Sad but true. I felt obligated to offer this light musical entertainment on Christmas Eve in order to soothe the nerves of Oil Can and Mrs. Harry. Last night's presentation evidently triggered a bout of post-traumatic stress in the little guy---something about somebody putting Coco on the rug or some such.
The milquetoast, Bob "Peace On Earth" Cratchit, is portrayed in this Stan Freberg production by cartoon voiceover actor Daws Butler---a brilliantly talented man who was, in my opinion, cursed by having to portray an endless procession of lame cartoon characters, mostly for the hack Hanna-Barbera Productions, Inc. Until digging up the previous link, though, I did not know that Butler voiced the part of Aesop's son on Rocky and His Friends.
Freberg's sentiments here as as bitter as any he ever expressed on record---but bitterly hilarious, of course. Various "Mad Men" of the day felt touchy about Green Chri$tma$, however, and worked hard to suppress promotion of the record and airplay of same for a few decades. To this day it's rarely heard out here in radioland. To this day, reality is an affront to the senses and sensibilities of some delicate souls.
Green Chri$tma$, Stan Freberg (1958, Capitol Records F 4097), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.
Editor's note: if you pop outta bed one more time I'm gonna jak się masz you!
Here is a Christmas entertainment that incessantly appeared on the family TV screen in the late 1950s through the mid-1960s. I do not remember what Little Oscar thought of this. But our late sister, little Piggly Wiggly, was a huge fan of this throughout her life, and she was very proud to have located it on VHS in one of her last years and pass it on to several of us. She was a nut about all things Christmas, but I know that part of her nostalgia for this short was related to the name of the second "dwarf"---Coco---which she related to a 1950s incident in a Chicago-area restaurant involving myself, a broken bout of constipation, and my trudging into the dining area with little pants around ankles protesting about someone putting "cocoa" in my... well, never mind. Myself, I must confess that I only enjoyed this feature because it heralded the coming of Christmas (presents), and because the refrain of the elves' names was fun to sing in tiny ridiculous low voices, and because Peggy was so damned amused by the whole thing. For her whole time on earth, which ended in 2005, she addressed me as "Coco."
Anyway, if you were sentient in 1956 or later and watching Channel 9 in "Chicagoland" around Christmas, I'm sure you can sing along at least with the refrain. Now brace yourselves.
Here's the thing: with all respect for our dear sister, I'm afraid that this "story so queer" is, to me, is a hellish thing to watch as an adult. Just look and listen.
The misty opening scene is simple and gorgeous in its own right but, honestly, it begins looking like a set from The Wolfman and quickly morphs into The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari---very expressionistic, but far out of whack, atmospherewise, with the season to be jolly. The face of Santa, reading a book entitled "Girls and Boys" with his eyes plastered shut, smiles in a fashion presaging that of the grave-robbing Mr. Sardonicus from the eponymous Castle horror film of 1961. The three elves succumb to that contagion by the end of the feature, and the penurious quality of the stop-motion animation completes the overall atmosphere of oppressiveness.
Then there's the soundtrack. The lead vocals for the verse alternate between a creepy-sounding reverberated androgynous chipmunk-style voice, a "dwarf" I guess, and an a capella barber shop quartet---both accompanied by a mellow choir of banshees. The female chorus that leads on the refrain sounds like an infernal calliope piping out church lady harmonies.
I don't mean to be a wiseguy, but I honestly don't understand how this animation became a Chicago Christmas "classic," as it is called in most writeups I can find on the web. I find it disquieting as an adult, and potentially even qualifying as raw material for toddler holiday nightmares. But it is what it is, and my pixie of a little sister adored it for decades.
(And incidentally, it's way past your bedtime, goddamit!)
Hardrock, Coco, and Joe: The Three Little Dwarfs, Stuart Hamblen (1961, Centaur Productions), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.
Editor's note: while researching for this post I found an interesting thing or two about the composer, Mr. Hamblen, which serves to connect some dots between HC&J and a future Fish Fry in preparation... if I can remember.
I coulda sworn I told the little feller not to pop out of bed, but there he is jumping up and down on the furniture for an "encore." OK, Luigi: here is your... encore.
Holy Kazoozis---it's Grace Jones! (Grace Jones?!?) I don't recall seeing this lovely beast ever looking quite as comely as she does here, tantalizing Pee-wee Herman's inner homunculus after he almost cluelessly returned her to sender. It will not escape fans of The Dance that Ms. Jones begins her musical interlude with a coupla preliminary burlesque moves, but then loses herself in song without unhinging her outer candy shell or staying long enough for it to melt in one's mouth or hand.
I assume Reba's letter carrier union protected her from reprisals for the misdelivery. Had Mailman Mike still been on the Playhouse route, no doubt he would have tried unwrapping and poking around in the giant box before delivering it. And then Ms. Jones would have found it necessary to rupture every organ the poor guy had, leaving only one of them untouched.
Action-packed, Pee-wee!
The Little Drummer Boy, Grace Jones (1988, from the primetime TV special, "Pee-wee's Playhouse Christmas Special," CBS), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.
Since I'll be spending my holidays, as always, in the eye a typhoon fueled by booze, pills, and burlesque dancers, I will get an early jump on my Christmas posting. Which is to say, I have a video confection here for The 59er and, incidentally, the rest of you. As The King used to say on Peewee's Playhouse, "Let the cartoon... begin!"
Thanks to The 59er for suggesting that I dedicate a few posts to commemorating Christmas. I'm happy to be challenged to find my own take on a topic of interest to others in the small cadre of people who spend their valuable time checking this blog a few times a week. The text that follows is animation-related, not Christmas-related, so you can stop reading here if you're not interested in the former.
This cartoon is another in the small series of Color Classics by Fleischer Studios through Paramount, released in December 1936. This is a really good print, and includes the original title cards. My eye isn't educated enough to know whether the almost gaudy coloring is faithful to the original Technicolor print or a restoration job; even if the former, it's A-OK with me---much better than the version I used to watch with my sons on VHS tape.
The opening scene is a vivid specimen of the Fleischer "Tabletop" background animation technique. What they did was draw, paint, and build miniature theatrical sets on large turntables. The sets were rotated in front of a fixed camera to simulate situations like walking down a city street, but unlike straight 2D backgrounds a realistic parallax shift would be evident between the closer and more distant planes of depth. In this example the animators also use a zoom effect to simulate how it would look if we walked in the front door of the orphanage.
The manic Grampy is, in the Fleischer universe, a pal of the latter-day Betty Boop. Once he gets his noodle cranked up, he can sustain enough high-level frenetic energy to rival Popeye himself. And although I think the Flesichers intended Grampy to be kind and lovable, which he is, there is a certain unmistakable lack of full control in his lunacy. His compulsive laughter reminds me more than a little of Greedy Humpty Dumpty, who became unhinged at the thought of riches in the cosmos that did not yet belong to him. Yes, I'm afraid Grampy is a nut.
But just look how inventive Grampy is with found materials: he epitomizes American Ingenuity at its best. And since there doesn't seem to be any food, or any adults, around the orphanage, the tots probably won't have to bother dismantling the toys made of china and flatware. They'll die happy, which I guess is the eternal human goal when you think about it.
Christmas Come But Once A Year, A Max Fleischer Color Classic (1936, Dave Fleischer, Director; Paramount), via YouTube, public domain.
Editor's note: now get to bed, goddammit, and I don't want to hear another peep outta ya!
After you kids are done watching this, you need to pop right into bed, and I don't wanna hear another peep outta ya! Because I want to talk with the grown-ups.
"Greedy Humpty Dumpty" is a 1936 Fleischer Studios masterpiece that had a deep impact on my semisolid brain back in the mid and late 1950s. Flesicher cartoons were a major source of kids' fare in the early decades of television, readily available through syndication services to fill local programming holes on independent stations and network affiliates. Most of us who grew up with them assumed that all of them were black and white; even us shorties could recognize that these were "old-fashioned" cartoons as compared with things like Ruff 'n' Ready, Crusader Rabbit, or even Tom Terrific. (Little Me always preferred the old-school cartoons, and I had little use for the modern junk until Rocky and his Friends came along.)
Anyway, little did I know until the 1980s that this short was produced in color. Although color adds a lot to the presentation, the ghostly grayscale rendering on a 1950s 15-inch cathode ray tube produced its own unique impact, almost verging on horror (to my delicate sensibilities, at least). The fully expressed insanity of Humpty Dumpty inside his vault (with cash bags ominously resembling piled skulls), his stupidity, his greed and cruelty---so pointless since he was already The King Of Wealth---that laugh of his, and finally, the fury of the violated sun (echoing the vengeful Old Testament god of the Fleischers)---these images and sounds left a lasting dent in my 4-year-old psyche. Seeing GHD periodically, later while growing up, always gave me a bit of the willies as I experienced them at the time of my premier viewing.
As I say, this cartoon is a masterpiece of storytelling, even if it is based on one of the oldest archetypal tales known to human civilization (greed plus covetousness leading to insanity and ruin). With it's cute fairy-tale visual design and insipid toddler-oriented music bed, the story operates on multiple levels according to viewer maturity and perceptiveness. To semi-engaged parents who early learned the babysitting prowess of television, the cartoon was "kid stuff," with its treacly score piping into the kitchen or laundry room before Dad was home from work (or awake on the weekend). To the target audience, GHD was a story with a moral, sort of like the parables they presented to us in Sunday School, but much more entertaining and convincing thanks to the visuals and the absence of plump, warty matrons wasting our morning in a classroom environment.
Many YouTube commentators correctly draw parallels between this cartoon and our present financial sector disaster, and others have pointed out that a sentient 1936 adult may have interpreted this cartoon as social commentary related to the roots of the Great Depression. Myself, I think it also encapsulates much more profound esoteric knowledge---the type that mystery religions conceal behind an infrastructure of myth, legend, history, and pedagogy to occupy followers who are not ready to access deeper levels. I know this may sound pseudo-intellectual, but I feel that "Greedy Humpty Dumpty" rewards repeated viewings, disgorging new details of literary merit and even an allegory of how civilizations and immortal souls fail.
Greedy Humpty Dumpty, Dave Fleischer [Director]; David Tendlar and William Sturm [Animators] (1936, Fleischer Studios), via YouTube, embedded for noncommercial critical discussion and educational purposes.
So get to sleep, you little cockblockers! It's a school night!
I always enjoy watching a nice black-and-white British Invasion clip like this, but in the current case the boyish ease of Billy J. Kramer on stage softens the song's actual tense atmosphere. I remember listening to this in 1964 on my turquoise GE tabletop radio and, even as a pre-teenager, directly sensing the seething frustration in Kramer's performance as he tried unsuccessfully, with tight-lipped plastic smile, to charm, cajole, and bribe his girlfriend's little siblings to shut up and go away. The kids have the upper hand throughout, though, and it seems that Kramer's second greatest desire as the song closes is to plant the tots in a shallow grave.
Little Children, Billy J. Kramer with the Dakotas (1964), via YouTube.
Time for a story. Once upon a time Old MacDaddy dug a big trench in his back yard, removed more dirt, roots, broken glass, bricks, and chunks of patio concrete than you could shake a stick at. Then he covered the bottom of the trench with manure (regrettably, not his own), then a very special blend of natural and store-bought soil, and dug little holes with a pointed stick to make new homes for 16 of his best asparagus friends (who had been living on the bottom shelf of his refrigerator for a month). Then he planted the asparagi, made cute little mounds of potting soil around them, and took a picture. Finally he fed them some nice fresh water. And that's how Farmer Daddy Brand Asparagus (TM) began its new life. The end. Now get back in bed and I don't wanna hear another peep outta ya!
Kanyon was a minor figure during the WCW "invasion" of the WWF back around the turn of the century, when professional wrestling was still entertaining. Beer-D reminded me that he was mainly known for entering the ring spouting some sort of lame monologue that ended with the rhetorical question "Who better than Kanyon?" Then, just about anyone would enter the ring and kick is ass seven ways for Sunday. It was his role. HuffingtonPost wants to make something of the fact that he was openly gay, but I doubt that gayness is particularly rare in the wrestling racket. In fact, gayness (and gaylike styling weirdness) were professional wrestling conventions for awhile, and treated in a fairly matter-of-fact manner insofar as opponents of the gay characters never resorted to any particularly homophobic invective. Professional wrestling must be one of the hardest things in the world to do, and "detraining" from it has to be much more complex than retiring from a mainstream athletic career due to the toll of steroids and brutal physical punishment. Peace, Chris.
Herb "Herbie" Cohen was a picaresque character, evidently capable of being a major league motherfucker, who was tightly enmeshed in the careers of Frank Zappa, Captain Beefheart, and Tom Waits, plus a menagerie of unlikely lesser lights. The Barry Miles critical biography of Zappa tells of Herbie's alleged mismanagement of and skimming from Zappa's various record labels, not to mention a previous career selling weapons of war to African insurgencies and manning the barricades for the Mothers of Invention at a 1969 Berlin concert in which the Baader-Meinhof Gang (aka the Red Army Faction) turned things very scary for the group. Herbie was the subject of many in-jokes on Zappa's albums from the '70s, but they eventually had a non-amicable parting of the ways late in the decade. You can see Herbie rising like a wraith from a crack in the pavement in the surreal wraparound painting (verso) for the cover of Zappa's 1973 Over-Nite Sensation. Now he's a wraith for real.
Oh, and get back to bed! I don't wanna hear a peep outta ya! Thank you for your attention to this matter!
...or, I Want This Motherfuckin' Bat Out My Motherfuckin' House!!!
Judas Priest! I'm trying to finish the iPad post and I hear this skittering skud, sort of like a dry leaf blowing across the floor in another room. Could be the wind, but the windows aren't that far open and the air outside is calm. Flying insect? OK, whatever. Mouse? Don't like 'em, but I have my ways of dealing with them. But uh-uh: there's a motherfuckin' BAT, as I say, about the size of a motherfuckin' crow, bouncing around the kitchen light like it thinks it's a moth! Its wingspan --- no kidding --- was about 12 inches! From crown to tail thingie, it was almost 5 inches long.
Do you know how to get a bat out of your house at bedtime? Well, I don't. Forfeiting the opportunity for YouTube fame, because I didn't feel like screwing around with the iPod Nano video camera but did very much feel like getting the bat out of my kitchen, I engaged in an absurd session of chase-the-motherfuckin'-bat-out-the-motherfuckin-house, armed with an Australian truncheon brought back from a vacation by DoubleE and a cardboard mailer. The object was to shepherd the bat toward one of the two open doors, at which time its famed sonar would show him the way to freedom in the wild black yonder. But it didn't. I did herd it to the open living/dining areas, but the creature just strafed me to continually for almost 10 minutes and had no interest in the open doors. Regrettably, then, I had to opt for a less humane mode of eviction, namely one involving a Crossman BB rifle. Not really my style, but then neither is sharing my home with flying rats. Extra pills and booze for me tonight.
Here's a nighty-night song for the first summerlike day in my neck of the Corn Belt. I listened to it during an excruciating run through the sunny breeze wearing a Teflon-coated tee shirt inside of which sweat condenses and drains instead of wicking. The video accompanying "Don't Worry Baby" is totally wrong for the music. The tune is a sprightly but pensive teen beat, fraught with portent. Our hero has failed to keep his mouth shut when he bragged about his car, but he can't back down now because he pushed the other guys too far. But The Love of His Baby is promised to get him all horny for a win. Yet it somehow sounds both innocent and important if you sustain credulity. It's a sweet sound: barber shop quartet sounds for the Pepsi Generation, perhaps suitable for a nice fox trot in the back of the gym.
Now get back in bed and I don't wanna hear another peep outta ya!
This is what it looks like on a clear night at Mauna Kea, Hawaii, if you're Dr. Manhattan. Now get back to bed and I don't wanna hear another peep outta ya!
Enough is enough! I have had it with this motherfucking snake and this motherfucking baby! Now get back to bed and I don't wanna hear another peep outta ya!
RubberCrutch, 14-watt illuminatus and man about town, earns his living as a simple country editor, as if toiling on a chain gang beside Larry Fine, making little sentences out of big ones.
He has 30 years of professional experience in written and visual communications, including journalism, public relations, advertising, technical publishing, and photography. In connection with some of those roles he has won several unimportant awards.
[Editor's note: in archived Fifty50 posts, all references to one "StuporMundi" in fact pertain to our hero, RubberCrutch, unless otherwise noted. Thank you for your attention in this matter.]
It is the mission of this weblog to offer you, at least half the time, an assortment of essays and pictures pertaining to current events, aesthetic studies, psychological inquiries, and everyday tomfoolery, presented in a jocular setting that is suitable for Mom, Pop, Junior, and Sis, as long as Mom and Sis do not object to literature that sometimes contains words such as "asshole" and "fuck."
