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Release Date: March 14th, 1942
Series: Merrie Melodies
Director: Tex Avery, Bob Clampett
Story: Mike Maltese
Animation: Rod Scribner
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Robert C. Bruce (Narrator), Mel Blanc (Tobacco Bug, Hiccups, Sphinx, Eatimus Plant, Natives, Bugs Bunny), The Sportsmen Quartet (Chorus)
(You may view the cartoon here.)
7 years after he first graced the studio with his presence, the fated day has finally arrived: the final Warner Bros. cartoon to bear the talents of Tex Avery.
Avery had been comfortably settled at MGM for around half a year. by this point His first batch of shorts would slowly begin to trickle out around August of 1942; around this time in March, it's likely that he was beginning production on some of his most famous (Red Hot Riding Hood) cartoons and most formative (Dumb-Hounded). Days of working at the colloquially named Termite Terrace, whose name is entirely owed to the Avery unit, were becoming an increasingly distant memory. Disregarded are the disputes over how many falls Bugs Bunny and Willoughby should take over a cliff while screaming incessantly.
Given the comparatively tumultuous nature of Avery's leave, his true swan song at WB isn't exactly a final burst of genius. His leave was abrupt, unplanned--thus, no conscious preparations were made to go out with a final bang.
In other words: Crazy Cruise isn't the most enthralling send-off.
Regardless, in spite of its humble nature (humble even for Avery's standards, as will be explored imminently) doing one last travelogue does seem to be a fitting farewell. So many of these spot gag cartoons dominated Avery's filmography at the turn of the past decade. So many tried and usually failed in mimicking the format, both at Warner's and elsewhere. To label them as his best cartoons would be objectively false, but one can't deny their prevalence. Thus, ending on one final travelogue that furthers the association between Avery and spot-gag cartoons seems relatively appropriate--even if it is an underwhelming alternative.
Before completely entrenching ourselves in condescending narrators, picturesque panoramas and visual gags galore, a bit of musical history is to be noted: the opening title credits mark the first usage of "Someone's Rocking My Dreamboat" in a Warner cartoon. Written in 1941, The Four Tones and Eddie Beal had the distinction of being the first group to record the song, which rose to popularity with covers by musicians such as The Ink Spots, Erskine Hawkins, Benny Goodman, and Artie Shaw, to name a select few. The 1942 Warner movie Bullet Scars--released a week before this very cartoon on March 7th--marked its debut in a film.
Why the special introduction? The same reason any other song in this venture receives a lengthy dissertation: "Dreamboat" is one of many amongst Carl Stalling's toolbelt of faithful tunes. Gorilla My Dreams features a particularly memorable highlight with the musical stylings of Bugs Bunny performing the number. Fascinating that the song's cartoon origins stem from such an innocuous title sequence--one that doesn't even have the distinction of a directorial credit--given its prominence in the Warner cartoon library.
On the topic of innocuousness, the opening to the short itself is comedically so. Most--if not all--of these travelogues open with a winding narration that attempt to lull the audience into a politely educational stupor. Bruce's tone flowery yet stolid, dialogue tends to be flowery, pompous; bearing a sense of regality that is much too good for the cartoon. Which, of course, is the entire purpose behind its incorporation, as the existence of the short is to steer the audience off course and disarm them with cheesy, low-brow gags that know they're cheesy and low-brow.
That isn't to say the same isn't done here. After the introduction to the introduction, Bruce's orations do slip into their usual pedantic routine. Regardless, the flowery, regal opening speech in this short is relegated to a curt "Greetings, ladies and gentleman." No mention of why the viewer is embarking on this metaphorical cruise, no recurring secondary story to return to throughout the film. If there is one thing about Crazy Cruise, it's that what you see is what you get. Such is apparent in its dawning moments.
In any case, Bruce makes passing mention of the southern tobacco plantations from which the camera is following. Rather surprisingly, racial elements are mainly relegated to a low, gentle, humming chorus of "Swanee River" in the background; visual caricatures and stereotypes are spared. Pure atmosphere is the prime point of focus instead.
Johnny Johnsen's backgrounds are lush, gentle, unimposing yet no less striking. This, too, would mark his last Warner short, as he followed Avery over to MGM. Such rich background work is far too easy to take for granted, and the visual style of Avery's shorts--from character designs to backgrounds--essentially drops off the face of the earth with his absence.
A soft glow of the yellow light from within the mansion offers an appealing juxtaposition to the blues and greens of the night, warm and approaching in their tint. Airbrushing of the trees and ferns in the background provides a hazy look that supports the overall gentility of the camera pan, but, likewise, even convey the sense of a muggy, summer evening's heat. The effect is doubly powerful with the crispness of the foreground overlays.
Those wishing to nitpick may note the change of speed regarding the camera pan. Subtle, the shift isn't necessarily noticeable unless actively sought out for, but the speed of the pan does slow down after the first full tree in the foreground leaves the screen. There doesn't seem to be much rhyme or reason behind the maneuver except for error, as if they suddenly realized that the pace they had before would outpace Bruce's narration. Slowing the speed of the pan is a much easier fix than adding to the painting of the background pan.
"Millions of dollars are lost annually because of the destructive little tobacco bug," Bruce sermonizes after a pause to give the singers a spotlight. "What the boll weevil is to cotton, the tobacco bug is to tobacco."
Enter this scourge of the earth. Dissonance of the bug's introduction is successful in multiple ways: one, the style of the bug and general art direction is a strong antithesis to the placidity of the sweeping background environments that precede it. Comparing the two backgrounds back to back almost suggests an entirely different cartoon.
Two: Bruce's comments on the destructiveness of the bug certainly aren't reflected in his actions or appearance. With a sad, sallow face, the little tobacco bug inanely chews on the tobacco leaf with small bites and aggressive lethargy--far from the narrator's description of "ravenous".
Granted, the comedic hook pertaining to the tobacco bug is not necessarily exclusive to his insatiable appetite for destruction, but, rather, the intimacy of hearing it. Obliging to the narration, a "super sensitive microphone" slides dutifully into frame, which arguably arouses the biggest laugh than the actual punchline. Contrast creates comedy, and the incongruity between the photographed hand and the goofy little worm is palpable. One wonders whose hand had the honor of being chosen--Avery's? Clampett's? Just one of the many mysteries lost to the sands of time.
As perhaps to be expected, the main punchline is the frantic, mumbling chewing of the bug seguing into a hyper recitation of R.A. Riggs' "Sold to an American" slogan for Lucky Strike tobacco. Certainly not the first nor last reference of its kind (especially in a cartoon with Clampett's involvement, dating as far back to 1938 with Porky & Daffy), but one that is enhanced through such meticulous build-up in atmosphere, tone, and art direction. Even the mumbles of the bug accelerate as the microphone draws closer, starting off as aimless "mmm"s in Blanc's normal vocal registry.
Amazingly, Avery and/or Clampett somehow manage to get away with the bug spitting an implied wad of tobacco. Touchiness from the Hays Office regarding spitting and tobacco jokes have been a recurring theme in Warner cartoons within the past year especially--to see it handled so nonchalantly is even more subversive than the aforementioned subversions. Granted, the spit is purely conveyed through a streak of drybrush--notably colored white, no less--so there isn't that much available to censor, but the bawdiness is appreciated just the same.
"Now let's take a trip to Havana."
Said trip is largely rhetorical, to put it one way, as there are no close-ups or extended vignettes focusing on the Cuban tourist scene. Rather, the "trip" is just a means to an end: Havana evokes bars, and bars evoke drinks, and drinks evoke drunkenness, which, for our purposes here, segues into extended but politely amusing fodder of the presumed boat (since our travel vessel isn't exactly clear) swirling and careening and twisting in aimless turns.
The Isle of Pingo Pongo and Land of the Midnight Fun feature synonymous cartographic gags. Cruise is by far the most elaborate and, likewise, most secure--offering a direct means of comparison between the before (sober) and after (inebriated) subconsciously boosts the impact of the swerving course, as there is a direct indication of what a proper course should look like. Believability of the actual map layout proves similarly helpful, with the contrast reading more strongly--Pingo's gag is the closest to Cruise's, also demonstrating a drastic veering off course, but the thick, bold lines and lack of definition in the map itself mesh together and give an air of belonging to the zany antics abound. The breach of decorum in this cartoon is much more felt and, thus, much more humorous.
Perhaps the biggest key component behind the gag's success is Carl Stalling's drunken, lopsided musical stylings of (guess) "How Dry I Am". Slow, bumbling, inebriated, the animation is perfectly timed to his sweeping brass scoops. After each musical phrase, a hiccup in Blancanese is bellowed, anticipated through the lines forming a whirlpool and burst effects to enunciate the singultus; then, as the new phrase begins, the backing guitar and trumpet "wah wah" additions ease into the rhythm, the looping trombone being the guided force.
Stalling's rhythm is even askew beyond immediate notice--occasionally, the guitar beat outpaces the trombone, or the trombone takes a millisecond's pause, or the trombone is a bit too slippery in its quickness, etc. To play wrong is difficult. To play wrong and still have it sound harmonious to the ears is even more so. To play wrong and still have it sound harmonious, but maintaining the spontaneity and believability of the erroneous scoring is perhaps hardest of all. Multiple musical factors are at play, and Stalling handles them without batting an eye.
"Because of unsettled world conditions, all ships are camouflaged." Turmoil overseas had been boiling long before Avery's July '41 departure, but one does ponder the stage of its completion (or lack thereof) under Clampett's adoption. A later scene makes explicit reference to Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor, meaning that Clampett had unobstructed control by that point. Could this have been a particularly late addition to the short? Or, would the language have been a bit less vague and more upfront if it was post-PH? One wonders.
More mental gymnastics go into pondering the exact time and reasoning for the sequence's inception than those actually poured into the sequence. Bruce thusly introduces the audience to the S.S. Yehudi, whose name pertains to the invisibility of the boat thanks to its source. Both Avery and Clampett alike have referenced the recurring Jerry Colonna gag (referring to violinist Yehudi Menuhin, whose name amused Colonna enough on his appearance in The Pepsodent Show to repeat the question "Who's Yehudi" and was not only a gag carried on long after Menuhin's appearance, but transformed into a novelty song) in their own shorts, so it proves difficult to pin down if its inclusion was from the insistence of one director over the other.
Fascinatingly, the Yehudi inclusion extends beyond the link of the invisible ship. "Yehudi lights" were developed by the Navy to camouflage sea-search aircrafts by raising the brightness of the lamps to match the sky's brightness via counter-illumination. Thus, no attention would be attracted to a dark object in the air. The developments evidently remained developments, never actually undergoing operation through the war, but underwent multiple trials and found a resurgence of interest during the 1970s.
These developments didn't begin until 1943, meaning that there aren't any grander intentions beyond a pop culture pull and amusingly appropriate naming conventions, but the coincidence is certainly of interest. Perhaps of more interest than the actual gag itself. Polite, standard, nothing Avery hasn't done before, but amusing just the same--the detail of a sailor leaning against the ship's mast cleverly calls attention to a structure that is not visible but functional just the same.
"Now, directly ahead rise the majestic snow-capped peaks of the Swiss Alps." Johnsen's background paintings take the stage in this little bridge, supportive of the narrator's addendum: "A truly beautiful sight." The psuedo multi-plane pan has been a trademark of Avery's since the very beginning; its usage here in his swan song again feels fitting. It certainly isn't the most elaborate of his background pans, and perhaps even feels a bit transparent in its role as a quick time filler--the "beautiful sight" footnote from Bruce seems to indicate that with this pan, what you see is what you get--but is nevertheless serviceably atmospheric.
Obligatory notions with the background pan are exacerbated through the direct cut to the next gag. A plane careening over the curves of the mountains to a degree of intimacy is still related to the setting and tone, but the abruptness of the cut proves jarring and reads as a hasty return to comedy. Cushioning the blow with a cross-dissolve could prove helpful; that, or allowing the pan to stretch along just a beat or two more, so the transfer of ideas is more prepared.
The gag itself certainly isn't new to Avery's toolbelt of comedy, but arouses a polite laugh through the juxtaposition between the straight flying plane and its newfound elasticity in hugging the mountain tops. At parts, the camera pan feels misaligned with the action--it's as though the plane is always in danger of being cut off by the screen. Perhaps to align the camera and action in the middle would require a longer background pan and, thus, more animation, which wasn't a literal or physical expense Avery/Clampett were willing to entertain.
Focus therefore shifts towards a handful of St. Bernard dogs, who are frequent in their associations of frozen climates within the golden age cartoon sphere. There does seem to be a bit of incongruity regarding the intent of the tone: both the dramatic wide shot of the dogs strutting in the distance and the gravity of Bruce's narration--utilizing such buzz words as "brave and faithful" and "ever on the alert"--evoke a gravity that is disassembled through Stalling's perky musical accompaniment of "Where, Oh Where Has My Little Dog Gone?"
A close-up of the dogs touting their barrels full of booze (and appropriately marked) would be better suited for a transition into lighthearted musical scoring. Even if it were only to last a few seconds, maintaining a noble, perhaps even heavy musical theming in the wide shot and cutting in to a much more carefree spotlight would shake an extra laugh loose through the whiplash in mood.
Humor of the specifically marked barrels is really nothing more than a glorified sign gag, gussied up with the benefit of--very solid and attractive--animation, but that is neither a weakness as much as it is a strength and vice versa. Indebted to the rule of threes, a pipsqueak Bernard pup toddles along with its barrel marked Bromo. Bromo-Selzer was an antacid that was frequently used as a remedy for hangovers. A clever, cute little extension to an unremarkable gag in itself (at least compared to shorts such as Cracked Ice and the much later Piker's Peak, where the heroic St. Bernards indulge in their own stash of alcohol at the negligence of their patients), but comfortable in its humbleness.
The next vignette of a goat hopping from peak to peak feels a bit more in-line with Avery's timing and execution. Brusque simplicity of the action and prioritization of the action over details skew more towards his sensibilities; perhaps Clampett's interpretation of the visual would be a bit more flowery and elastic under his full control.
In fact, the sequence occasionally falls into the trapping of appearing a little too blunt; a gag of the goat collapsing on its stomach, music pausing in accordance with its lack of movement, is a clever little bout of vulnerability from the goat and direction, but its execution could stand to feel more purposeful in its sudden drop. From such a difference, the posing is a little more difficult to comprehend--some sound effects accentuating the force of the fall would likely help.
Similar critiques apply to the overarching punchline of the entire sequence: the goat accidentally throwing itself off a cliff. There isn't an obligation to be flashy or dramatic--in fact, the nonchalance surrounding the gag is what makes it so great, as the shock value is greater when the action has the unwavering confidence that it does. However, the execution itself remains a bit weak; the goat's cel intersects with the background environments, feeling more like a drawing that is being moved around rather than an actual character behaving within its given environments. The arc of the jump is cluttered and unclear through this intersection. Nevertheless, the general idea is amusing--just a sequence in need of some more intimate directing.
"In contrast to the alpine region is the Sahara Desert."
The punchline of this segment is a mixed bag. Bruce's orations continue on on and on, musing on the stoicism of the Sphynx for around 20 seconds before Blanc gives an unflinching verbal reply as the relic: "Monotonous, isn't it?"
One one hand, the length of Bruce's ramblings are necessary for the punchline's justification. Indeed, it certainly is monotonous--however, there seems to be an overindulgence in monotony, as the orating goes on just a bit too long with nothing of interest to support it. Even something as menial as a slow, gradual truck-in over the course of his monologue would help to give the rant a sense of motivation. As it stands now, much of it feels like a quick and easy way to kill time. The visual of the realistic lips on the Sphynx is amusing, but certainly not a substitute for visual interest.
Our next destination isn't mentioned by name (only the relative anonymity of "a central European country recently seized by an aggressor nation"), Bruce's description of the oil fields and their "lifeblood of mechanized warfare" is most likely in reference to Romania, who was Germany's main supplier of petroleum. Similar to the connotations of war, Johnsen's backgrounds are gritty, dirty, and imposing, towering oil rigs cluttering the horizon and painted in atmospheric perspective to give further dimensionality and believability to the environments.
Stalling's background music of choice is "Tumbling Tumbleweeds", first recorded in 1934 by the Sons of the Pioneers. Their 1946 re-record is perhaps the best known version, memorably heard in The Big Lebowski, but the '34 version was likewise considered significant enough to be inducted into the Library of Congress in 2010. Bing Crosby had likewise recorded his first cover of the song back in 1940, whose chart topping status was likely still relevant enough by early 1942 for its inclusion here. It never was one of a frequent musical pull of Stalling's, enhancing the novelty all the more here.
All of this grandstanding proves a bit deceptive. Such stoicism in the narration and tonal tenseness amounts to a gag that provokes both purposeful and accidental underwhelm: a "gusher" amounting in a spit-take that lands in a spittoon. Where credit is due, the build-up to the actual eruption is committed and focused: a drumroll in the music score, camera shake, stretching and cracking sounds in the ground, and anticipatory voiceover work all establishing a tangible sense of spectacle. Thus, the inevitable letdown is even stronger of a letdown through the shift in tone.
Regardless, the gag feels a trifle trite. Perhaps the focus on the tobacco bug earlier eliminates some of the novelty in the spit-take, as this could be seen as a repeat. Nevertheless, the inclusion of the spittoon again proves surprising, as well as the distinctive tobacco-glob appearance of the oil--the Hays Office was either feeling generous or had their backs turned.
Embarkation of the African jungle politely foreshadows the direction taken by the cartoon in the next minute or so--that is to say, one that is none too pretty. Thankfully, the opposite can be said for the scenic background pan of the jungle in question. Brushstrokes feel a bit blobular and hasty in the pan than in the close-up, perhaps being a rush job, but doesn't detract from the moodiness of the rich blues and greens populating the atmosphere. That in itself enables the specimen of focus for this vignette to pop against the painting that much more with its vibrant pinks and yellows.
Hearing Bruce introduce and say the words "Eatimus Abugus" with unflinching sincerity proves amusing through the frankness of the name. Sure enough, the plant lives up to its name for the convenience of the viewers; its "victim"--a harmless little bumblebee, syntax such as "unsuspecting" and "poor little bee" in the narration evoking pathos to inflate the incoming contrast--is a refuge from The Bug Parade, touting a particularly Avery-esque design sensibility through its simplicity that would soon be absent from these shorts going forward.
Bee goes in, muffled buzzing ensues, plant spits out bee and screams an echo-inducing "OUCH!!!!" within the Warner soundstage. A jump cut to the bee buzzing within the plant's mouth isn't exactly necessary, and only seems to fragment the pacing, given that the swarming animation isn't intense enough to warrant such sudden focus on it. Regardless, hearing Mel Blanc's echoing screams are always worth any price, and the halting of the music in favor of his scream enables the sound to reverberate with even more ferocity. Transformation of the plant's pistil into a tongue is clever and cute, as is the cocky, swaggered walk the bee does as it traipses away. An action that gets lost amongst the excitement from the plant.
The following gag of waters drinking at their favorite watering hole--revealed to be a watering fountain--has a tone of haste surrounding it, in that its inclusion feels sudden and loose. Realism of the animals against the innate absurdity of the setup certainly proves amusing through its incongruity, but the highlight is quick, tangential, and seems detached from the surrounding gags. Its jungle theming seems to be the only reigning connection. Norm McCabe features a similar gag in Robinson Crusoe, Jr., which may explain the perceptions of this gag seeming a bit hamfisted. Regardless, the visuals are funny; the scene in itself, however, lacks support.
Utilizations of dotted lines as a travel guide receives a second wind. Crawling of the camera and constant orations of Bruce all amount into a quick, easy pun, but amusing nonetheless: a lake whose silhouette mirrors that of bombshell actress Veronica Lake. As the camera approaches the site, the speed of the pan magnifies through a burst of libido, cleverly anthropomorphizing the camera. Certainly an effective contrast to the crawling speeds prior.
Instead of a cross dissolve to the next scene, the camera fades to black instead, which seems relatively misguided. A fade to black indicates a certain beginning and end, the concrete dissolution of an idea, or a way for the audience to bask in a particularly uproarious scene. Literality of the Veronica Lake is amusing, but certainly not showy or hilarious enough to warrant the ironic metaphorical curtain call of a fade out. Pacing momentarily becomes fractured instead.
Granted, the fade did prove to have a benefit of some kind--it made it easier for censors to excise the next 50 seconds of footage in subsequent airings. Crazy Cruise unfortunately isn't exempt from "golden age cartoon that references Africa featuring reprehensible stereotypes"-itis, and proves to be a rather bitter note to leave off on in Avery's Warner career.
A generous amount of build-up is poured yet again into a long, winding background pan, Bruce's narration a constant overtop as drums in the background grow louder. Introduction of the "Brawla Brawla Sooit region" is a direct nod to the novelty song "The Hut Sut Song", first written and performed a year prior in 1941. Horton Hatches the Egg--Clampett's next cartoon, coincidentally--frequently features the song in the musical stylings of Horton the Elephant, perhaps indicating that its inclusion here was one of his own suggestions.
Typical derogatory language and stereotyping is woefully rife in the narration, with mentions of giant, ferocious cannibals and frequent reminders of the danger surrounding the circumstances. Visual stereotypes reaffirm such regrettable notions. Yet, if there is any salvageable novelty to be had, it is the inclusion of Friz Freleng and Ken Harris as "two of the world's most famous big game hunters." Perhaps two of the most frequently caricatured members on staff, Freleng already had experience of being caricatured leading up to this cartoon. Harris, on the other hand, if memory serves, may be making his animated debut here. Two other 1942 efforts would utilize his likeness: Nutty News, and, most famously, Dan Backslide in The Dover Boys.
Per the narration, the hunters capture the giants off-screen. Or, at least, such is inferred through the polite camera shakes and cacophony of sound effects. Concealing the brawl is a clever and familiar device, usually hinting to a subversive gag to be revealed after the fact. However, given the reliance on camera pans and background paintings all throughout the short, it proves difficult to shake the notion of economy in obscuring the confrontation as well. We just got out of a 15 second long establishing pan. Now, the quick return to more static backgrounds grows a bit cumbersome, even if it is to serve a functional directorial purpose.
This all amounts to the frenzied babblings of their guide, who maintains the "Hut-Sut Song" theming of the sequence by sneaking some of the lyrics in his own ranting and raving. A close-up shot of his histrionics suggest the artistic direction of Clampett much more than Avery--elongated, cat-like pupils, an intense focus on detail and intricacy of the fervent acting, the bombastic tone regarding the climax. Avery's own handle of exaggeration was just a bit different in tone than what we see here; one wonders if he would have cut all of the fat entirely and cut straight to the punchline after the sound effects died down.
"Cut" used in a very literal term. Here, the camera immediately jump cuts to the punchline, with the boy's narration still overtop during the transition. A camera pan to the new layout has more potential to work better, embracing a tangible sense of momentum through movement and allowing a clean, unfragmented transfer of ideas. Directly cutting to the joke, even in spite of all of the fanfare and buildup thus far, is jarring, sudden, and seems accidental. A camera pan means another background pan to paint and register, which may not have been ideal with the cartoon's apparent constraints.
All of this hubbub and excitement results in a pop-culture pull: the squashed, rigid figures of Harris and Freleng in the native's hands evoke that of the Pall Mall cigarette ad campaign, boasting the added length of their cigarettes to those of competitors. Clampett inserted an homage to the gag once before in his Meet John Doughboy. At the very least, the gag has an added layer of irony for the Warner staff, as Freleng's diminutive height was ripe for lampooning within the studio.
One of the natives muses "King size!", but lacks the lip-sync to go with it, resulting in even stronger notions of a cobbled together sequence. It's likely that the line was added in at the last minute--perhaps the grotesque imagery wasn't evocative enough, and they needed the safety of a stereotypical dialect to ensure the pleasure and amusement of audiences everywhere. The somewhat jerky truck-in of the camera as it focuses on the Harris and Freleng caricatures certainly reap no favors.
At last, the gentle orations of Robert C. Bruce escort the audience to the last act of the last Tex Avery cartoon. ...Somewhat.
Focus on a gaggle of baby bunnies frolicking together soon turns frightened and tense when a vulture nears overhead. Rather than serving as an innocuous little footnote, all subtlety is thrown out the window with the caricaturing of the vulture. Indeed, Crazy Cruise is the first of many cartoons to herald grotesque anti-Japanese imagery and stereotyping; while the metaphor of the enemy being a vicious vulture out for blood is on the nose, the stereotyping itself is comparatively tame for what lies ahead.
Given that this sequence is a direct response to the attacks on Pearl Harbor 3 months prior, it's safe to surmise that this sequence was entirely supervised by Clampett. This is made doubly apparent through the animation reuse from his 1940 cartoon Africa Squeaks--one of the rabbits was still animated to the lipsync in the aforementioned cartoon, despite no dialogue heard here. As he mouths the words, the music comes to a halt, as though to give the intended dialogue additional breathing room; it seems that there was a miscommunication of some kind.
Perhaps the best aspect of the entire sequence is the intensity in Bruce's narrations. His cries of "WHAT'S THIS? A VULTURE ABOUT TO POUNCE!" are beyond the usual melodramatic histrionics that have become a cornerstone in so many Averyian travelogues--there's a real sense of urgency and authenticity, his tone violent and even scratchy. Even the addendum of "These poor, defenseless rabbits" is more saccharine and emotional than usual. It could be down to Clampett's own style of voice direction, or it could be a way to subliminally reinstate the intended jingoism. Maybe a bit of both.
The sequence suffers its handful of technical issues--the lack of lip-sync is the most glaring, but the vulture also suddenly dissolves into nothing while the background environments stay the same. On a much smaller scale, the color card background showing the vulture swooping down remains exactly in place, making the action feel more static and confined. That isn't to suggest that there needs to be excessive detail in the background for a proper illusion of movement, but making the extra effort to paint that additional pan and move the camera makes all the difference.
Bruce's deliveries may be the most evocative of the entire highlight, but evocative doesn't necessarily equate memorability. That honor is instead relegated to one Bugs Bunny, Esquire, making his second official appearance in a Clampett[/Avery hybrid] cartoon. There was a reason why the rabbit with the white accents was deliberately turned away from the camera the entire time.
With the reassurance of a hearty "T'umbs up, doc! T'umbs up!", the iris comes to a close as Bugs formally initiates his stint as a symbol of anarchy and triumph during the war. It's a phenomenon that will be explored more intimately in cartoons that are more applicable, but the onslaught of war boosted Bugs' already booming popularity tenfold. Audiences took comfort in viewing such an anarchic figure always come out on top against his enemies through such lovable scrappiness. Many an insignia donned the likeness of America's favorite wabbit.
Patriotism proudly injected into the chests of audiences everywhere, the final moments of the cartoon convey a universal symbol through Bugs' ears: V for Victory.
And that brings Avery's tenure at Warner's--no matter how tangential at this point--to a firm close. Fitting, given that this analysis is being posted on his 116th birthday.
As hinted in the introduction, labeling this the last true Warner Tex Avery cartoon is a bit disingenuous. He'd been out of the studio for months now, settling comfortably into his stint at MGM and making some of the most formative and groundbreaking cartoons that would forever shape the trajectory of animation history. Clampett's involvement (or, more accurately, Avery's lack of involvement) is much more apparent in this short than others. And, despite having its bursts of creativity and inspiration, this is seldom a cartoon worth grandstanding about when lauding the directorial brilliance that is Tex Avery. A cartoon like Aloha Hooey is perhaps a better send-off.
Hiccups in Clampett's sudden adoption of the Avery unit are most felt in this cartoon. Gags and ideas are at their most tangential, the flow is at its most fragmented. The short frequently falls into pitfalls of repetition; the most notable is the same exact exposition for every single highlight, being introduced through a gliding background pan. That, in turn, makes the short feel flimsy and decorative, with these flowery background pans intending to kill time or lessen pencil mileage. (And, credit where credit is due, Avery fell into that same trap even when he didn't leave the studio and a handful of unfinished cartoons.) Presentation and even conception of some gags are straightforward, brusque, mindless. That its most memorable moment are the less than 5 seconds featuring Bugs Bunny is not exactly promising.
Regardless, there certainly still is some good to be found. A dud of a travelogue in 1942 is much different than a dud of a travelogue in 1939. The rapid elevation of art direction, whether in the character designs, actual animation, or backgrounds, at least ensures that, for the most part, the audience will be looking at animation that is comfortably serviceable and politely entertaining.
Warner shorts may now be free of Tex Avery's name and hand, but his influence is eternal. Had he not left Universal Studios in 1935 and arrived at Leon Schlesinger productions that summer, had he not lied to Schlesinger about having prior directorial experience, had he not wrangled up the unit that gave Termite Terrace its namesake, who's to say that we would even be dissecting these cartoons right now.
Dividing the history of Looney Tunes into a singular cornerstone moment is a highly subjective endeavor. 1943 seems to be a relatively agreed-upon consensus when the shorts truly embraced and stuck unflinchingly to a recognizable, formative identity. On the other hand, creatives like Chuck Jones have been on record saying he wished he could eradicate his pre-1948 filmography of cartoons. 1937 is regarded as a relatively formative year, too, with Mel Blanc's first recorded cartoons hitting the screens for the first time and formative figures like Bob Clampett and Chuck Jones being promoted to director and co-director.
However, amongst all these dates and ideas and speculations, there remains one constant: the arrival of Tex Avery was the best thing that could have happened to the studio.
At the time of his arrival, Warner's was entrenched in an identity crisis. The dissolution of Hugh Harman and Rudy Ising's contract meant the loss of their star character, Bosko, which resulted in the remaining two years being little more than a constant game of riding on the coattails they lost and didn't know how to get back. Friz Freleng's induction of Porky with I Haven't Got a Hat was promising, as there was potential to expand with a new cast of characters, but the studio was far from shaking its repetitive, safe vices and barebones Disney influence.
Avery's rebellion of the Disney attitude was what saved the studio, a studio who was trying in vein to gain its success by riding the trade wind of other studios and their successes. The anarchy and irreverence in Avery's cartooning is what the Looney Tunes identity as we know it has structured itself around. His first cartoon for the studio, Gold Diggers of '49, demonstrated speed, metaphysical humor, irony and shock value through the likes that the studio had never seen before. That, and being the second short to feature Porky cemented his own popularity and within the next year, the studio had a fully fledged star to call all its own.
Avery's Porky shorts may seem innocuous now, but they too proved deceptively influential in his career and the trajectory of Warner cartoons: The Blow Out could be seen as a prototype of his Droopy shorts, in which an omnipresent little pest drives the antagonist crazy. The Village Smithy is wholly anarchic through its meta humor, with characters contradicting the narrator and self aware jabs at the cartoon's runtime or schlockiness of the premise. Porky the Wrestler is the first short to debut Mel Blanc, performing incidental screams as Porky that would soon be most recognized when filtered through the mouth of one Daffy Duck.
Which leads into the next cornerstone of development: Porky's Duck Hunt could be considered the Steamboat Willie of Looney Tunes cartoons for how impactful it was for the trajectory of the studio. Mel Blanc provides the voice of Porky for the first time. Porky receives a slight makeover, slimming down into his more recognizable self. Daffy is the first true screwball character of his kind, and would inspire dozens and dozens of pale imitations for years to come--the most famous imitation being none other than Bugs Bunny, who, by Ben Hardaway's own admission, was just "putting that duck in a rabbit suit". No lengthy introduction is needed for understanding Avery's influence on the rabbit--the rest is history.
It's because of Avery's cartoon pioneering that this analysis is even able to be typed, read, and interpreted. Avery's departure from the Warner studio is certainly sentimental, especially when knowing just how deeply ingrained his contributions were. At the same time, it wasn't 1937 anymore; Avery was a perfectionist, and needed an environment that was stimulating and accepting of his abilities. It was clear that he had gotten about all he could have out of his stint at Warner's. For his sake and for the sake of the studio, his departure, while sad, was probably one of the best decisions he ever made at the time that he did--the shorts he made at MGM were inarguably the best he ever made.
Likewise, his absence from Warner's allowed Bob Clampett to come into his own and fully realize his own directorial potential with the adoption of this director-less unit. Clampett would make the best cartoons of his career, and Avery would make the best of his. Dozens of creatives in the business would continually be inspired by both.
Thus, an important chapter in the history of Warner cartoons comes to a close. Its effects, however, do not. One gets the inkling that Avery's name will still be thrown around with nonchalance and reverence in many more analyses to come on this blog. Even if he left the studio physically, his impact and legacy are deeply rooted. Too much so to lose completely with a terminated contract. That in itself feels particularly Averyesque in its polite anarchy.
