Universal Home Video’s Woody Woodpecker and Friends DVD set, which was released on July 24, provided me with a rare opportunity to get in touch with my early childhood memories. It was as a young boy that I first saw various Disney animated features, and many, many Warner Brothers and early Hanna-Barbera cartoons, as well as the Max Fleischer Popeyes. I also watched the syndicated half-hour Woody Woodpecker Show on television, hosted by his cartoons’ producer, Walter Lantz, which packaged Lantz cartoons from the 1940s.

Over the decades, I’ve rewatched many of these cartoons thanks to television, animation festivals at revival theaters, and, nowadays, DVDs. But I hadn’t reacquainted myself with the classic Lantz cartoons of the 1940s as an adult; I may have seen a few here and there, but I don’t remember. I recall seeing some of the later, uninspired Woody Woodpecker cartoons from the 1950s and early 1960s, in which the formerly dangerously madcap bird had turned cute and acquired nephew Knothead and niece Splinter. As the Wikipedia entry on Woody declares, “The domestication of Woody Woodpecker was complete,” and I was not impressed.

But though my memories of the 1940s Woody cartoons were dim, I retained warm feelings for them, and was eager to watch the new Woody DVD. It is amazing to be watching these cartoons and suddenly to encounter images that spark memories from my childhood, like Woody sticking a grease gun in nemesis Wally Walrus’s mouth and pumping grease out through his ears (in director Dick Lundy’s 1947 Well Oiled), or Andy Panda and his guardian angel (also a panda) dancing off towards the horizon at the end of Apple Andy (directed by Lundy in 1946). What’s even more amazing is to be watching one of these cartoons that I haven’t seen in decades and suddenly remember what the next gag is going to be. Obviously, the Lantz cartoons made a great impression on me way back when.

As soon as I got the Woody DVD home, I immediately watched the Woody cartoon that I most clearly recalled liking as a child: The Barber of Seville, from 1944. This appears to be the most celebrated of the Woody cartoons, having been selected in a survey of a thousand animation professionals and historians as one of “The 50 Greatest Cartoons” for Jerry Beck’s 1994 book of the same name. This cartoon also inaugurated what looks to me to be the prime period in Woody Woodpecker’s onscreen career. It was the first Woody cartoon directed by former Disney animator James “Shamus” Culhane, and was co-written by Ben “Bugs” Hardaway, who had created Woody (as well as a prototype for Bugs Bunny at Warners, hence Bugs’s name) and was now supplying his voice. Moreover, this cartoon debuted Woody’s new, sleeker character design, which was considerably more appealing than the grotesque appearance he bore in his first cartoon (1940’s Knock Knock), without devolving into the cuteness of the 1950s Woody.

Rewatching Barber was full of surprises: I didn’t remember most of the cartoon at all. For one thing, it opens with World War II references which would have sailed over my head when I was a child, assuming that they were not cut from the syndicated Woody show. Woody decides to get a haircut, and, alas, it was not until I started working on this week’s column that I realized that, wait a minute, this premise makes no sense: Woody’s famed topknot consists of feathers, not hair! But I expect this doesn’t occur to 99.99% of the people who have seen this cartoon over the last sixty-three years. Anyway, Woody decides to get a “Victory” haircut (which would separate the topknot into a “V” formation) but is thwarted when he strides into the Seville Barber Shop and finds it deserted: the barber, named Tony Figaro, has left a note, “Gone to take my physical. Back soon.”

One of the lessons of these 1940s Woody cartoons is not to do anything that attracts Woody’s attention, lest chaos ensue. Finding himself in a barber shop, with apparently nothing better to do, Woody decides to play barber himself, a decision that cannot end happily for any unwary customers. Soon the first victim walks in, and here was surprise number two. Beck’s book gently refers to him as a Native American, but this first customer is a stereotypical caricature of an Indian chief that would never be allowed in mainstream animation today: he can’t speak English correctly, for one thing. The chief initially does nothing to provoke mistreatment, but Woody, perhaps more through incompetence than malevolence, swaths his head in towels that are so hot that Woody uses the overheated chief’s mouth to toast bread, and his feathered headdress shrinks into a badminton shuttlecock. Understandably furious, the chief threatens Woody with a tomahawk, in more stereotypical behavior, and Woody finally bests him by turning him into a living “cigar store Indian.” I suspect that this sequence was not cut from The Woody Woodpecker Show, but I am glad I did not remember it.

Next comes the section that I did remember, in which a construction worker, who vaguely seems Italian, enters the barber shop, asks to get “the whole works,” and certainly does. Woody turns a blowtorch on the man’s hardhat, lathers his whole face and even his feet, and then slashes at the terrified man with a razor while singing Figaro’s famous aria “Largo al factotum” from Gioachino Rossini’s opera The Barber of Seville. This is intended to be sung at high speed, like the famous Gilbert and Sullivan patter songs, and Woody does so, moving rapidly in time to the music. This is the part of the cartoon which earns its high reputation, with Culhane utilizing shots of Woody that last as little as a fraction of a second, and even putting three, four and finally five Woodys onscreen simultaneously, to signify that he is moving so fast that he seemingly appears in different places at once.

Unfortunately I didn’t enjoy the spectacle as much as I’d hoped, because I felt that the sequence hadn’t been set up properly. What had the poor customer done to be so beset by this razor-wielding madman–or madbird? At the very end of the cartoon the customer takes revenge by trapping Woody inside the barber pole (a fate echoing that of the Indian chief: being turned into a living version of an inanimate object). But that didn’t make the shaving sequence funnier for me in retrospect.

Can we assume that director Chuck Jones and writer Michael Maltese were aware of Culhane’s Barber of Seville when, only a half decade later, they did their 1949 animated short Rabbit of Seville, in which Bugs Bunny plays barber to Elmer Fudd, in this case to the accompaniment of the overture to Rossini’s Barber (see “Comics in Context” #102)? If so, then Jones and Maltese recognized the problem and corrected it. In the opening of Rabbit of Seville, a particularly nasty-looking Elmer fires his gun repeatedly at Bugs, who looks unusually desperate. More than in most Bugs Bunny cartoons, Jones and Maltese are thus emphasizing that Elmer is out to kill Bugs. Hence, Elmer’s murderous intent dramatically justifies the lengths to which Bugs goes to retaliate, even including slashing at Elmer’s face with a razor.

Maybe Culhane and company recognized the problem, too, because they solve it in their very next Woody cartoon, The Beach Nut (1944). This introduces the character who becomes Woody’s leading foil, Wally Walrus. Last week I wrote about the traditional pairing of the White Clown, who upholds order, and the Auguste, the buffoon who creates chaos: Wally and Woody fit these respective roles. The cartoon makers are still dealing in ethnic humor, since Wally inexplicably speaks with a Swedish accent, but in his case it seems harmless. Wally is physically much bigger than Woody, placing the woodpecker in the role of the underdog. More importantly, Wally is pompous, bad-tempered and overbearing, and takes a dislike to Woody even, as in this cartoon, when Woody initially has no malicious intentions towards him. In another cartoon on the DVD Wally even admits to the audience that he should just ignore Woody, but nevertheless takes action against him anyway. The Beach Nut even makes clear that Wally is a potentially greater threat to order than the irreverent Woody: at the cartoon’s end Wally inadvertently destroys an entire pier in his war on Woody, thereby plunging himself and numerous people into the ocean. Furthermore, Wally’s personality seems to embody stifling conventionality: he is a square, whereas Woody is a free spirit. Audiences will naturally side with the uninhibited Woody, who, in The Beach Nut, just wants to have fun, against Wally, who fills the archetypal comic role of the “refuser of festivity.”

So, at least on this initial reviewing, I didn’t enjoy Culhane’s Barber of Seville as much as I’d expected. Still, I found much that was interesting in it. For one thing, the cartoon links Woody to Figaro, the trickster barber and servant who was created by the French playwright Pierre de Beaumarchais and who famously became a symbol of the spirit of revolution against the aristocracy; Rossini’s Barber is an operatic adaptation of one of Beaumarchais’ plays about Figaro, as was Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. Figaro is probably the most famous example of the long tradition of the trickster servant that goes back to comedies in ancient Rome. I expect that Jones and Maltese, with their intellectual ambitions, meant to connect Bugs to Beaumarchais’ Figaro as fellow tricksters in Rabbit of Seville. I wonder if Lantz, Culhane, Hardaway and company likewise used Rossini’s music in their cartoon because they recognized that Woody fit the trickster tradition.

It’s also intriguing to me that Culhane’s Barber, like so many other cartoon shorts from Hollywood’s Golden Age, prominently uses classical music. Of course, one doesn’t have to be an opera buff to recognize the familiar “Largo al factotum,” although I wonder if many of us first heard it in animated cartoons. Still, how many cartoons have been made for television over the last fifty years that have been constructed around a piece of classical music? I can’t think of one. Culhane’s Barber was hardly an anomaly at the Lantz studio, either. Elsewhere in the DVD set is a 1946 cartoon featuring Woody and Andy Panda as musicians that bears the title Musical Moments from Chopin! In The Bandmaster (1947), a Lantz cartoon that appears to be inspired by Disney’s The Band Concert (1935), Andy Panda conducts the “Overture to Zampa,” a now obscure 19th century opera. Of course, Disney’s Fantasia (1940) is the most spectacular example of the use of classical music in classic Hollywood animation. All of this suggests to me that classical music played a larger role in American popular culture before the rock revolution of the 1950s and 1960s.

Woody’s singing in Barber turns out not to be unusual, either. He does it in numerous 1940s cartoons. For example, in Culhane’s The Dippy Diplomat (1945), Woody bamboozles Wally by masquerading as a Russian ambassador and singing a Russian-style melody. Another cartoon I partly remembered from childhood was Culhane’s Ski for Two (1944), which twice features a sequence in which Woody sings “merrily” (to quote the song) as he swiftly skis down a slope: once again Culhane combined speed and song as he did in Barber. (This cartoon featured a deja vu moment for me. In the second skiing sequence, Woody is escaping with a huge bag of what he thinks is food that he has stolen from Wally’s cabin. I found myself thinking: it’s really Wally in the bag, and he’s going to do Woody’s famous laugh at him. Yep. Some childhood memories are permanent.) I like Woody’s singing: it fits his character. The singing expresses his sheer pleasure in pulling off his tricks.

Ski for Two also gives Woody a new motive for his pranks: in this and later cartoons Woody is driven by hunger to pull his tricks on Wally Walrus or other adversaries. Thus, Woody is not just a trickster but he also fits another comedy character archetype: the parasite, forever hungry.

Yet another cartoon that I recalled from my childhood was Culhane’s Woody Dines Out (1945), whose title fits the parasite theme but does not hint at the short’s macabre content. I found this cartoon quite eerie when I was a child, both because of the dark settings and its sinister premise: a taxidermist is determined to make a fortune by capturing, killing, stuffing and mounting a “king-size woodpecker,” namely Woody. It’s well worth remembering that cartoons, and movies in general, can provoke different reactions in small children than they do in adults. Today I don’t find Woody Dines Out disturbing at all, although I still find its premise remarkable for a cartoon for family audiences.

A much bigger shock comes in Bathing Buddies, a 1946 short directed by Dick Lundy, in which Woody is Wally’s tenant and reads Wally’s list of regulations, which includes “No opium smoking.” I believe that if we are looking for proof that animated theatrical cartoons of the 1940s were aimed at adults, we have found it. Did Lantz and his coworkers assume that kids in the audience wouldn’t know what opium was?

What interests me more now about Woody Dines Out is a gag that is set up early in the cartoon, as the taxidermist imagines the fame and fortune to which he aspires. The cartoon shows us images in a thought balloon over his head, including one of the taxidermist surrounded by beautiful women. (The women are human, and the taxidermist is a cat, but we are apparently supposed to accept this.) At the cartoon’s end, after he has been soundly defeated by Woody, the taxidermist sadly reviews his previous fantasies of success. This time, when he gets to the thought balloon full of beautiful women, it is not the taxidermist sitting in their midst, but Woody, who triumphantly utters his trademark laugh. Here is the most startling example of Woody the trickster’s ability to defy the laws of reality: he has even invaded his enemy’s mind and commandeered his fantasy!

Now I find two other Culhane Woody cartoons far weirder than Woody Dines Out—Who’s Cookin’ Who? (1946) and Fair Weather Fiends (1946). The first is set amidst the snows of winter, and the second on a desert island; in each one a ravenous, anthropomorphic wolf is trying to eat Woody. That’s not a surprising premise for an animated cartoon. The surprise is that Woody, driven to desperation by lack of food, is trying just as hard to eat the wolf! It’s as of the Roadrunner suddenly started trying to hunt and eat Wile E. Coyote! This takes the theme of Woody as parasite, driven by appetite, to its extreme.

It also makes Woody stand out among his fellow animated trickster heroes. Woody, Bugs Bunny and Daffy Duck all began as manic “screwball” characters. Bugs, however, evolved into a character who would not unleash his tricks against an opponent without provocation (“Of course you know this means war.”). In sharp contrast with the manic prankster versions of Bugs in his earliest cartoons, Bugs, beginning with Tex Avery’s A Wild Hare (1940), coolly manipulated his adversaries, who had less emotional control. Bugs resembles the eiron figure of ancient comedy, the self-deprecating trickster who maintains an ironic perspective on the world around him. Daffy started out as pure screwball but evolved into an exemplar of common human failings (including greed, egotism and cowardice).

In his own earliest cartoons, such as his first, Knock Knock (1940) and second, Woody Woodpecker (1941), which are both in the DVD set, Woody looks grotesquely goofy and acts insanely: in the second cartoon he even consults a psychiatrist. Appropriately, Woody was originally voiced by Mel Blanc, who famously did the voices of Woody’s fellow screwballs Bugs and Daffy. Even though Blanc’s voice was electronically speeded way up for Woody’s high-pitched voice, I find Blanc’s acting style still very identifiable at points in these early Woody performances, such as the scene in Knock Knock in which Woody mock threatens Andy Panda while swelling to gigantic size. Until recently I didn’t know that even after Ben Hardaway succeeded Blanc as the voice of Woody, the cartoons still recycled Blanc’s recording of Woody’s trademark laugh. (However, I’m rather fond of another laugh that Hardaway does as Woody, when he’s snickering at an adversary; you’ll hear it in all of the Culhane Woody cartoons.)

Even though Woody no longer seems insane in the Culhane cartoons, in the 1940s he remains an uninhibited prankster who freely follows his desires, whether they are for food or revenge or, as in Barber, simply to have fun, regardless of its effects on others. If Bugs and Daffy evolved into adults, one perfect and one imperfect, the Woody of the 1940s is still childlike. Many of the 1940s Woody cartoons end with Woody being punished for going too far: sometimes the retribution seems excessive and mean-spirited, as when Wally traps Woody in his “tit-for-tat” machine in 1947’s Smoked Hams, directed by Dick Lundy, but other times Woody seems to get the appropriate degree of comeuppance.

But it’s hard to get the better of Woody Woodpecker in these cartoons. The 1940s Woody can seem like a trickster as a force of nature, as when he whirls about giving that super-speed haircut and shave in Barber.

One of my favorite cartoons on the Woody set is Woody the Giant Killer, directed by Dick Lundy in 1947. After Culhane left the Lantz studio, Lundy took over the Woody cartoons, with Hardaway still co-writing them. The Lundy cartoons aren’t as sharp or inspired as the Culhane Woodys can be, but they’re still fun, and Giant Killer is remarkable. It starts disappointingly, with Woody being tricked into buying magic beans like those in the story of “Jack and the Beanstalk.” I’m aware that it’s part of the trickster tradition that the trickster can be tricked himself, but Woody normally seems too clever to fall for this con man’s spiel. As you expect, Woody ends up ascending a huge beanstalk into the realm of the giant, and here’s where the cartoon takes off. Despite his colossal size and strength, the giant never stands a chance against Woody for a moment, and with surprising ease, Woody not only bests the giant but makes him his servant. Perhaps I should object to the cartoon, because the giant didn’t provoke Woody, who, as in Barber, is once more the aggressor. But I was simply impressed by the sight of little guy Woody simply overwhelming this colossus. Once Woody sets his mind to go after someone, he is, as I said, like a force of nature, nearly unstoppable.

The Woody cartoons on the DVD set’s third disc, from late 1948 to 1952 are less entertaining and interesting than those on the first two discs, from earlier in the 1940s, and present Woody as a more conventional funny animal protagonist. Nonetheless, I was astonished by the ending of Disc 3’s Wild and Woody (which premiered on December 31, 1948), in which Woody kills another of his regular opponents, Buzz Buzzard, with exploding TNT, and then escorts Buzz’s ghost to two elevator doors. Woody waves aside the elevator operator heading “up” to heaven, and instead puts Buzz on the elevator operated by a devil, heading down to hell. Of course Buzz returns alive in subsequent cartoons, but nevertheless, Wild and Woody demonstrates that Woody Woodpecker is capable of inflicting damage on his adversaries that makes anything Bugs Bunny does to Elmer Fudd look tame.

After leaving MGM, the great cartoon director Tex Avery worked briefly at the Walter Lantz studio, and the Woody DVD set includes the four animated shorts he made there before leaving theatrical animation.

Chilly Willy, the little penguin who dislikes the cold, debuted a year before Avery used him in I’m Cold (1954), and this cutesy character seems like an anomaly in the world of an Avery cartoon. (For what Avery thinks of cute characters, witness the mayhem inflicted on one in his 1944 short Screwball Squirrel.) In I’m Cold Chilly Willy, seeking warmth, attempts to steal furs from the cartoon’s real star, a guard dog with a familiar Southern drawl, voiced by Daws Butler. This cartoon thus represents another step in the evolution of Butler’s laid-back Southern canine from the Wolf in Avery’s Three Little Pups (see last week’s column) to Hanna-Barbera’s late 1950s TV star, Huckleberry Hound. Whereas the Wolf was the villain in Three Little Pups, albeit a likable one, the dog in I’m Cold isn’t a bad guy at all, but is clearly just doing his job. Significantly, Avery doesn’t take sides and allows both the dog and Chilly Willy to win, each in his own way, at the cartoon’s end.

In Avery’s The Legend of Rockabye Point (1955), Chilly Willy keeps making loud noises in order to wake up a vicious bulldog and sic him on a polar bear, who is forced to keep rocking the bulldog back to sleep. Avery had already used the premise of one character trying to stop another from making loud noises in his MGM cartoons Rock-a-Bye Bear (1952) and Deputy Droopy (1955, the same year as Rockabye Point!). Deputy Droopy (which is on the new Droopy DVD set) is the superior cartoon, but I like the twenty-years-later ending of Rockabye Point, which suggests that a bond can evolve even between enemies over time.

In Crazy Mixed-Up Pup (1955) a dog gets a transfusion of human blood, and his owner gets a transfusion of canine blood, with the result that the dog acts human, and the human acts like a dog. Each time someone witnesses this unusual behavior, the top of his or head springs open, a cuckoo emerges, and flags sprout from his or her ears, all to signify that the witness has just gone nuts. Avery keeps repeating this device, but it grows no funnier: I prefer the wild takes that wolves and other characters did in 1940s Avery cartoons.

My favorite of the four Avery cartoons is the final one, Sh-h-h-h-h-h (1955), in which a man, driven to the brink of madness by noises (a recurring theme, it seems), follows his psychiatrist’s advice and checks into a very, very quiet hotel. The patient ends up in a room next to a man and woman who keep playing a horn and laughing raucously. Though the patient never sees the couple (until the cartoon’s surprise ending), they somehow manage to thwart his every attempt to silence them. But what I like most about the cartoon is its middle section, before the obnoxious couple are first heard. The total silence of the sequence in which the patient checks into the hotel is genuinely eerie. It’s also disconcerting to realize that Tex Avery stopped making theatrical cartoons over a half-century ago. I have friends who were born the year that he stopped making cartoons for movie theaters, and they’re now middle-aged!

There are many other cartoons in the Woody DVD set, including some of Lantz’s remarkable Swing Symphonies, but I don’t have the time or space to get to them this week. Perhaps another time.

The Woody Woodpecker and Friends DVD set doesn’t have any commentary tracks, but it does have plenty of bonus features, principally featuring the late Walter Lantz, head of the studio that created the animated shorts in the set. There’s a short documentary about Lantz’s career, made towards the end of his life, a complete episode of The Woody Woodpecker Show, and various “behind the scenes” segments from the show.

After all these decades I was particularly interested in watching these segments. Lantz hosted the half-hour Woody Woodpecker Show, obviously following the example of Walt Disney, who hosted his own hour-long show in the 1950s and 1960s, first on ABC and then on NBC.

Even as a child I realized that Disney was the king of animation and that Lantz was a lesser figure, operating in Disney’s shadow. Walt Disney’s public persona was warm and friendly–very much “Uncle Walt”–as he acted as the television viewers’ guide to his pop culture empire. He may have been Uncle Walt, but I, and I assume, most viewers, recognized that it was an empire that he was showing us, and that he was the Great Man who had built it.

Recently rewatching the “Behind the Scenes” segments from The Woody Woodpecker Show confirms the impression that I recall having as a child. Walter Lantz lacked Walt Disney’s impressively charismatic presence as host. Lantz projected a gentler, quieter image. Whereas Disney welcomed us from what appeared to be his large, resplendent office, Lantz’s surroundings were clearly humbler.

In his host segments Lantz interacted with an animated Woody Woodpecker, just as Disney sometimes shared the screen with one of his studio’s animated characters on his show. (Woody continually taunts his “boss,” and there’s a nice moment on the DVD set in which Lantz, who normally projected a pleasant demeanor, gives the offscreen Woody a look subtly suggesting that the woodpecker had gone a bit too far.) Disney would also do shows in which he showed how animated cartoons were made, continuing a tradition begun by his 1941 feature The Reluctant Dragon. Lantz did this all the time in his host segments.

Now this reminds me of early animated cartoons, like Max and Dave Fleischer’s Out of the Inkwell series, which emphasized that the animated characters on screen were artificial creations: in the Inkwell series we see Max Fleischer (in live action footage) draw the animated character Koko onto a drawing board and they interact with each other. The audience is not encouraged to suspend its disbelief entirely; it’s as if this was the Max Fleischer counterpart of Bertolt Brecht’s alienation effect in theater. The audience simultaneously treats Koko as “real,” a living character, and recognizes him as a drawing “out of the inkwell.” (I will have much more to say about the Inkwell series in the coming weeks.)

Can you imagine an episode of Sesame Street, or, to go back to my childhood, Captain Kangaroo, in which the puppeteers came out from hiding and showed their young audience that Bert and Ernie or Mr. Moose were really just puppets animated by their arms? Now imagine yourself as a child watching The Woody Woodpecker Show. Walter Lantz shows you his cartoons, but in the host segments he shows you that Woody Woodpecker is really a series of drawings. Lantz is like a magician who shows the audience how his tricks are done. And yet this doesn’t spoil the tricks. I don’t recall being bothered as a child by seeing and hearing Lantz explain how Woody was not real; I found it interesting, and I assume that the rest of the show’s audience did, too, since this show lasted for years in syndication. Lantz obviously had enough respect for the intelligence of his younger viewers to have faith that they would accept the paradox.

In fact, even as Lantz explains the process of creating an animated cartoon in the host segments and the documentary, he continues to interact with the animated Woody Woodpecker, as if Woody were real. In one of my favorite moments on the DVD, Lantz explains that at one point his wife Gracie took over performing the voice of Woody Woodpecker, whereupon Woody–voiced by Gracie–expresses disgust that a “girl” is doing his voice! Woody’s appeal is so strong that the audience will happily continue to pretend that he is real even as Lantz is showing us that he is not.

In one host segment Lantz shows us how to draw Woody Woodpecker, using simple geometrical shapes as his basis. (Whether that is actually Lantz’s hand we see drawing in the closeups, I have no idea.) The segment suggests that it’s not that hard to draw Woody, and that you, the viewer, could do it, too, by following the same steps. In the other “behind the scenes” segments Lantz similarly explains other aspects of the process of making a cartoon, such as coming up with story ideas, so simply that grade school children can understand. Again. Lantz suggests that you, the viewer, could do this, too.

Surely Lantz’s “behind the scenes” segments must have inspired many kids to try their hands at drawing cartoons, and maybe some of them eventually became animation professionals. In watching these segments recently I realized that Lantz was, by extension, demystifying the creative process for any kind of art or writing. Through these segments Lantz was effectively telling children that they were capable of creative activity of any sort.

Here the difference between Lantz’s onscreen persona and Disney’s proves important. Watching him now on the DVD, I see that Lantz projected a gentler, more approachable, more intimate presence. Whereas Walt Disney seemed to be addressing a vast audience from his office, Walter Lantz conveyed the impression that he was speaking to you, personally, was letting you in on his secrets, and was encouraging you to follow in his footsteps and become an artist or writer yourself.

–Copyright 2007 Peter Sanderson

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