Release Date: February 14th, 1942
Series: Looney Tunes
Director: Norm McCabe
Story: Tubby Millar
Animation: John Carey
Musical Direction: Carl Stalling
Starring: Robert C. Bruce (Narrator), Mel Blanc (Porky, Wolf, Eagle, Panther, Elephant, Sheep, Vulture, Rabbit, Hippo, Swallow, Hyena, Lion), Stella Fried, Betty Noyes, Dorothy Compton (Chorus)
1942 would be a relatively big year for the Norm McCabe unit. It was, unquestioningly, his most productive: of the 13 shorts that have his directorial involvement, 7 of them were released in that year alone. Likewise, the remaining 3 released in early 1943 were also produced in 1942. Particularly because, in November 1942, McCabe would be drafted. The next three years would see his involvement in the Army Air Force’s First Motion Picture Unit, churning out a menagerie of propaganda films. Something that, given the amount of wartime references in his cartoons (to which this one is no exception) just seems to make sense.
His second solo effort overall, Who’s Who in the Zoo demonstrates a McCabe who is beginning to secure his directorial footing. Artistic quirks and directorial sensibilities unique to his style are more apparent than they were in Robinson Crusoe, Jr., which, while certainly offering McCabe’s influence through some incidental designs, story beats, and general gag sense, does often communicate as a “Clampett-lite” cartoon.
A greater sense of independence permeates this cartoon. Just as the title insinuates, the short places a focus on the various antics and goings-on of a local zoo: puns, wartime references, violence, decrees to procreate, and an occasional visit from Porky, whose job-of-the-day is that of a zookeeper.
As far as inconsequential zoo themed spot gag cartoons go, McCabe does a nice job of instilling a rather oxymoronic sense of pompousness and civility in the opening. Opening titles evoke the impression of stone engravings, substituting as the façade to the entrance of the zoo—a far cry from hasty writings on wooden signposts that herald affectionately dilapidated settings. First impressions are not of humble descent. Instead, a tangible sense of anticipation lies behind such clean cut titles and Stalling’s proud, marching fanfare of “The Animal Fair”.
Cutting to a formal façade of the zoo with synonymous engravings asserts the intent. So does Robert C. Bruce’s butchered narration: with all of this proud artistic stolidity, audiences expect the same regality in the cartoon's direction. The ever familiar strains of Bruce's "condescending narrator" voice matches the set up well, which, in turn, begs for this regality to be disestablished with gleeful abandon.
""Who's who's at Azoozoos who-who's zoo... uh..."
No narrative attention is called to such a glaring mistake. Instead, the camera indulges in a gentle pan down, peering into the interior of the zoo as Bruce manages to collect himself. A lack of self awareness (which instead tends to read as self consciousness) regarding gags and setups of this nature is always healthy; calling too much attention to it through extraneous camera movement or exhaustively witty addendums allows the novelty of the decorum breach to sour quickly. So much of the appeal stems from how seemingly natural and simultaneous this blip is. That extends to the directorial tone, too.
A truck-in and cross dissolve prompts a formal introduction to the zoo's contents, narration from Bruce adopting the condescending professionality he was able to master so well. Audiences are met with glimpses of various zoo animals in the process: monkeys, rhinos, lions, the works. Said monkey is even animated to swing to and fro in his cage, ensuring that these are real, living, breathing animals rather than props to occupy space. Granted, the animation doesn't take the background into consideration as much as it could--after the monkey throws himself from the swing, he appears to land in mid-air, the ground for him not coinciding with the actual background layout. Nevertheless, both the distance of the staging and the continuous camera pan right aid in obscuring the error.
Viewing them from a distance evokes a subliminal sense of desire; we aren't getting the full scope of what the zoo entails from so far away. The only logical impulse is to rectify that--through these comprised details, the curiosity of the viewer is intentionally piqued, hoping that these camera pans and dissolves and zooms will amount in a more intimate view of the enthralling antics so abound.
Swiftness in camera movements that helped to disguise the erroneous monkey animation similarly benefits the digestion of corny puns. McCabe would dedicate an entire cartoon to the "Missing Lynx" pun (with said lynx not far removed from his captive relative here)--one of his best, Confusions of a Nutzy Spy. It's a pun that is undeniably corny, but even more harmless. That it is heralded with a shift in perspective, the exhibits gently jutting into the foreground to offer a more neutral view of displays, likewise keeps the audience occupied.
After the third cross dissolve-and-pan, the utilization of this establishing pan does become more transparent as a crutch. Granted, the short is still in its fledgling stages. Bruce has been orating this entire time, which attracts the attention of the audience--to have too much happening on the screen simultaneously would result in a mental cacophony of noise left undigested. Regardless, one does find themselves hoping for a change.
Momentary emphasis on the ever literal bum steer (which, for those unaware, is a euphemism to indicate bad advice—not an actual type of bull) does nudge the directing in the right direction. A self aware glance at the camera, a muted, sardonic music sting from stalling, and the general ferocity in juxtaposition are all contributing factors. Even then, it is still executed on a moving camera on right, and still put to rest through the same cross dissolve that jumps to the same continuous pan right.
At least for a moment. For the first time since the introduction, the camera finally reaches a stop, giving emphasis to Bruce’s introduction of the timber wolf.
Which launches the camera right back into movement for the adjoining gray wolf. Obviously, the camera has a requirement to get from point A to point B. Showing various wolves that clearly aren’t of high importance doesn’t require engaging, breathless cutting and staging. There certainly is a functionality to it—however, cinematographic monotony does become more pronounced after the same maneuver has been utilized unflinchingly since the cartoon started.
All of these wolf introductions nevertheless results in another “unorthodox” punchline: the Hollywood Wolf. Said wolf lives up to his name and makes googoo eyes to an enigmatic figure off-screen, never to be introduced to the audience. Utilizing the Hollywood and Vine street corner is effective in embracing the absurdity of the gag—a true proof of purchase that this isn’t just any lecherous wolf, but a Hollywood wolf. Bob Clampett would reuse similar imagery in The Big Snooze four years later.
In spite of the same entrapment via camera pan remaining atop the scene, the biggest change in narrative tone is ushered in through a cross dissolve, a shift in music, and the formal introduction of one Porky Pig. There is at least an attempt at evoking more dimensional staging and depth to the environments; a lion is seen resting in his cage, offering a border to the screen that gently directs the eye to Porky. A gentle reminder that he isn't strutting along in an aimless void made simple in its staging to accommodate repetitious camera maneuvers.
John Carey's hand is responsible for giving Porky the sheer appeal he exudes on the screen. To get a tad anecdotal, this scene is usually one of the very first to come to mind when I think of his work--quite ironic, given that it is so innocuous and understated. Perhaps this scene doesn't demonstrate his astounding and unsung versatility as an artist; certainly not abound with his uniquely elastic animation or quick, careful timing, not particularly intricate in the character acting--Porky's general expression hardly seems to change--and overall, a relatively humble little footnote that serves to get a character from point A to point B.
Its understatement may very well be why it's such an appealing (and, in personal cases, memorable sequence)--to do appeal well can often be just as difficult as any wild distortions or incredibly elaborate animation. This innocuous walk cycle does have its fair share of meticulousness--every inch of Porky is dimensional and structured. His mallet shows no signs of struggle or deviance from the circuitous walking rhythm, bobbing in perspective with seemingly effortless ease. His head tilts from side to side, operating against the swing of the mallet and prompting a harmonious ease in and out between those two particular assets. So many moving parts comprise to make a whole... but it never once feels that laborious because of how seamless the motion is.
Bruce prompting Porky to converse with the audience is cute, attentive, immersive. Hints of that are already made known through Porky's introduction, in which he glances at the camera--and, thus, the presumed narrator by proxy--out of the corners of his eyes when he turns. Gentle, subtle, the audience is subliminally made aware that this own subconscious reciprocation of eye contact will gestate into something greater.
"Hey Porky, where you going with that mallet?"
Bruce's phrasing is noticeably more colloquial when addressing our prized zookeeper, making this interaction seem all the more sacred. Porky may be an animal, but he has the benefit of his own quasi-human status--thus, he is exempt from the same condescending language and observation that all of the other zoo animals receive. One of the largest takeaways of this framing device, by opting to place a beat on Porky's introduction and make it a bit of an event, is that Porky is just like us. An amiable, living, breathing being that is offered a bit more intimacy in his presentation than the animals that so surround them, all vessels for a gag.
Mel Blanc presents his usual warm, humble charms for Porky's dutiful answer of "Oh, I'm eh-guh-gee-ehh-geh-gee-goin' t' feed the ji-ji-eh-jeh-ji-eh-giraffe!". Again, the interaction between Porky and the narrator is so simple and even inconsequential against everything else, but thrives for that very reason. Only Porky could pull off such an introduction with such unquestioning sincerity. It doesn't feel like a special, groundbreaking dissolution of boundaries between characters on screen and omnipresent narrators. Like Porky's job as zookeeper, it's just another piece of business--a piece of business that we have the pleasure of spying on.
A shift in animators does enunciate just how impressive of an animator John Carey is in his solidity and appeal. Granted, it isn't entirely unfair to call the adjoining animation unappealing; Porky isn't a central focus anymore, and, instead, occupies very little of the screen. To draw so small is difficult, much less draw a succession of moving images. Intricate details on something so small would only clutter everything up and make the actions read less.
Small scale regarding Porky is a necessity for the gag: a carnival style strength tester that propels a bucket of feed to meet the giraffe at the very top. Structuring Porky so small allows the juxtaposition in size to read all the more effectively. That, in turn, bestows an air of necessity to the imaginative means of feeding the giraffe.
McCabe opts to hit the gag home by cutting to the actual face of the giraffe. Technically, all of the comedic information is established in the wide shot, and, if necessary, the gag could end there. Instead, expanding upon by showing the giraffe actually eating out of the bucket demonstrates that, yes, bizarrely, this is indeed effective. Perspective of the camera pan is comparatively intricate and dynamic, warping upwards and eventually settling into a more neutral composition when reaching the giraffe's face--that in itself exacerbates the dizzying height further.
Curved mouth shapes, bulging cheeks, and politely lopsided eyes potentially allude to Cal Dalton as being the animator of choice with the giraffe. His handiwork is most apparent upon the punchline, when the giraffe receives a face full of feed after craning his neck to meet his food; the aforementioned cheek, mouth and eye combination is particularly striking there.
Stalling's ironic, razzing music sting at the end and camera truck-in are probably not the most necessary add-ons, but remain relatively harmless. It's a self awareness that somewhat reads as self conscious, overcompensating through such comedic extravagance in hopes that viewers will laugh. Instead, the actual gag itself fulfills that obligation just fine. Especially when strengthened through the rule of threes, in which this spotlight abides by. A clear set-up, an easy to follow rhythm, engaging staging, and a logical yet amusing punchline. Extra decorations are unnecessary.
Now, through a fade to black, we resume to more familiar means of story structure. More isolated spot gags that are ushered along through horizontal camera pans. In this case, Bruce gushes over the "cute little bunny"--cocked ears, detailed eyes, collected posture, and continuous nose twitching all seek to uphold his claims. Perhaps a bit too much, as too much manufactured cuteness can read insincerely or uncannily, but the attempts to support his narration in design and motion are certainly felt.
"This type of rabbit is known as the cotton tail."
Enter the inevitable. Design details on the rabbit's eyes shift as he changes positions--when they open again, the indicated irises are lost. Nothing to deduct points for--especially given that the pun is the most important point of focus in this moment--but it is somewhat amusing how quickly the idea of the rabbit's cuteness is abandoned in favor of a quick pun. One expects said gag to be related to how spectacularly cute this rabbit is; maybe he speaks with a deep, grizzly voice or does something to destroy that notion of saccharinity.
Nevertheless, more rabbit gags are ensured: "march hares" are introduced exactly as one would expect. A cross-eyed, excessively screwball rabbit brings up the rear, feeling forced in its goofiness. But, again, ultimately remains harmless. His appearance does evoke vague memories of the ever insufferable prototype Bugs Bunny; a lot of progress has been enacted within the past 4 years.
"This majestic specimen of bird life is a bald eagle."
Cal Dalton's hand is noticeable once again through the eye and mouth shapes; his draftsmanship tends to have a controlled, secure mushiness to it. Often, his animation can skew on the uglier side, but it is an off-kilter appeal moreso than a genuine criticism of his work. Likewise, that "ugliness" can often benefits subjects such as this eagle, who is intended to be imposing, mean, and uninviting. A far cry from the "cute little bunny" showcased prior.
All of this proves especially helpful, given that the eagle is retaliatory to Bruce's comments. When Bruce stresses the "bald" part of bald eagle, he recoils, seeming positively disgusted. The condescension so prevalent in Bruce's narration likewise wells the eagle's reactions quite well, until...
"O-kay blabbermouth, SO I AM BALD!"
Details such as the eagle waving his toupee around and gesticulating at his bald head are a nice piece of support to his words. That, and said toupee becoming askew as he carelessly slaps it back on his head; all pretenses of a believable presentation have been thrown out the window.
Most spot gag cartoons are structured in the mold of Tex Avery's spot gag cartoons. Condescending narrator, gags tied to an overarching themes, a comparatively elaborate ending scene to top everything off. Likewise, most of these spot gags feature a recurring attraction--one that is vague in its intent, prompting confusion from the narrator, and enabling us to check in with them periodically. For Who's Who in the Zoo, that particular honor is bestowed upon a prowling, menacing lion.
Fascinatingly, its animation is recycled directly from Prehistoric Porky--a Bob Clampett cartoon. Given that the McCabe unit was birthed entirely from the Clampett unit, the connection makes more sense, but it certainly remains fascinating to see McCabe reusing such animation. Multiple directors were guilty of it at some point or another, but it has largely been a Clampettian trademark to reuse and upcycle animation. The reuse here isn't a particular hindrance; audiences in 1942 certainly wouldn't have known the difference, and the original is contextually synonymous enough to allow it to work. Likewise, some fresh animation of the lion poking its head out of the bars of the cage reduces transparency of the recycling. If there is any burden to be had, it's that the original features some odd, aimless eye movements on the sabretooth tiger that is unfortunately carried over here.
Left at a loss regarding the purpose behind such prowling, Bruce instead moves onto another member of the big cat family: a panther. John Carey returns to offer his own hand, and does a fine job of conveying its ferocity. Not necessarily through bared fangs or menacing growls--rather, the sheer aggression in which he finishes his meal, pushing the aluminum tin back further and further. As energetic as the animation is, it is particularly observant. The consideration of the panther's size and demeanor is very much felt; they eat much differently than, say, Fido getting his own supper.
That the panther soon thereafter stands on his hind legs communicates to the audience that a punchline is impending. Sudden anthropomorphism allows for a broader range of comedy; in this case, pointing to the pan and guffawing in a dopey voice "Aluminuminuminumum!"
Never has a wartime era joke looked so attractive in its animation. Carey's penchant for effects animation are visible through the single drop of saliva from the pan, reacquainting the audience with its purpose and reminding them that, yes, this is still a flesh eating beast. Likewise, the glint in his eyes is another Carey staple, first seen in his animation with The Henpecked Duck. It can evoke a dastardly spark with more nefarious characters, or the hatching of an idea, or a gleeful sense of mischief. The aesthetic detail is certainly nice here, and clinches the sense of transformation that the panther has indulged in. Eye glints are only reserved for the special privilege of anthropomorphism.
Indeed, this short has its own share of obligatory jingoism. Black and white shorts were quick and cheap to produce, which meant that indulging in more topical references was a safer bet with a shorter release schedule. Thus, McCabe, helm of the sole black and white unit, was in charge of smothering his cartoons with patriotism. Of course, he isn't the only director to make a joke about saving aluminum for war materials and encouraging the audience to do the same, but his duty of obligation is particularly clear. At the very least, it's a well animated segment with a defined joke/switch in tone. Airbrushed backgrounds following the pan as it is thrown into the pile really helps to sell the intensity of said throw.
Our next gag is a bit less meticulous in its thought and set-up. Bruce introduces the African Elephant, seen grazing on some straw...
...and then the Indian Elephant, whose punchline is uncomfortably easy to guess. It's groan and eye roll and wince inducing, but, again, certainly nothing any of the other directors at any other studio weren't doing at the same time, either. At the very least, it's "reassuring" that the African Elephant wasn't mined of its own racial gags.
Cal Dalton is yet again the perpetrator behind the animation: big cheeks, prominent mouths, and a general mushy wrinkliness to the face. That, and the fact that the elephant ends with his arms crossed and puffed out--the very same way the bald eagle gag ended. Likewise, if the Dalton-animated giraffe had arms to cross, they likewise would have been crossed as well. It becomes a bit of a noticeable crutch, but such may be exacerbated by the structure of this cartoon, where it becomes easier to compare such gags.
Speaking of eagles--or, at the very least, menacing birds--the next spotlight focuses on the vulture. He, too, like his eagle comrade, is subject to the dripping condescension of the narrator. Especially so, given that the entire point of focus is to highlight just how scathing Bruce's description of the bird is, using such evocative language like "sneaky", "unspeakable ghoul", "loathsome", "a despicable excuse for a bird".
Some of this language is supported by the general composition of the shot--discarded bones in the background communicate a story all their own, as well as the generally bleak, uninviting rocky backdrop. However, it is Bruce himself who is turned into the butt of the joke, as the vulture is quick to put on a pious act.
Or, if not pious, juvenile: "Sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me!" The delicate falsetto and sing-songy mocking of his voice support the tonal incongruity nicely. Much more effectively than if he had a deep, grizzled voice, which could still nevertheless reap comedic benefits of its own.
(One last addendum--note the cel error in which the vulture momentarily loses his eye.)
Bruce directs his orations to a group of seals; a rather pronounced (and purposeful) change in tone against the vulture spotlight. Intriguingly, the sign indicating their enclosure touts the scientific name of "Callorhinus alascus"--Callorhinus is indeed a genus of the sea lion, but the closest counterpart to our cartoon counterpart is the Callorhinus ursinus, or northern fur seal.
Inaccuracies/nonsensicalities in scientific names or not, the takeaway of the sequence is not of their genus, but, instead, enunciating how "fussy" they have been acting. Rather surprising, given their cute designs, playful frolicking and upbeat music score (the ever recurring "You, You Darlin'", which seems to have been adopted as a defacto musical theme for Porky in the Clampett and now McCabe cartoons). Nothing about the setup reads as fussy or unobliging at all.
Porky, who has been waiting patiently off-screen, goes to prove such a point. Comments about the seals' preference for "fresh mountain trout", which is nice writing on Tubby Millar's part for how extravagant it sounds via particulars, are reciprocated with jolly dismissal.
"I'll toss 'em a beh-beh-eh-beh-eh-barracu-ehh-cuh-ceh--a mackerel. They'll never know the duh-dih-difference."
Porky's bait 'n switch stutter gag works on multiple levels, particularly benefitted through the irony of his own words. Comparing a barracuda to a standard mackerel does, in fact, yield a world of difference in size and looks; perhaps the only accurate means of comparison would be between a king mackerel and a barracuda, owed primarily to size, but the nondescript fish in Porky's bucket certainly seem a far cry from both.
Irony manifests in a more poignant manner beyond ichthyology. For his efforts, Porky is warmly reciprocated with a dead fish in the face. Treg Brown's slapping effect greatly supports the impact--both physical and comedic--through its loud, hollow echo. Likewise, Porky physically topples backwards from the throw (even if it is at the expense of some background overlay issues with the bucket.) A rejection of the fish is funny in itself. But the sheer ferocity in which the fish is rejected is what truly makes the gag work. One can really feel the contempt from the seals. Their fussiness has been justified.
A final sign gag topper for good measure, embracing the sudden humanization of the seals and the extent of their rejection. Porky actively takes offense to the gesture, which strengthens it all the more. To have a fish slapped in one's face would hurt their pride regardless--here, however, after patronizing the very animals he cares for, the refutation of his mocking stings even more deeply. While perhaps insignificant, this little spotlight is a nice way to utilize Porky in his limited screen time. Here, he feels less like a way to encourage and evoke gags. Some of the humor is initiated directly from his own actions, thoughts, and personality--another prime example of his innocent, oblivious condescension that the black and white Clampett cartoons utilized so well.
To fulfill structural obligations, a brief return to the lion is made. No new information is added—same walk cycle, same sticking of head out the bars, same vague befuddlement from the narrator. Conversely, nothing else needs to be established at this time. Its purpose is exactly as the scene reads: a mere reminder. An omen of what’s to come at the end of the cartoon.
Moving forward, Bruce’s tone again turns grave and even panicked upon the introduction of “the Alaskan bear”. Visual comparisons to the Clampett unit are again felt in the design and movement of the bear, who seems to be a refugee from Clampett’s The Chewin’ Bruin not even two years prior. The weight of his footsteps is succinctly communicated, the lumbering feeling of his movements accurate and secure—all of the comments about how menacing and powerful bears can be are supported through the animation.
Comments about the bear hugging his prey to death are soon to come to fruition. A sheep is utilized as his victim of choice, and smartly so—small, soft, universal symbols of peace and rebirth, the prospect of such a cuddly creature getting ravaged by such a menacing bear elicits an urgent pathos. Or, at the very least, an urgent pathos intended by the tone and Bruce’s panicked cries for the bear to stop.
The “climax” would be made much more poignant if there was an actual sense of weight in the animation; as it stands now, the bear appears to be aimlessly waving the sheep in his face, who shows no sign of struggle or retaliation. Obviously, the action can only be so brutal, but the intensity in Bruce's voice as he screams for the bear to stop is unfortunately unreciprocated by the actual animation.
Nevertheless, the main point of interest isn't necessarily the brutality or even the hugging itself, but the impending punchline: Blanc utilizes his usual feminine falsetto as the sheep scorns the narrator to mind his own business. A solid joke that could have been made even more impactful with some stronger, sharper animation in the hugging itself, rendering the sheep's comments all the more befuddling. The main intent of the scene is conveyed regardless.
As has been customary so far, the next highlight prompts another change in tone. This time, a more chipper, saccharine mood as a group of birds sing "When the Swallows Come Back to Capistrano". A frequent pull of Carl Stalling's in this time period. Keith Scott pings the singers as Stella Fried, Betty Noyes, and Dorothy Compton--The Debutants, whose utilization in the Warner cartoons stems as far back as 1935's Mr. and Mrs. is the Name. Usually, The Rhythmettes were the vocal group of choice for the cartoons of this period. Such a blast from the past certainly proves its novelty.
Bruce introduces said swallows as they sing, before eventually asking why it is that they return to Capistrano. As he does so, the camera slowly pulls itself in on the birds, eliciting undivided focus. That, and allowing the audience to anticipate an impending response. McCabe could go without the truck-in if he really wanted to, but it does seem to support the frankness of their unanimous decree:
"I don't know! I guess we're just in a rut!" Smiley vacancy in which they give such an answer, as well as the disingenuously cutesy voices, proves helpful in furthering the impact of the joke.
Such is followed yet again by another drastic change in tone. A father rabbit appears distressed, moping among his endless sea of children; even if the loop is simple, practically all of the bunnies in the foreground and background alike move with constant idleness. That way, audiences are sure to know that these are indeed real living beings, the father has earned his role, that these bunnies are not just props to fill up the screen.
Why that matters in the first place is made apparent through this joke's own punchline: another wartime reference doused in polite bawdiness. Note the date on the corner of the letter, possibly shedding insight as to when this cartoon began production--just a month shy of official U.S. involvement, but made more timely than ever in the three month turn around that has since ensued.
For a last burst of sympathy, the father rabbit pokes his head out from behind the letter with panic clear on his face. John Carey handles the animation of the entire sequence, easily identifiable through the rabbit's tall eyes and eyebrows. Character acting is relatively limited--then again, this isn't a scene that demands intricate personality animation. The implications are the biggest takeaway. Conveying the fear in the father rabbit's face and ensuring every one of his offspring is moving, cementing the severity of the situation and how full his hands are already, is the most important artistic priority.
Focus is now shifted onto Porky for a third and final time as he fulfills his cartoon obligations. Here, he illustrates Bruce's point that hippos are practically impenetrable through their rough skin, succumbing only to a "eh-t-eh-teh-t-eh-teeny, weeny, vuh-ve-ve-ehh-vulnerable spot". Cal Dalton's handiwork is easily identifiable yet again, particularly through his handling of Porky--curved, intricate mouth shapes, upward head tilts, pronounced wrinkle lines on his cheeks and eyebrows, as well as the general movement as he talks. The off-kilter appeal in his work is still present, but certainly places heavier emphasis on the latter rather than the former.
To demonstrate the comments about the hippo's general lack of vulnerability, Porky smacks his sides with a stick. Yet again, Brown's sound effects pull much of the legwork through their loud, reverberating smacks--it's made exceedingly clear that Porky is holding no punches. Drybrushing and obtuse impact lines in Dalton's animation elicit a similar effect of strengthening the overall impact. That way, the audience knows that they aren't being tricked or conned out of such vital education.
Dominance of the same smacking sounds offers an impact beyond the surface level of sounding painful, but, likewise, to support sound effects that directly juxtapose it. Porky hitting the hippo's vulnerable spot is accented with the ever favorite "BOIP!" sound effect, straight from Bob Clampett's mouth; such a distinctly mischievous sound effect immediately creates a strong antithesis to the routine we've seen thus far, communicating that the proverbial Achille's heel has been found without having to have been spelled out.
And, instead of having this weak spot be an avenue for pain, McCabe keeps it lighthearted by choosing to have the hippo indulge in raucous laughter. Stalling's accompanying "laughing" score may be a bit too on the nose, perhaps furthering a juvenility that isn't exactly necessary (though this seems more likely to be a product of McCabe's music direction--Porky's Snooze Reel, of which he codirected on, features a similar sting), but remains harmless and does ultimately support the action. Even if its obtuseness gets a bit suffocating.
Likewise, Blanc's deliveries require no introduction for their intensity. Voice high, shrill, hysterical, everything about the scene as it survives now serves as a stark antithesis to this hulking yet apathetic brute just introduced prior.
All of this hubbub and excitement is appended by a cutaway gag. Something rather novel, given that these shorts seldom indulged in such additional tangents the way it is structured here. Granted, the cutaway isn't exactly rebellious, as it follows the overarching theme of animals laughing, but the shift is certainly noticeable.
Here, as hyenas do, said hyena laughs along with his hippo counterpart. There appears to be a bit of unnecessary animation on the bars of his enclosure, as they move idly beneath his grasp before he lets go; obviously, an attempt on the animator's behalf to ensure that the bars are registered and that there are no communication issues between the background and the hyena, but nevertheless odd in that it adds more movement than necessary and calls slight attention to something intended to be insignificant. Audiences are nevertheless more focused on the hyena himself than what he happens to be grabbing onto and how.
Especially given that it all amounts in a joke: a proudly apathetic "I don't get it".
Right back to business. Cushioning the pause with these extravagant laughs, music score resuming after its own stuffy halt in favor of the hyena's commentary, allows the joke to thrive through its A-B-A pacing.
Thus, with all of our other obligations thoroughly handled, focus settles on the antsy lion for a final time. A change and subsequent payoff are to be expected by the manner in which he perks up. Even his features seem to change, adopting a more caricatured, compact, comparatively cute look--granted, part of his earlier minaciousness is owed to the animation being traced off of a separate predatory cat. Nevertheless, a clear change in demeanor is enacted, and a change that is soon to be discovered.
Camera speed in which the lion runs across the cage is convincingly frantic, his run cycle timed on one's for maximum ferocity. A real eagerness is felt. Especially given that all of his appearances thus far have had him moping and pacing lugubriously--the animators do a fine job of sticking to their guns and milking the change.
Through the courtesy of another camera pan, audiences are finally able to answer Bruce's question as to what makes the lion so happy: the ever popular Good Humor man, who, as past reviews explain, was a popular face for the animators at the Warner studio. Granted, the Good Humor brand isn't dropped by name, but the ringing of the bells and general aesthetic of his delivery service certainly proves synonymous to other GH references.
Business of the ice cream man spotting the lion, stopping, and fishing out a popsicle could stand to be cut in half, as the bit does run a little long. At the same time, lingering on every little movement yields benefits of its own. Most importantly, the anticipation of the lion, who can barely wait another second for his ice cream. By dragging all of these elements out, audiences succumb to the same desires of wanting to see an actualization of this scenario. For the lion, it's ice cream--for the audience, it's the reveal of the punchline.
"Allusions" to said punchline is a more accurate descriptor. Cleverly, McCabe obscures any and all action of the ice cream transaction, opting instead to communicate it through audio cues. The sudden stop of the bells ringing, the roar and subsequent chomping sounds of the lion. Information is kept just vague enough that audiences could be tricked into thinking that the lion actually got and ate his ice cream...
...but you know, I know, and audiences in 1942 know that such an outcome is too easy. To unfulfilling. Instead, the reveal of the lion wearing the ice cream man's uniform and licking his lips communicates everything itself. Even the popsicle is kept wide out in the open, rather noticeable in its negelct--all to drive the point home that it was never about the ice cream, but the vendor.
Perhaps the ending punchline of the cartoon is predictable. It nevertheless works comfortably in its predictability, in that there are staging and directing maneuvers instated to keep audiences engaged. Refusing to spoon feed the action and instead convey the transaction through vague sound effects works best, as viewers are encouraged to paint a mental picture of what just happened. That in itself is more powerful and transcendent than any potential limitations within the animation. So, with a hiccup/burp substitute and the jolly chorus of bells from inside the gullet, we leave the king of the jungle (er, zoo enclosure) alone for one final time.
"Harmless" seems to have been the word of the day with this review. An umbrella term for many of its jokes. An addendum to a technical critique. The general tone of certain scenes. Indeed, Who's Who in the Zoo is ultimately that: harmless. It certainly isn't one of McCabe's most riveting pieces of filmmaking, but, likewise, strays comfortably away from being one of his worst. Instead, it just seems to exist. That isn't necessarily said with a negative connotation.
Nevertheless, the stakes of spot gag cartoons are low thanks to their innately freeform nature. Thus, it becomes easier to fall into and get away with these aforementioned vices. Spot gag cartoons aren't intended to be gripping pieces of cinematography and wholly engaging pieces of cinema. Its simplicity is why it's so popular.
Therefore, the theme of harmlessness is reinstated once again--this may be a comparatively flimsy cartoon in its foundation, but the genre itself does not require a particularly strong base. Gags tied under a basic theme are united, with recurring bits--in this case, the lion, as well as Porky's fleeting involvement--to offer the illusion of more substance. It's a short intended to amuse the audience before a film, hopefully eliciting some chuckles in the process, no matter the intensity. It fulfills that quota.
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