358. Conrad the Sailor (1942)

Release Date: February 28th, 1942

Series: Merrie Melodies

Director: Chuck Jones

Story: Dave Monahan

Animation: Ben Washam

Musical Direction: Carl Stalling 

Starring: Pinto Colvig (Conrad), Mel Blanc (Daffy), The Sportsmen Quartet (Singers)

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

Within the past slew of analyses covering Chuck Jones' cartoons, there has been a lot of talk and speculation and hinting and whispering about change. Positing "Don't worry, it all changes with The Draft Horse," and somewhat backtracking that statement in the same sentence, with a hasty addendum of "...but there are some pretty significant changes here, too, that could lead up to why shorts like The Draft Horse and The Dover Boys even exist in the first place."

Both the initial and postscript statements can be true. Like every artist, Jones' growth is the product of natural evolution, trying and failing, seeing what works and what doesn't. Likewise, there are certain beats throughout his career that are more evocative of change and inspiration. Beats that likely wouldn't be the case if he didn't have the prior experience and constant directorial navigation that he does.

All of this fluff is to articulate that Conrad the Sailor is another one of those shorts that is particularly reminiscent of some very welcome change. Old habits die hard, and there are some trappings throughout the short that Jones hasn't yet learned to shake off, but even Jones himself has regarded it as a bit of an artistic turning point.

Through this short, the artistic collaborations of layout artist John McGrew and background painter Eugene Fleury are finally receiving their dues. Fleury replaced Paul Julian as Jones' background artist in February of 1941, with the backlog taking until now to showcase his talents. McGrew, likewise, was largely responsible for orchestrating the streamlined, abstract looks of Jones' shorts through the mid-'40s--a bit of an informal precursor to the synonymous sense of caricature in Maurice Noble's work.

Thorough discussion of what McGrew and Fleury's collaboration entails will be initiated shortly. For now, in keeping with the introduction, the relevance of one Daffy Duck is also worth mentioning. Not only is this his first outing with Chuck Jones since 1939 with Daffy Duck and the Dinosaur, but it is likewise his first appearance in color since that same cartoon. Within the past three years, Daffy has faced a rather deceptive amount of maturation--a maturation that is often dismissed or goes unrealized due to his cute, diminutive stature, still evoking the sense of a particularly sprightly little heckler.

Granted, that much is still true in a general sense, but Daffy's horizons have broadened much more than is often realized within the time elapsed. Daffy Duck and the Dinosaur was, at one point, the most mature Daffy ever was, boasting a self awareness and even conceit that the Clampett shorts of the same time didn't tap into in the same way. The latter was embraced a bit, particularly in shorts like Scalp Trouble where he plays an authoritative role. No such luck with the former.

Conrad the Sailor likewise marks the first Chuck Jones short since The Brave Little Bat to be written by someone that isn't Jones himself. After a near two year absence from his unit, with his last credit for Jones being 1940's Ghost Wanted, Monahan makes a quick return to offer his services for Conrad the Sailor.

As the title suggests, everyone's favorite Conrad has now moved up from palm tree delivery man to pancake chef to sailor. His promotion comes with the gift of speech, in that Pinto Colvig lends his trademark Goofy voice for such an occasion; a quick and easy shorthand in pinging someone as a grade a dope. Daffy, who plays the role of an "informal stowaway" is able to identify this, too, and spends much of the short coaxing Conrad into various grievances.

Opening titles to the cartoon are a fitting mix of old and new in concerning Jones' directorial stylings. Old, in that the short opens with a song number, which is particularly reminiscent of the many song and dance cartoons. New, in that it boasts his newfound utilization of matched cuts. Jones explains the technique (and in reference to this very cartoon) in his own words:

"We used a lot of overlapping graphics on that particular cartoon... so that one scene would have the same graphic shape as an earlier scene, even though it would be a different object: first we’d show a gun pointing up in the air, then in the next shot, there’d be a cloud in exactly the same shape. It gave a certain stability which we used in many of the cartoons.”

Much of the opening song number--"The Song of the Marines" in the musical stylings of the Sportsmen Quartet, who, coincidentally, likewise sang the same song in a synonymous context to the opening of Porky the Gob three years prior--is comprised of these subliminally overlapping cuts. One of the most apparent usages is the cross dissolve between the flags on the ship to the actual exterior of the ship itself. Here, the fade offers a fleeting yet poignant means of comparison, allowing the viewers to note that the leftmost flag line runs directly along the silhouette of the ship's crow's nest, whereas the rightmost flags bleed into one of many sleek cannons. 

Said cannons soon bleed into other cannons, more imposing as they jut further out into the foreground. Pointing the camera up at the ship places the viewer in a role of diminished authority; the majesty of the ship is intended to impress and overwhelm. Especially when accompanied through such rich, bold, practically ethereal vocals--a palpable pride and even ownership prevails. Compare that to the opening to Gob linked above, where attempts to undermine its own comedy are rife and, by proxy, unsuccessful. Conrad's opening may offer less to laugh at, but is much more comfortable within its own identity by maintaining its conviction.

Artistic grandeur is present even in the actual animation itself; a slew of identical dog-faced sailors move in perfect synchronization with one another. Synchronization means order, and order means planning, and planning means a conscious orchestration of events, in which this entire opening (and cartoon) is. It all builds up into this effect of streamlined, sleek perfection that the audience will hopefully be moved by. There's very little reason to feel otherwise--it's a very effective sequence.

In fact, if there is any critique to be had, it's incredibly nitpicky: the swelling of the final chorus is met with the focus of six dogs, three on each side, color palettes mirrored for ultimate coordination. There could stand to be just a bit more breathing room in the staging, as the two innermost dogs tangent and overlap with each other when their respective lines of action curve together. A fleeting sense of claustrophobia prevails as a consequence. Regardless, Jones is able to get away with it for the most part, thanks to the prevalence of synchronization in animation. The idea of such rigid organization is more important than the actual particulars--if the latter were a more palpable point of focus, then the animation would likely be a bit more specific. Much of it is reduced to vague swaying, but, again; the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Just when the audience has believed that they've been presented all there is to the song number, the camera makes a prompt jerk to the right. Enter our eponymous sailor, who is quick to demonstrate his new gift of verbality: he gets a chorus of "Song of the Marines" all to himself.

Granted, this isn't exactly a gilded honor. Jones weaves a story through his staging and narrative decisions to make Conrad sing alone. The large, towering guns aboard the ship concoct a frame around Conrad, allowing the viewer's eye to focus on him and, in the same glance, all of the negative space around him. Assigned to the lowly job of swabbing the poop deck, Conrad has been segregated from his peers. No synchronized singing animals for him, no esteem of polishing the cannons.

Most directors would use this opportunity to weave the entire story around such a hierarchy. Porky the Gob certainly does, with Porky griping about his status as the underdog but eventually winning the heart of his captain after singlehandedly defending the ship. 

Conrad the Sailor is different because Conrad is different. Not only does he seem completely oblivious to his low regard by others--he's completely content. The idea that he could be executing his talents, his potential, in something that isn't scrubbing the poop deck never seems to occur to him. Truly, as evidenced through Colvig's chipper singing, the equally chipper animation as he twirls his mop and throws it into the air, and general exhibition of high spirits, he establishes himself as the brimming personification of an age-old (yet appropriate) saying: ignorance is bliss.

In Porky's Cafe, the Conradisms first seen in The Bird Came C.O.D. appeared to have been tampered down. No rubbing of the nose, no aimless chortling to the camera, no fiddling or tripping over his own tail. Interestingly, some of those very quirks make a resurgence here: nose rubbing being the most prominent. One can feel Jones attempting to get a balance of how much or how little to indulge in these mannerisms--C.O.D. was the pinnacle of over-indulgence, whereas Cafe's restraint with Conrad was felt. 

Now, in Sailor, Jones seems to be fiending for an appropriate balance between the two. Perhaps the benefit of voice acting (Pinto Colvig voice acting, at that, who theatrical audiences would have recognized immediately) offers a buffer, a distraction, a separation so that Jones can tinker with such comedic frivolity without it being the main takeaway. 

Some of the animated flabbiness in C.O.D. makes a brief return in the adjoining close-up of Conrad. Realistically, bloating in the general pacing is moreso the culprit, but the snappiness he touted in Porky's Cafe isn't a priority anymore. At the very least, the benefit of his voice renders him all the more appealing--it takes a steely heart to scoff at the iconic Colvig Goofy "a-hyuck", especially when coupled with the novelty that it's emanating out of another character's mouth at a rival studio. 

Aimlessness of Conrad's movements and intentions by proxy are to be approached with some nuance; what justifies them is intended to be a surprise. There certainly could be a way for Jones to communicate Conrad's sudden change in mood--and a much faster way at that--but the audience is intended to savor the slow-burning confusion. 

How else would Daffy's introduction read as an effective surprise?

The direct jump cut to him perched contentedly at the top of the ship is a revealing and brilliant decision. Just like Daffy himself, it's a move that dictates a boldness through its confidence. No fat, no need to chew the fat, no time to chew the fat--Daffy doesn't aimlessly bob his head at the camera and milk his pauses. The abrasiveness in the filmmaking is soon to match his attitude. Moreover, the impact of his jolting entrance is made stronger through a lack of any sort of indication that he's there in the first place. His appearance is as much of a surprise to the viewer as it is to Conrad; thus, the audience is naturally bound to be more interested in seeing what this confrontation amounts to.

Context for Conrad's sudden grudge is given through another cut and a dutiful truck-out of the camera: dirty, pigeon toed footprints. Such erects a subtle yet fascinating dissonance; Daffy is obviously a duck, but the footprints left behind evoke that of a standard bird's--Jones' early duck does only have two toes, even in publicity photos. The whole point of the gag is to fake the audience out and trick them into thinking that Daffy has honored the name of the poop deck. As birds often do. Perhaps going with the more decidedly bird-shaped footprints allows for those mental gymnastics and context clues to be assumed more quickly.

Nevertheless, the shape of the footprints are hardly relevant: just that they are there at all. Daffy's gregarious and politely smug wave before the reveal are enrichened all the more when imagining the alternative.

So, to properly express Conrad's disgruntlement, he resumes a disdainful, forced chorus of The Song of the Marines as he maintains his swabbing duties. It's as though it's the only way he knows how to express his anger--he's been given the gift of gab, but doesn't yet have the flexibility to show it off and properly express his disdain towards implied-to-be defecating ducks. That, and it's a more interesting character beat than if he were to just yell at Daffy and move on with his life.

More opportunities for mockery are opened as a consequence. Pacing along the mast, Daffy repeatedly sneers the same chorus of "We're shovin' right off, ag'iiin... we're shovin' right off, ag'iiin... shovin' right off, ag'iiin...". This seemingly arbitrary tangent is deceptively strong, both in its execution and for what it implies.

Relating to execution, the camera maintains its gentle rocking to convey the swaying of the ship while Daffy struts to and fro. So many simultaneous actions--occasionally in contrasting directions, yet--certainly bear a vast risk of getting lost, overwhelming, and confused. Thankfully, the walk cycle is rather simple and clear, exaggerated through Daffy's laden footsteps, making it easy to keep track of. The only detail that risks getting lost is the visual gag of Daffy turning around in mid-air. Drybrush strokes support the force of his deliveries.

Which takes us to the other means of excellence: personality. Raw, inciting mischief drips from Daffy's voice and is exceedingly palpable. There's animosity in his deliveries, there's juvenility, there's playfulness, and there is a particularly ferocious love of being able to indulge in it all. Why Daffy mocks Conrad, we don't exactly know (other than the assumptions--Conrad is clearly a rube and an even clearer target), but his enjoyment in mocking him is incontestably apparent. Particularly because his desire seems to be getting a rise out of Conrad, which, at least for the benefit of the plotline, is risky. Indulging in such a risk is exhilarating and cathartic to someone like Daffy, whose sole life mission at this point remains the self gratifying thrill of provoking others.

Fostering the same suddenness in his bout of mockery, Daffy adopts an attitude of much stronger candor as he prolificates to the audience how "awful" Conrad is. Again--no basis as to what spurred these claims or why it deserves such a big show. We will never figure out what it is that makes Daffy feel "sick"; such is the beauty of his claims. This dime-drop shift in demeanor and refusal to elaborate all support his namesake. 

He may not be crossing his eyes and doing the trademark Stan Laurel hop, but he still certainly is a daffy duck. Especially given that, to him, his own claims seem warranted and perfectly within reason. There is a very intricate inner monologue dominating his introduction that the audience may never understand. But, to him, it all makes sense, and acting as though the audience is clearly wise to his every word, every thought, every idea is yet another creative and sharp way to communicate his "eccentricities" beyond stock impulses.

Conrad, as we have learned through his past handful of appearances, is another character that abides by his own unique and enigmatic string of logic. In this case, Daffy's comments are reciprocated through vengeful mopping rather than any other verbal retaliation or catharsis (as was the case with him singing through gritted teeth.) It's almost as though he supposes that if he remains quiet, then Daffy doesn't have any additional material to use against him in future jeering. That, and having him remain silent offers a juxtaposition to the prior sequence, making the cartoon seem more balanced and less monotonous. A bit of the former is inescapable in his decision to keep mopping--as well as the additionally awkward pauses--but it's a clever compromise.

Daffy’s means of badgering consequently turn physical. As was custom of this era, the majority of his heckling is largely innocent and inconsequential. For example: swapping out Conrad’s bucket of water with red paint (and conveniently labeled as such) isn’t anything that can’t be remedied later on, but is just obnoxious enough for Conrad to succumb to Daffy’s intentions of incitement. 

In select flashes throughout the cartoon, Daffy’s mannerisms and Jones’ artistic decisions in caricaturing his role as a heckler almost feel comparable to the prototypal Bugs Bunny. Not necessarily the fully formed, wiseacre Brooklynite, but the white and occasionally gray rabbit who indulged in synonymously nonsensical exits and maintained the same air of sprightly omnipresence. Here, Daffy’s vertically spinning exit as he rotates out of frame is one of the most telling examples. Certainly not dissimilar from Bugs’ whirlwind exits out of his rabbit hole. Given that Bugs directly owes his existence to Daffy, once starting out as a  knockoff (to the self awareness of Bugs Hardaway), similarities in such a lineage makes sense.

Paint, water, the difference is none with Conrad. Ferocity in which he mops the deck is enriched through the irony of understanding that the hardest he’s worked has been paired with the greatest detriment. There’s some suspension of disbelief to be had, in that his eye line points directly down to his mop—as thick as he has a tendency to be, it proves difficult to buy that even someone like Conrad wouldn’t sense something was wrong. Especially given that it’s Daffy himself who has to point out his “error”; had he left him alone, the probability of Conrad gaining awareness is slim to none.

More leftover tendencies from C.O.D. manifest between the time Conrad has finished mopping and when Daffy finally grabs his attention. The almost consecutive nose rubs, the snap of the hand, and proudly oblivious and musical shuffle-walk are all direct pulls. Again, compared to Porky’s Cafe, the comedy surrounding Conrad specifically feels a bit regressive—the abrasiveness of the former was understandably shifted to a character like Daffy instead. Experience of directing both C.O.D. and Cafe put the Conradisms in a better position, in that nothing ever feels as tedious or as slow as the humor or pacing in C.O.D.; just a bit of an inconsequential rug pull, given that Cafe really seemed to express that, for the most part, these mannerisms were left behind.

Execution of Daffy grabbing Conrad's attention is simple, but appealingly so, with each action coinciding with the musical beat in the background. Daffy grabbing the mop is a beat. Him hopping to a stop--a character acting decision that capitalizes well on his "sprightly innocence", adding an extra bit of fluff for the sake of playfulness--is a beat, physically tugging on the mop is a beat, and Conrad turning around lags just a half-beat behind. In a general sense, their entire altercation could stand to be much quicker, but if it is to have the length it does, then Jones uses it well. Musical timing conveys order and purpose.

A Conrad's-eye-view shot exacerbates the annoyance caused by Daffy by granting the audience an objective view of the damage. In all of the conversations surrounding the general style of the backgrounds for this short, John McGrew's layout work and composition arouses the most praise. For good reason, as he certainly provided the foundation for such stylism. However, this little shot is a rare case of the actual painting techniques themselves overshadowing the layout. Fleury excels at giving the paint/mop water mixture a tangible transparency, which grounds the "gag" and offers a more poignant feeling of damnation and conflict than would be offered by opaque blobs of cel paint. This comparative realism renders not only the environments more believable, but the implied consequences of Daffy's heckling (who, speaking of which, has been cheated out of frame--realistically, even accounting for the height difference, he would still fit at the very bottom of the screen, but placing him there would be a liability and a distraction, as the paint and sharing of Conrad's point of view is the most important priority.)

Daffy's biting decree of "Veeery sloppy, Roscoe--you're a slovenly housekeeper!" would be used as a synonymous insult in Bob McKimson's Birth of a Notion 5 years later. Given the specificity of the line, its origins are likely relegated to radio. Unfortunately, the source of that and impending chides of "Very petite, Betsy. Very, very petite!" are lost on this frustratingly clueless author; for all we know, it could all be down to Dave Monahan having a field day. Daffy in particular is a character who wears his pop culture references proudly on his metaphorical sleeves, however, so the potential draw from radio or film seem most likely. 

Likewise, the general tone and purpose of his comments remain timeless, even if the enigmatic source material doesn't. All the viewer needs to know is that Conrad doesn't take too kindly to Daffy's words, who, conversely, continues to derive great gratification out of teasing the stupid swabbie. 

Which leads into the next piece of business: Conrad tossing the paint soaked mop at Daffy. And, in true Daffy fashion, he reciprocates the advance by essentially turning it into a game of catch. This particular moment is one of Sailor's scattered oddities, in that it feels like it was an idea that was clearer on paper--or, more realistically, in Jones' mind--than in practice. Daffy catches the mop and twirls it, Carl Stalling's music score swelling into a bubbly, swing jazz motif that thusly transforms the exchange into an event of sorts. Especially given the lugubrious pauses that linger between Daffy's yells of "CATCH! ...CATCH!"

Vagueness does dominate the direction--as per usual, the bit goes on for just a bit too long, with the pause between Daffy's yells evoking curiosity. There doesn't necessarily even need to be a second "CATCH!" at all. 

Yet, not unlike Daffy's brand of heckling in this cartoon, the sequence is exhibited with an overwhelming tone of endearing playfulness, rendering it difficult to condemn. Stalling's music score is a wonderful embodiment of the razzing, youthful energy of the '40s cartoons. Daffy turning this "attack" into a game is certainly revealing about the way he thinks and reacts. Even the decision to yell "CATCH!" twice, confusing as the intent may be, feels like it could pass as a demonstration of his need to indulge. It's not exactly as though he has the self restraint to say or do things only once. The same ravenous mischief that so dominated his mocking of Conrad's song manifests to an even stronger degree here; he's clearly getting a kick out of riling him up. 

A point of view shot of the mop falling in Conrad’s immediate trajectory is not only dynamic and immersive, shaking up any monotony in the prevailing staging (which isn’t a problem that this cartoon particularly struggles with), but offers a fleeting serving of empathy to Conrad. The mop’s line of force has it falling a little bit away from the camera, both giving the action some clarity and organicism. To have it drop directly onto the camera might feel too perfect, too manufactured. Instead, this slight angling to the right offers a more gentle organicism that translates into dynamism. Likewise, placing the audience in Conrad’s perspective enables this mop assault to feel more intense than it actually is.

Before getting a mouth full of mop, Jones allots enough time for Conrad to spare a quick eye take. This, too, falls into the aforementioned C.O.D. "flabbiness"--it's certainly a funny drawing, but some of that funniness is a byproduct of accidental awkwardness. The shift in animators between scenes is certainly telling.

Volume of the mop's handle as it reverberates on Conrad's head suffers from similar unsteadiness, the handle shifting its width periodically. Action of the handle moving back and forth allows the shifting to be partially obscured through the distraction of movement. Regardless, it does seem to indicate that the gelatinousness in Conrad's construction regarding this particular scene isn't necessarily all down to caricature or a product of purposeful artistic intent. 

The actual "reveal" of Conrad's literal mop fares better in its solidity. Granted, being a mostly still drawing helps with that. A cel of his eyes in mid-blink are held for just a few frames too many, but, like most things, is exceedingly inconsequential.

Daffy fares a bit more successfully, indulging in the dubious radio reference mentioned prior. Suddenness of his appearance is handled well through its sharpness--a parallel to his introduction, in that there are no indications of his presence prior. Especially given that the audience was just presented with a point of view shot of the mop falling into Conrad's head, whose handle was decidedly Daffy-less in the air; such a proud impracticality is delivered with unquestioning confidence. Something Jones is much better off for channeling. Daffy's omnipresence is just one of the many mannerisms of being a pest.

More proto-Bugs adjacent actions are thusly cued--Daffy disentangles himself from Conrad not by jumping off, not by plucking the mop off of his head in cheery condescension, but, instead, spinning down around his body and twisting it up like a barber pole. A quirky exit that demonstrates his constant strife for fun and frivolity, his generally flashy demeanor, and, most importantly of all, an exit that proves to be annoyingly disruptive for Conrad. What seems like a throwaway bit of visual business is instead quite layered.

Now, Porky's Cafe is the cartoon of choice utilized for some Conrad carryovers: the abstraction of him becoming a whirlwind of drybrush and settling into a hunched, angry posture both harken back to the more abrasive, clean-cut nature of that cartoon. As far as dealing with Conrad himself goes, anyway. Cafe's pacing and overall freneticism is a bit stronger--particularly when comparing the drybrush spells--but is certainly serviceable in its build-up here. It's made clear that there will be no more broiling antics involving mops or singing or repetitive nose wiping. Now, Conrad is on the offense.

...as evidenced through his rapid exit. The guttural whiplash in his departure is effective and clear, a matter of consecutive frames in which he's present in one frame and completely absent in another. Vague vestiges of cream drybrush trails split the difference, indicating the reminder of his presence and ensuring that his vanishing act isn't completely disarming beyond intent.

Reciprocation of eye contact from Daffy officially initiates the chase. Daffy comes with his own polite abstraction: the cloud of smoke left in his wake adopting a running pose of its own, and appearing to rush right after him. Conrad's spotlight is definitely approached with more directorial harshness, with the timing of Daffy's surprised take and run begging a bit more urgency, but makes sense in the context. In this moment, Daffy is on the defense, and the defense doesn't necessitate the same aggression as Conrad's intent to pursue. 

Briefly, Jones resorts to a wide shot, offering a more formal sense of scale regarding the ship. Not only that, but Daffy's relationship to that scale in particular. Part of the function served by the wide shot is to accentuate the metaphorical and physical size of the chase, hinting at how small Daffy is when juxtaposed against his environments. An alienation thusly ensues, indicating that he's out of his element: such vast vessels are exclusively reserved for seasoned sailors of the seven seas like Conrad. In that alienation comes an additional vulnerability, too--as much of a pest as Daffy is, the audience is inclined to see where his antics will go. Thus, a fleeting sympathy is evoked when seeing how small he is against the size of the ship or even Conrad. An underdog appeal of sorts.

Granted, this cut is rather fleeting, with Jones cutting to Daffy diving into a lifeboat with similar haste. The wide shot feels as though it wants to bring more to the table than it does, as if preparing the viewer for its vastness. Daffy and Conrad interact with and fill up the space where necessary, but the tone delivers an urgent grandeur that is a bit too strong for its purpose. In other words, the staging seems to hint at something that is too important to be the quick piece of filler it is. 

Memories of Aloha Hooey are awakened through the conflict that ensues within the tarped confines of the lifeboat. Now it is Conrad who comes armed with the benefit of surreptitious introductions, with no prior indication of his own sneaking into the boat. Granted, the fact that the camera lingers on the layout as long as it does, with the furtive pacing that it bears, prepares the audience for such an inevitable clash. Regardless, the "surprise" aspect is a suitable answer to Daffy's synonymously spontaneous entries. By having Conrad do the same, the playing field seems to have been leveled. Seldom does Daffy have the benefit of invincibility.

Bulging of the tarp as Conrad is implied to beat the feathers out of Daffy asserts as such. Comparisons to Hooey are once again warranted, in that the cartoon boasts similar staging and ideas. Likewise, Hooey has the benefit of a more grounded sense of confidence in its execution--here, the kinetics on the punches and hits could stand to be sharper, the bulges more rapid, a greater sense of force guiding the punches. An additional beat of Conrad delivering the final blow is lessened through the softness in the animation, underwhelmed by an anticipatory pause. 

Regardless, as is usually the case, the overall intent is clear, and it certainly comes as no surprise to audiences when Conrad hauls Daffy’s unconscious self out of the lifeboat. Had this been a Bugs cartoon, viewers would have gotten the sense that Bugs was playing possum. Daffy is a comparatively more vulnerable character and doesn’t share that same invincibility. About a half of the cartoon’s runtime remains, so audiences can expect Daffy to be back on his feet regardless—to see Conrad have an authority of some sort is nevertheless a bit of a welcome surprise that momentarily subverts the expectations of the audience. 

To accentuate Daffy’s incapacitation, he appears to dangle in Conrad’s grasp, arcs wide and sweeping with the follow through on his swinging legs. Even after Conrad has stopped moving completely, Daffy’s legs lag behind by a few frames—even after the rest of his body has settled. That limpness accentuates the aforementioned vulnerability accent, ensuring audiences that his obtundation isn’t an act. Angry swipes of the nose from Conrad conversely exacerbated his own heated superiority. A finality and sense of accomplishment lingers in such gestures.

Why both characters come to a stop is revealed through the induction of the cartoon’s running gag: a stout little captain occasionally interrupts the conflict, prompting Conrad and Daffy both to pause their conflict and salute their shared authority figure. This, too, falls into the Chuck Jones “little man” trope erected in Saddle Silly: a goofy, eccentric figure momentarily disrupting the flow of the action. While he may not be as “little” in this particular example, The Dover Boys boasts the most memorable instance with the galloping old man.

While it may not be the most groundbreaking demonstration of comedy, Jones’ insistent usage of it is refreshing. The gag is politely anarchic. Completely destroying the narrative—no matter how fleetingly—in favor of a quick non-sequitur that jars audiences and on-screen characters alike out of the action upsets the story structure, upsets any sense of formality and stuffiness in the directing. For the Chuck Jones of 1941, when this was being produced, this was a “risk” he certainly wouldn’t have taken in prior years. The Mynah Bird is an apt prototype, but even then, his disruptions in the Inki cartoons feel comfortable within the bounds of the story, with the cartoon catering itself to those beats. Instances such as the enigmatic captain with his prototypal Marvin the Martian walk or Dover’s galloping old sailor man are the product of complete spontaneity. 

Likewise, Conrad’s exemplification of the “little man” has the added benefit of tangential context. In the instances that he passes by, Daffy and Conrad are unified, momentarily shunted to the same low rung on the hierarchy. Daffy, who is essentially a stowaway, has no business nor obligation to salute the captain, but does so anyway. Even while he’s unconscious. Conrad furtively cracks an eye open once the coast is clear, but Daffy never does—a polite nudge from Chuck Jones that reminds the audience that, yes, amazingly, Daffy isn’t bluffing.

Evidenced by Daffy's obedient descent overboard. Had he any shred of consciousness, it's almost guarantee that he wouldn't go down without a fight--shorts such as The Daffy Doc, when he's being forcibly ejected from the operating room and argues the entire time, assert as such. The detail is quick and easy to be lost in the overall action of Conrad dumping him off the ship, but he spares a quick turn of the head to look at him as he walks forth. Almost judging for himself that Daffy really is disarmed and that it really is this easy to dispose of him. One gets the sense that Conrad doesn't get the chance to enjoy these victories often.

As a fade to black and transition of scenes so reveal.

Daffy's reintroduction is handled with a controlled, playful slyness to it. Had the short been made about 15 years later, his re-entry into the frame almost certainly would have been accompanied with a rant or a clear expression of his discontent. Instead, practically no acknowledgment of the interaction is even made. With his usual chipper playfulness, he toddles along the railing of the ship with no regard for any of the danger he is in or WAS in. How he got back up is never asked nor entertained. There aren't even any water droplets lingering on his body, perhaps reminding the audience of whence he came.

The scene is much better for it. Attempting to wrap this cartoon around any sense of founded logic of all times would enable it to tie itself in a knot--a trapping that many of Jones' earliest cartoons fall into for that reason alone. Likewise, Daffy has the freedom of character to get away with such defiance of logic. He's sprightly, he's omnipresent, and, at times, almost otherworldly. A puzzling little enigma whose charisma is even moreso. It's best that the tone of directing adopts one of confidence to match Daffy's demeanor.

And there is certainly confidence to be had in his proud re-entry, flopping over the side of the rail and making no attempt to conceal himself from Conrad's presence. Whether it be getting busted by Conrad or falling over the edge of the ship due to his playful leisure, he heeds no sense of caution or danger. Quite the contrary: he obligingly walks--or, in this case--balances right into it. He doesn't know when to quit, because there has never been an opportunity in his life where he HAS had to quit. Persistence in his pestering isn't only habitual, but, at this point in his evolutionary lifeline, a biological impulse.

Perhaps the most blatant Bugs Bunny-ism exuded by Daffy isn't his elaborate, flashy exits and occasionally nagging sense of control, but his utterance of "Swell view, eh doc?" when Conrad “mistakes” him for his telescope. This certainly wouldn’t be the last time Daffy’s shared one of Bugs’ iconic utterances (both The Impatient Patient and Along Came Daffy featuring variations of “What’s cookin’, doc?”), but the sincerity in which he says it here without an intended self awareness is certainly enigmatic. 

Sudden elongation of Daffy’s body to adopt the general shape of the telescope certainly do little to ease allusions to the star rabbit and his lanky build. Daffy himself would comfortably grow into this same height in the coming years, making the visual gag lose a bit of its impact through hindsight bias—the size difference becomes more noticeable when comparing to his diminutive stature within the cartoon itself.

The second instance of Daffy being thrown overboard is approached with a much more subdued fanfare. At this point, Jones and audience alike know that Daffy is going to find another way to weasel himself back aboard. Daffy seems to know it, too, as the smile never exactly seems to leave his face as he’s thrust overboard. Thus, the dramatics of the first ejection aren’t necessary—the purpose of throwing Daffy away is to demonstrate Conrad’s fraying nerves rather than weave an intricate commentary of Daffy’s successes and failures. Getting thrown off the boat could be seen as a failure to some. However, he’s succeeded in his mission of being a nuisance and provoking Conrad; even if he has to put in a little extra legwork to get back where he was, Daffy does get a victory.

Narrative promptness is reflected in the animation—a refreshing burst of energy in the timing and spacing of the drawings, with an appealing solidity in the actual construction of Conrad himself. Drybrush trails feel warranted and indicative of the force of his throw rather than decorative. Some of the streaks do see a little breakage towards the end and could stand to conform more to Daffy’s form, but succeed in their intended to exacerbate the intensity and speed of Conrad’s throw.

Audiences may know to brace themselves for the inevitable return of the duck, but Conrad isn't exactly as ahead of the game in his own mental gymnastics. A fade out and in finds him polishing one of the guns--still in his own company, maintaining the observations of alienation and a low hierarchy at the top of the short, but at least having the benefit of moving up from deck scrubbing duties--opens to a Conrad who seems confident in his oblivion. Oblivion regarding his contented disregard for Daffy, and oblivion to his out of tune warbling so well captured by Colvig.

By this point in the cartoon, Daffy's frank introductions don't carry the same shock and abruptness, particularly because they don't need to. Instead, any amusement from his reveal, standing perfectly still and observing with broiling playfulness, stems from the anticipation of his appearance. The directorial validation of proving the audience right. That, and Conrad's continued lack of awareness, who hasn't learned to expect his surprise visitor this late in the game. Daffy's reintroduction here is handled smoothly, uncompromisingly, a simple matter of the camera pan sliding left and Conrad sliding with it. Nonchalance of the staging is savored when understanding that any air of leisure is just waiting to be eradicated.

Conrad's animation is blobular and at times extraneous, waggling his head or drybrush lines emanating when it isn't exactly necessary, but the drawings themselves remain appealing. Too much energy in the animation is certainly a more ideal issue than the opposite--especially when Jones has grappled with the opposite for so long. Likewise, the fluff and frills of the movement are not without motivation. It adds a palpable chipperness to Conrad's attitude.

Which, in turn, allows the crushing blow of realization to juxtapose that much more against his blissful ignorance. 

Both Daffy and Conrad split the screen directly down the middle, cultivating a neutrality in the power balance. Jones would use this technique again in an approaching scene to an even starker degree of clarity. Here, the hierarchy of power isn't as much of a commentary--"it just looks nice" is an equally noble motive. 

A reprisal of Daffy's "eye bulge take" resumes, leftover from his role as a makeshift telescope. This quirk would carry over into Jones' next outing with the duck, My Favorite Duck; a quirky, quick gesture encapsulating Daffy's provocative rascality. A move that communicates a self awareness of sorts, a coy admission that indicates he's aware of his status as a pest. Such is the difference between the Daffy of the '30s and the Daffy of the early '40s--while he's still armed with an overarching innocence and obliviousness regarding the scale of his mischief, he does seem to revel in his heckling and recognize his heckling. Even if it can be fleeting at times, he bears a consciousness that the more rudimentary Daffy of the '30s didn't even have the cognizance to dream of. 

The more rudimentary Daffy of the '30s would, however, bite Conrad on the nose, just as the somewhat more evolved Daffy of early 1942 does. Despite it being one of his oldest tricks in the book (literally, as the nose biting extends back to his debut in Porky's Duck Hunt), there isn't exactly a feeling of regression dominating the action or making it feel out of place. It's just another one of his many means of driving Conrad up a wall. No malice behind it. There is, however, the aforementioned sly awareness at knowing he is doing something he shouldn't be doing, which is the entire driving force behind his intentions.

Animation of the bite itself matches the same evolution of Daffy's personality. Sharp, blunt, and playful, a deftness that conveys an impish innocence. Drawings of his head reverberating back into place are entirely conveyed through drybrushed multiples, with the cel of his actual head completely missing. The actions feel more spontaneous and frenetic as a result. No restraint of attempting to conform to a held cel right in the middle. For a quick little tangent, it's certainly an amusing one.

Further drybrushing extends to both Conrad and Daffy alike. One could make the argument that the short has become a bit repetitive at this point, which would be disingenuous to flag as false. Conrad's furious exit is the same as his furious, dryrbrushed exits before; Daffy's own whirlwind of paint as he rockets away is an extension of his twirling airbrushing exit when swapping out the water for paint. Twisting Conrad's arms together is just another reply to Daffy twisting Conrad's body into a spiraling knot. Thankfully, the reprisals of these actions do communicate more as answers and continuations rather than uninspired retreads. The short is given a stronger illusion of continuity by revisiting old ideas and expanding or shifting them slightly.

Moreover, this same short dedicates an entire gag based on continuity. Just as the audience believes Daffy to be cornered (whose apathy regarding the circumstances should be noted--never once does he demonstrate a shred of concern, which could either be a response to the unimposing and nonthreatening enigma that is Conrad Cat, or an indication of his happy conceit; if Conrad disposes of him, then he'll just find another way to crawl back aboard), the short's strongest authority figure makes another appearance.

This is the strongest exemplification of Daffy and Conrad being shunted to the same hierarchical rung. Even if Daffy was to make a recovery after Conrad's implied disposal, Conrad was cornering him in this moment, indicating an imbalance of power. Staging of the shot is explicitly catered to this by being composed at an angle: Conrad is higher up, whereas Daffy is lower, pressed against the wall that slopes downward. Thus, with the introduction of the captain, both characters conform to their subservience. Having the captain walk right between them splits the screen, momentarily placing them both on equal footing. They are unified through their acquiescence.

As an inverse to the earlier introduction of the captain, Daffy is the one to spare a hesitant glance first. Not that it necessarily matters, given that Conrad begins to act on his aggression before Daffy has time to make an escape, but the allusion and reversal of the prior set-up is a great attention to detail on Jones' behalf.

Embarking in more chase sequences after being so fresh from the last few would quickly turn the trajectory of this cartoon into one of monotony. Especially given that more chase sequences await in the future--thus, both Jones and Daffy subvert the expectations of Conrad and audiences alike by indulging in a distraction tactic: a rousing game of "Peas Porridge Hot."

Porky the Giant Killer featured a recitation of the same nursery rhyme, but, unsurprisingly, the context and execution surrounding its instance here is the indisputable winner. Musical orchestrations are reduced to silence in the background in an attempt to call attention to the absurdity of the circumstances. To accompany Daffy's juvenile recitations with equally juvenile music would be to play the sequence a bit too straight, a bit too faithfully--the distraction is intended to be spontaneous and confounding. How many people on this earth have been cornered by a pursuer and turned it into a game of Patty Cake? 

It's a great demonstration of Jones slowly embracing a tactic that he benefits from immensely: letting the actions and context speak for itself. Blanc's deliveries are perfect as always, the impish glee in Daffy's voice very genuine (even if his actions themselves aren't). Particularly the delivery of "peasporridgeinapotninedaysold" coming out in one single breath--it's an aggressively delighted catharsis, an indication that he's deriving too much enjoyment and pleasure out of something so undeserving. Conrad's nonplussed gawking offers a great buffer.

Now, having found a new way to momentarily disarm Conrad, Daffy makes another extravagant exit. One that is self indulgent, frilly, an act of exuberance rather than a way to free himself from danger. Interestingly enough, he adopts the shuffle walk so touted by Conrad before, in this and other cartoons. It could be seen as both a means of mocking Conrad's earlier walk cycle, or, and perhaps more likely given the circumstances, another way for Daffy to pander to his mischievous impulses. 

A glance out of the corner of his eye seems to cement the likelihood of the latter; it almost seems as though he's hunting for Conrad's approval, hoping that he's witnessing his roguery and will once again treat him to the catharsis of an adrenaline thrilled chase. The thrill of doing something he knows he shouldn't never once wanes. 

Granted, it's only immediate that he ends up back in Conrad's clutches. This time to an amusing degree of literality. Still, the process of actually getting to that point involves some intriguing and dimensional layout work, the twists and turns in the pipes conveying a successful volume and dimension. Jones' Wearing of the Grin features a similar--albeit much more elaborate and frenzied--little beat, perhaps indicating a fondness in the structure through that repetition. Shading in Fleury's background paintings here ensures that the pipes maintain their solidity and form, but are still able to maintain a loose sense of abstraction through McGrew's layout work. A strong middle ground.

Daffy landing in Conrad's arms is a parallel to Conrad's spontaneous appearance in the lifeboat: both a means of subversion to momentarily disarm the viewer and Daffy alike. Again, the short does become the slightest bit repetitive by repeating its own subversions, but is thankfully able to make most of the subversions and follow-ups and answers distinct enough to offer their own identity. 

For example: a rather Bugs Bunny-esque peck on the lips proves to be the "hook" of this scene. Daffy has certainly been one to indulge in the same not-so kiss of death time and time again, not dissimilar to Bugs, but the execution and intent here feel much more comparable to the star rabbit. The intent to humiliate and disarm, as well as the festering pause preceding the action. A slyness permeates the action that necessarily isn't always the case with Daffy--the lack of subsequent "HOOHOO!"ing after the exchange proves additionally novel.

Jones' cut to the next scene is a bit odd in ways both intentioned and not. Daffy flops amusingly limp out of Conrad's arms as he clutches his face, thereby offering a quick and effective way to get him out of the scene, whereas Conrad himself engages in another running exit. The bridging of ideas between scenes is where the flow becomes a bit fractured; as Conrad takes off, the telltale trumpet fanfare indicating the impending presence of the captain blows. Thus, the scene directly cuts to Daffy and Conrad rushing at attention and seeming to even go out of their way to find and salute their captain.

All of this is fine, and is actually one of the most inspired "saluting bits" in the entire cartoon: both Daffy and Conrad essentially slide into themselves, their afterimages sliding into formation and accumulating until they both reach full opacity. A brilliant piece of abstraction from Jones that is funny, creative, and, most importantly, different from the preceding bouts of saluting. 

However, the process to actually reaching that scene is a bit stilted. Clarity behind Jones' intentions would better be realized if the fanfare was withheld until the cut to the next scene, or if there was an indication that Conrad was about to chase Daffy, hears fanfare, pauses for a quick second and then rushes off, indicating that his justifications for running have now changed. The cut is just a bit too quick and vague as it stands now. Regardless, the overall idea of the sequence is the same (Conrad is chasing Daffy, both get distracted to salute the captain, chase resumes), but a coherent flow is always a bonus in shorts that prioritize lengthy, fractured chase sequences such as this one.

The sense of distraction upheld through this tangent is enunciated when both Daffy and Conrad make their exit screen right--it implies a reversal of course, that they've purposefully went out of their way to find the captain at the other end of the ship to pay him his respects. Initiating the scene could benefit from more clarity, but, in all, it's a clever little addendum that works in multiple ways. Creative in both its animation and what it implies with the story.

Rushing inside the interior of the ship is just another incentive for a gag, rather than an actual beat to the story. By no means is this a bad thing. Especially given that it shakes up the story structure a little, riding on the coattails of the quick, perhaps "arbitrary" contribution to the story seen with the captain just prior. In this case, Conrad unknowingly melds Daffy into the metal door in his haste. A lack of follow-through and settling with the door's animation and Daffy's impact shrouds the visual in an amusing stolidity--another means of getting a laugh from such frank, prompt maneuvers. Something that is welcomed with open arms, given Jones' domineering tendencies for the opposite.

Daffy's declaration of "Haha, never even touched me!" is an outright lie, which is why it works. Not only does the protruding mold in the door betray his words, but the artistic flourish of some fleeting dizzy lines to hint that, even if he doesn't indicate it physically, he has indeed been humbled. Choosing to direct this braggadocio to the audience rather than Conrad is a cute touch, leaning into the interactive element that makes Daffy's character so charismatic and charming. The short has surprisingly been absent of audience/Daffy confidentiality--the last minute or so, whose territory we are encroaching upon now, opts to compensate.

By this point, Jones has understood that the chasing has gotten repetitive. So, in a last gasp, the final objective presentation of Conrad chasing after Daffy is conveyed with a coy twist. Running through the interior of the ship enables the camera to follow Daffy, his head sporadically appearing through the windows adjusted just for his size...

...and his visitor. Jones' continued restraint against telegraphing any oncoming surprises is worthy of praise, as it's an impulse he's struggled with up to this point (and even past it,) As mentioned throughout the analysis, some of the intended punch is lost when the same utilization of the same surprises repeats throughout--viewers know to expect that Conrad will be looming behind, especially with the allotment of the windows--but viewing the scene independently, its spontaneity is felt. One second he's absent, the next he's there. No hiccups or breaks in the camera pan. At one point, Daffy even turns his head in amicable acknowledgement.

He bears an advantage that Conrad does not: size. Or, rather, lack thereof. Subscribing to the opposite of "you can run but you can't hide", he makes a leap into one of the ship's many guns. All of this occurs in one swift swoop, with the camera never breaking its momentum in the pan. Elements in the background are arranged to frame the action and allow the negative space to serve as a gentle guide for the audience's eye as Daffy jumps in a clear arc and into the cannon.

So, logically, Conrad retaliates by loading the gun. A brief cel error accidentally gives away the prominence of the bullet, momentarily jutting out as the camera comes to a halt and revealing that it is indeed on a cel. Nevertheless, arranging the layout so that the bullet occupies the space it does (nevermind its availability in the first place) certainly stand as the stronger giveaway. That, and the decision for Daffy to jump into the gun at all; it isn't just a set piece.

Bold abstraction and stylization of McGrew's layouts are particularly evident in the interior shot of Daffy lounging in the barrel; discounting the gun itself, the background is a color card with some jagged edges. An exhibition of minimalism that Jones' cartoons never would have entertained a year ago. There's still a bit of evolution to be had before his shorts reach the dizzying grandeur of cartoons like The Aristo-Cat or Wackiki Wabbit, but the McGrew/Fleury teaming and what that art direction means for the trajectory of Jones' cartoons is certainly felt. 

Daffy's reaction to the bullet and general nonchalance regarding his fate is another bright spot. Leisurely humming another chorus of "Song of the Marines"--another burst of continuity to wrap the short all together--there is no exhibition of any sign of danger or concern from Daffy. Such has been the case throughout the entire cartoon, of course, but remains true even in the moments of an intended climax. Jones' treatment of the climax as just another piece of business, his directorial commentary adopting Daffy's own carefree attitude and thus making viewers sympathetic to him, is another particularly anarchic decision--even if it feels like the opposite, given its understatement. To play the threat seriously would be the first and natural impulse. Throughout the cartoon, one feels Jones' desire to resist against the norm.

The musical stylings of Daffy Duck are not only to indicate his lax attitude towards his circumstances, but to posit a juxtaposition between reactions. His observation of "Big bullet," to the audience is wonderfully organic and understated in its delivery, a surprisingly candid omission that is proudly incongruous to the inherently bombastic nature of every other word that has come out of his mouth in this short thus far. That he addresses it to the audience is certainly nothing new or groundbreaking, given how personal of a character he is even this early on, but there's a certain coolness and even sanity behind such an afterthought of a delivery that really proves surprising. 

Daffy is able to maintain his cool, but Jones does eventually succumb to the obligation of theatrics. A smart decision--his resistance of a large, emotional, dramatic climax is appreciated and beneficial to the playful, occasionally sardonic tone of the cartoon, but to maintain that same stolidity also risks losing the investment of the audience. There has to be some sense of conflict. 

So, all of that is relegated to a series of cuts demonstrating Conrad lighting the cannon and anticipating its explosion. Ironically enough, the shot of him plugging his ears and flinching in anticipation directly mirrors a scene in My Favorite Duck where Daffy does the same thing in comparable circumstances. Duck's context is a bit more empathetic and perhaps deserving of its build-up, overall possessing a more sincere demonstration of tension, but the variations in shots and quick, erratic cuts here certainly address the intended urgency.  Cuts between shots could be quicker, but the pacing is much more alarmed and dramatic than much of what the short has offered thus far. Stalling's alarmed orchestrations likewise offer a generous amount of support. 

Inevitability of the explosion is cleverly transformed into a scene transition; the smoke clouds don't even take a moment to dissipate before revealing a change in layout. Jones cuts to the dramatic overhead shot of the ship before the animation of the explosion has finished. Creative, clever, and convenient.

While correlation is not causation, and there isn't a direct way to prove the connection, one wonders if a certain Mr. Kubrick took note of Daffy riding the bullet in the air. The entire arrangement is certainly comparable to the ever iconic Dr. Strangelove scene--especially given that Daffy seems to enjoy the ride, again indulging the audience in his manic catharsis as he guffaws "LOOKA'ME! I'M A DIVE BOMBUH!" That same chewy, ragged zest for life dominates his deliveries and really paints a picture of a duck who is enjoying the adrenaline a bit too much. Fascinatingly, it takes over 6 minutes for any sort of "HOOHOO!" to be heard in the cartoon--a likely record.

His swooping at the very last second as he drops the bullet into the smokestack comes as a surprise. Despite it being in the name, this cartoon enables the easy impulse to forget that Daffy can fly. Such entertains the question if he could have flown away from Conrad all this time, and only did otherwise because he was that much of a masochist and valued the thrill of being chased and provoking Conrad. The action of his swooping is executed to swiftly and quickly that it isn't necessarily given a second thought--especially given that he is never once seen flapping his wings--but its inclusion certainly remains intriguing.

Flying or no flying, all of this becomes futile when the bullet's intended disposal backfires on him. Now, it adopts a life of its own. Having it fly out of the adjoining smokestack is certainly unlucky, but could be chalked up to the specificities of simple cartoon physics. Thus, the next cut of the bullet actively chasing after Daffy, following his arcs and trailing his every movement explicitly derives its humor from its air of motivation. Daffy, who has remained so politely conceited all this time, content with the assumption that he'll just get back on his feet again and find a way to heckle Conrad, has finally been met with an unobliging match.

Speaking of Conrad, he, too, becomes the unwilling victim of a chase. The chaser has now become the chase-ee. Note that the mop is also back in his hands: a nice subtle callback that seems to suggest that Conrad, thinking he's properly disposed of Daffy, is now able to safely resume the duties he started before he was interrupted. Mopping can only be done when the coast is 100% duck clear.

The cartoon ends on a note of irony that is just as powerful as its abruptness. Yet again, Daffy and Conrad have been leveled, their subservience shared between the antagonism of the anthropomorphic bullet. Conrad is as resistant to the bullet as Daffy is--which is to say, not at all. And, to exacerbate that point, the short ends on one final salute to the enigmatic, shuffling captain, whose appearances have periodically put both characters in their place. Even the bullet has now been put in its place. Jones weaves an intriguing hierarchy; the vibration on the bullet as it struggles to stay in place, pent up energy rapidly circulating, ever so slightly puts it above Conrad and Daffy in the hierarchy, but all remain unquestioningly loyal to the captain.

And that is the exact power imbalance the cartoon contentedly ends on. Friend or foe, nobody except mustachioed captains are invincible against bullets with a grudge.

Conrad the Sailor is a cartoon of contradictions, as many have the tendency to be. Good contradictions, and contradictions that are largely inconsequential and small. Select aspects of it feel regressive in bursts, but, for the most part, it stands as a promising indication of the innovation, comedy and artistry that imminently awaits Jones' output in the coming years.

Being his second ever outing with Daffy (and between 3 very formative years, at that) it's rather surprising just how well the character is handled. Some spots and acting decisions certainly reveal that Jones was still getting a feel for him--particularly the moments where he feels more reminiscent of Bugs, whether it be through his enigmatic, twirling exits, utterances of "doc", or giving Conrad a kiss explicitly intending to disarm--but he is still recognizably and unflinchingly Daffy Duck. As mentioned in the introduction, Jones' duck has always demonstrated a shred of maturity from the very beginning, and this cartoon maintains that tradition. Perhaps an ironic deduction to say, given that so many instances of the cartoon have him behaving in such a juvenile manner, but it proves difficult to think of a cartoon preceding this one that has him boasting the same degree of lucidity.

Jones' handling of Daffy is just one of the many ways that this short feels ahead of its time. Or, at the very least, indicative of positive change regarding both Jones' trajectory and the trajectory of the studio as a whole. On a more broad and artistic scale, the hailed combination of John McGrew and Eugene Fleury are perhaps the most important to note, given how much they'd inform the look of Jones' shorts to come. The layouts in this one are certainly reserved and grounded compared to how his shorts would look within the next year, but the difference between this and the shorts with Paul Julian are night and day. 

Even the animation and timing is reflective of this gradual flexibility and loosening up; there's an admitted reliance on drybrushing for takes and exits which, given the structure of the cartoon, can sometimes entertain the idea of becoming monotonous. Regardless, the use of drybrushing, quick, sudden cuts, blink-and-you'll-miss-it takes and exits are particularly revolutionary developments in the way they're utilized in this short specifically. Jones' cartoons before haven't been absent of drybrushing or quick takes, but seldom has there been a cartoon that places such a heavy emphasis on them all throughout.

Aforementioned regression manifests mainly through Conrad, who thankfully isn't as much of a liability in this cartoon. Colvig's deliveries are fleeting for the character, but charming as ever and come as a bit of a relief. Out of tune singing and grunting and warbling is a preferable alternative to aimless guffaws at the camera rub and 27 nose rubs. Some of those trappings from The Bird Came C.O.D. eke their way back in, but the distraction offered by Colvig and having someone as all consuming as Daffy to play off of null those inconveniences very quickly. 

The worst that can be said about this short is that it can occasionally be repetitive, some drawings are uglier than others, and some cuts or gags could be clarified in their intent. Which is criteria that could be applied to practically every cartoon in some form. Sailor is another one of those shorts that has become innocuous and subdued with age, but remains a deceptively important watershed moment for the artistic trajectory of Chuck Jones. Whether it be him reacquainting himself with a character rising to fame or learning to invent through experimentation with layouts and honing his skills in speed, this short certainly touts quite a few elements that would remain persistent and formative in cartoons to come for years and years. 

It may not be The Dover Boys, or even The Draft Horse in terms of its humor, but Conrad the Sailor is another important artistic milestone that sets a politely optimistic precedent for the future. The efforts for Chuck to come out of his shell are really felt in this one in particular.