletcher spider continuously remarks on his love of flies as he descends upon his prey. Again, both animation and voice direction are married to perfection; the spider’s grisled, occasionally manic expressions certainly support the deviousness of his voice and vice versa.
Repetition of his fly adoration (“A fly! I LOVE flies!” is soon followed by “I just LOVE little flies!”) seems to be another acknowledgement of the purposefully trite set-up, poking fun at the spider’s transparent reputation as a villain and nothing more. Why would he descend upon such a helpless insect, you ask? He just gave his answer—twice! What more is there to know? This sense of obligation certainly feels tongue-in-cheek in its convenience. Burlesques of kidnap stories would almost become as common as the actual kidnapping shorts.
Thus, he prepares to strike. A pause lingers a bit too long as the spider hangs in the air—a very brief bout of directorial aimlessness with motion that is exactly unclear in its motive. Anticipation has already paid its dues through the narration and the slow shot of the spider descending; a quick and sudden altercation would be a great way to uphold the intended sense of alarm.
Of course, the altercation isn’t much of an altercation at all: the spider coyly plants kisses on the fly, whose decidedly feminine appearance is justified as she, like her wasp cousin, transforms into an anthropomorphic sex object for the spider.
“I told ya I loved little flies, didn’t I?” makes the coy repetition prior all the more rewarding, as well as serving as a testament to Bletcher’s vocal versatility. His tone is much more demure, mawkish, mischievous, as though he’s indulging in a secret he was asked not to tell. Great casting on Avery’s part—even with all of Mel Blanc’s vocal prowess, it’s difficult to imagine the scene reading the same way.
This iris out bears a bit more weight than most cartoon closes. As mentioned before, the final Avery/Clampett collaboration will be home to a memorial for Avery’s Warner tenure, but passing acknowledgment is certainly deserved here. This is the last short to have his vision “undistilled”, for lack of a better word—not interpreted or adjoined to the sensibilities of another director, no matter how significant those contributions may be.
Like most of Avery’s spot-gags, the consensus is a bit underwhelming: The Bug Parade is fine. A serviceable means to entertain the audience before their matinee. Some jokes are more ambitious, more dedicated, more formative for the future of Avery’s directing sensibilities. Other jokes are weaker, have more flaws, may not share the same solidity in their foundation. Such is usually how these affairs go.
There isn’t a lingering sense of burnout in this cartoon as there have been in past Avery efforts, but it certainly doesn’t rise to the same level as Cross Country Detours or Land of the Midnight Fun. Some beats are approached with a much more visible nonchalance—the snail, the honeybee, the red and black ants fraternizing—but not to a degree of utter flippancy. It’s obvious that they’re a means to an end, an excuse to get from point A to point B, but seem to be content in such a role. Such helps the short adopt a better flow with longer scenes juxtaposed against these tangents.
With that said, there are some directorial maneuvers that could stand some additional revisions. Complete nitpicking, and nitpicking that isn’t exclusive to this cartoon: a scene has a camera truck in when it doesn’t need to, intent of certain gags could stand to be clearer, some sequences are too similar in staging to be placed back to back, etcetera. Perhaps the most egregious error is the jagged line cut in the trees that is rendered completely useless, but even that is an excessively mild critique. Ditto with some of the insect designs blending together (the caterpillar-centipede-silkworm continuum)—amusing to note, but certainly no detriment to the overall quality of the short.
An innocuous entry, but one that is more so remembered for its bursts of inspiration—the wasp, the centipede—rather than remembered for its mediocrity. It does seem to communicate Avery’s waning interest in such a format. Not to a degree of slapdash quality, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that his cartooning legacy isn’t entirely reliant on spot-gags. To improve, he had to innovate, to shock, to both establish and stretch the boundaries of what a cartoon even is. Something not entirely offered by The Bug Parade—nor, at this point in his career, by Warner Bros.
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