This seems to be one of the most controversial films to come out of . . .
. . . World War Two. True, some of the Popeye cartoons carry black warning labels when repackaged Today, mostly because about half of Americans drive Japanese cars and that country bought Columbia Pictures (so Popeye's Paramount has agreed to "play nice" and "get along" by dissing the work of all the hero animators killed during the Battle of the Bulge). But when you stop and think about it, Popeye is a CARTOON, and the people moving around during THREE CHEERS FOR THE GIRLS seem to be actual humans (in most cases). Perhaps more to the point, this film seems designed to convince the inhabitants of far off lands that U. S. women are coming to get them. However, just this month the USA's Selective Service honchos announced that females STILL cannot be drafted in America, which proves that THREE CHEERS FOR THE GIRLS constitutes false advertising.
. . . on Devil's Island? As anyone familiar with Japanese Death Culture well knows, the city featuring an "imperial palace" MUST be cheek by jowl with any workshop of Lucifer's. EBIRAH, HORROR OF THE DEEP features a cave, which is somewhat evocative of the tsunami-prone volcanic wasteland area associated with these typhoon-battered isles of miscreants. As future specialists of the nuclear melt-down, it is clear that the Mad Scientists of Today were greatly inspired by EBIRAH and the rest of the films in this sad saga when they were children. After all, isn't this what so-called "reverse psychology" is all about?
As a one-time home economics major, this film raises the issue . . .
. . . of how to pronounce "devilled eggs." Not being an English major, I do not really know how to type out phonetically the now two possible pronunciations for this common dish. I believe that those familiar with the jargon of words would say that the normal, original way to speak about this egg concoction would be to place the accent on the second syllable (which would also feature a "short" e in the first bit of Lucifer's alias). But CRUELLA suggests in its final discussion of the title character's limousine license plate that the devil's "e" can be said as a "long" vowel, making those eggs-of-the-future seem very English indeed. By the way, how did this movie studio lose track of the OTHER 96 dalmatians?
This film is somewhat similar to an episode of the current . . .
. . . television show FORENSICS FILES. Most of the elements of that present-day nail-biter are readily identifiable in HIT-AND-RUN DRIVER. Murder car tread marks? Check. Plaster casts of said mud disturbances? Check. Trace evidence from the death vehicle? Check. Swapped out tires? Check. Shady body shop repair man? Check. Suspicious alibis? Check. The Truth will out? Check. Perhaps FORENSICS owes CRIME DOES NOT PAY royalties.
" . . . I'm the only one left to answer more questions," heroine landlady Mrs. E. says before bravely sacrificing her life to save a couple of feckless lawmen. WALK A CROOKED MILE stems from 1948, when the Kremlin still exercised spy-craft in a crude, old-fashioned incredibly inefficient horse & buggy style. Nowadays, of course, they simply recruit such a treasonous rich traitor as this story's "Mr. Allen" from the boarding-schools-for-the-brats of the wealthy and famous, patiently wait several decades until they've been thoroughly compromised by the wicked wenches prowling about fake "beauty pageants" staged in Moscow hotels (and further corrupted by billions of dollars in bogus "real estate bank loans" arranged by Communist oligarchs) and then install these Benedict Arnold's in America's War Room so they can meet one-on-one in secret, undocumented "summits" to hand over all of our USA's top military secrets to devilish KGB spy chiefs. Talk about a crooked mile!
A lot happens here, so I watched ROCKET TO MARS twice back-to-back . . .
. . . but one thing I still do not understand is when the spaceship blasts off through the wall of the science "Technical Museum," exactly HOW does Olive exit the craft, WHICH articles of her lingerie get caught between rocket and flag pole, and what does her cryptic comment mean after she swirls down to the bottom of this staff? It seems to me that TWO viewings ought to be enough for an experienced peruser of animated shorts to understand the basics of the action and the dialog. However, at least for me this is NOT the case with ROCKET TO MARS. How sad.
This Film Noir favorite features a Femme Fatale who can . . .
. . . knock off a two-pound box of chocolates at one sitting! Martha is equally adept at dispatching Baby Ruth bars and actual Baby Ruths. THE HONEYMOON KILLERS documents that America's Love of Money will preempt its Love of Love any day of the week. If some elephantine political party types run out of High Court Packing, Voter Suppression Scams and Capitol Insurrection Ploys to steal normal citizens' hard-earned cash, they'll simply resort to lethal poisons (you can have your pick of pills or bleach), hammers to the head or bullets to your brain to loot your coffers, HONEYMOON reveals. Gluttons, gun hoarders and gold diggers must be thoroughly eradicated through preemptive strikes, because America lacks the voltage to electrocute all of the Marthas, HONEYMOON's finale suggests.
. . . to understand a seven-minute animated short. Unless you have been bamboozled into taking one of those bogus "speed reading" brain-washing sessions, it takes the normal person about 1,500 hours to read WAR AND PEACE (or at least three times that long, if you want to savor it in the original Russian). Who wants to spend three working years' worth of time enabling yourself to comprehend HOPPY-GO-LUCKY? On any kind of decent cost\benefit analysis, the effort is not worth the reward!
"Well, I'll just go and give the lily-livered rodent his . . . "
" . . . Just deserts," Sylvester Cat vows to his son Junior early during his fight with a youthful marsupial. It's unclear whether Sylvester is referring to the Painted, Mohave or Sahara deserts. Perhaps he's confused or brain-addled after being kicked a few times by the hideous hopper, and is picturing camels with pouches instead of bumps. Try to imagine in your mind's eye a kangaroo or wallaby attempting to skip up a massive sand dune near the equator. It's hard to envision success for a springing animal in such an environment. Someone once took my son on an outing to Sleeping Bear National Park, which features an infamous sand mountain challenge. Only the strong of heart can make it up the massive pile of tiny granules. Blade runner would never make it!
Fortunately, my circle of cyber space sleuths encompasses enough individuals . . .
. . . to counteract the Evil Bots trying to Filch the Facts from the American Public, because the miscreants behind them feel that You Can't Handle the Truth. PATROLLING THE ETHER is a perfect case in point. This morning I proof-read a proposed review of this live-action short that made stunning revelations about the ulterior motives behind it, and the far-reaching social engineering consequences of its subsequent dissemination. Though concise, this cutting-edge piece was composed in impeccable academic language, with no objectionable content to be seen even under the most microscopic sort of peer review. However, it was censored and suppressed by the nefarious bots because it threatened to blow the lid off a far-reaching scandal involving a corrupt capitalist communist corporation of the 1900's that has been in the news this past week as it remnants were shuffled from one Fortune 500 conglomerate to an even bigger and more prominent pernicious oligarchical monstrosity. Therefore, YOU will never know how PATROLLING THE ETHER has a perfidious hidden agenda which swept swamps of scandal under the rug, and changed a holy American Tradition for the worse as a "side effect" of the wealth hoarders' monopolistic ways.
. . . Bugs Bunny says of Elmer. Is it REALLY appropriate to encourage young tykes to make fun of intelligence testing scores? Very few children take such exams voluntarily. All such tests feature built-in cultural biases. Even many of the young people NOT tripped up by this sort of national selection suffer poor results because they are simply not good test takers. Why should someone proficient at filling out "bubble" score sheets (and little else) be placed in a position to lord it over their peers on such a virtually meaningless basis? It seems that the only time American Society wants to give someone the "benefit of the doubt" for such a low percentile tally is when they're eager to execute a person with mental deficits.
"The waterfront, with its evil smell, drew me relentlessly toward my . . . "
" . . . Doom," HIPPETY HOPPER begins. Why is it that American elitists feel no qualms about denigrating Old Country charms? Because they filter their tap water with expensive gizmos guaranteed to snuff out all possible color, smells and life forms within their Aitch Two Oh, they invariably turn up their snooty nostrils at any sign of character in freely flowing water. These nattering nabobs find a pungent sea breeze to be a horrid stench. They accuse the riverfront of being "odoriferous." No lake is "pure" enough for these aquatic snobs, so they only swim in chlorinated pools (half full of urine). Totally at sea in trying to understand the science of diffusion, such meatheads should be laid to their Eternal Rest in cypress swamps.
Fly-fishing for mice actually makes a lot of sense, as demonstrated by . . .
. . . Sylvester Cat in HOP, LOOK AND LISTEN. Mice are notorious for bolting down their food. For instance, if you give a mouse a cookie, he'll eat the rest of the batch in an instant. Therefore, when this sneaky rodent scarfs down a baited hook, he's quite likely to be snagged to the quick deep down. With any luck, when the line is yanked out, the mouse's mud vein will be extracted, too, with the rest of his guts. Many diners have complained about having a bad experience when they tried to serve broiled mice under glass. Such carping is almost universally due to a failure to remove or a botched job of excising little Mickey's mud vein.
The mother kangaroo in this brief cartoon is named . . .
. . . "Gracie." This called to mind my sister Grace, who married a fourth generation master mason. Unfortunately, their son was not interested in learning the secret to becoming a master mason. He went to Michigan State University for about eight years instead, switching his "major" four or five times. Counting homecoming games, he's played the trumpet in marching band for about 20 years now, though he's been working for an auto parts supplier most of that time. I think all of these ups and downs caused his dad to die of a broken heart. At least junior was able to play Taps at the funeral. I was reminded of all of this family trauma when the sidewalk smoother sinks into his quick-cement playing Taps on a bugle near the end of POP 'iM POP.
"Father, what kind of a father have I, that won't back his kid up?"
. . . Sylvester, Jr. Laments toward the conclusion of WHO'S KITTEN WHO? That's the problem with kids today, always expecting parents to fight their battles for them. What can't they be like we were, self-sufficient in every way? That's all we want from our kids today!
It seems pretty cool that the Popeye & Olive team can wash a sink full of . . .
. . . dishes or entirely prepare and serve a dinner order while elongating a note of their musical entertainment number during KLONDIKE CASANOVA. Many world music "artists" would be sure to benefit from this performance technique. For instance, I would like to have Slim Shady prolonging middle Cee while he fixed and brought me a grilled cheese sandwich. (These must be made with hard cheese sliced from a wheel or brick, and NOT the insipid "cheese-like" product manufactured by the trillions wrapped as individual slices. Also, including a generous sprinkling of raw onion on the buttered bread with the cheese is bound to enhance viewers' dining experience.)
The pen is said to be mightier than the sword . . .
. . . but FOUR WIVES concludes with a bogus argument that the bottle is better than the breast. After four bawling baby girls scream their lungs out during a wedding ceremony for mothers' milk, their moms rush upstairs to mollify them with a fake substitute. This blatant Product Placement by the Big Formula Industry soon would lead to legions of Rosie Riveters pouring their rivers of natural vaccines down industrial toilets in order to become "working moms" and bring home the sort of bacon lethal to babies. This travesty of "bottle fed" babes has continued the four score and two years until Today, leaving Humanity a pale imitation of its former robust, mammalian self. The only assurance that the current artificially-nursed pandemic-prone generation has about the Future is that their descendants (if any) will be even more sickly, infertile and weak than they themselves, thanks to Big Formula and other forms of pervasive Plastic.
This allegedly "humorous" brief cartoon pokes fun at the comedy involved in . . .
. . . home invasion. It's as if Mr. Capote wrote about the Clutter Farm Tragedy by going for the yuks involved. By this film studio's malignant metrics, FORENSIC FILES should be billed as a situation comedy. Daffy sneaks into the patsy pig's home castle in the guise of a gift-wrapped Trojan Horse invader. As soon as the unlucky hog opens his own personal version of Pandora's Box, out jumps a crazed fowl, who immediately begins tossing all of the Pork Guy's prized possessions out various windows! Such wanton property destruction must be met with fatal projectiles, or America will end up being overrun by unruly mobs of Communist Insurrectionists, along the lines of what happened in our hallowed U. S. Capitol Jan. 6, 2021. Just as the pig battling THE PRIZE PEST allowed vandal Daffy to run away with no penalty, the pigs fighting the insurrectionists took a cue from this cartoon and let all but one slow-moving door climber scurry away intact from the Halls of Congress like a hoard of roaches too fast to be contained!
This brief cartoon is far too frightening for little ones . . .
. . . involving as it does human face transplantation, a Real Life concern as the number of U. S. kids having their visages ripped off annually by pit bulls has increased more than 400% during the past decade. Midway through WISE QUACKERS Daffy plays barber to Elmer, swaddling the latter's mug with a moist towel so scalding that the latter's ugly countenance comes off STUCK TO THE TOWEL as Daffy swirls that Cloth of Doom away from Elmer's head. To rub in salt to injury, when Daffy haphazardly tries to quickly transfer the swiped off face back to its rightful position, mouth, nose and eyes get plastered UPSIDE DOWN upon poor Elmer's noggin, after which Daffy immediately mutters a crude joke! When the institutions of our USA Homeland are defaced in such a thoughtless fashion, is it any wonder that the kids viewing such outrages grow up to become active duty U. S. Marine Corps majors who double as violent U. S. Capitol mob insurrectionists?
There's nothing funnier than Death Camp Cultists . . .
. . . argues TO BE OR NOT TO BE. The very idea of Pale Face Supremacy is so hilarious that it's bound to leave those of darker hues to die laughing. As the January Capitol Insurrection and its crack-brained follow-up conspiracies have proved, fans of high-brow humor can get just as many chuckles from an orange-haired buffoon as from a thin-mustached Fuhrer. We all saw how Warsaw was leveled by the end of THE PIANIST (2007), but most of those ghetto gas-sees probably got a good belly laugh from TO BE OR NOT TO BE before they croaked, as did Miss Lombard as she stepped off a plane in one piece for the final time at the end of this flick. Since everyone kicks the bucket eventually, TO BE OR NOT TO BE urges us not to go down without at least a snicker.
. . . during DAFFY DILLY, as well as a room full of pies. As this demented fowl remarked in his previous flick, "You can't have your cake, and shoot it, too." Maybe he makes that observation in THIS cartoon, but who really cares? How many times does an animated critter question viewers "What's Humphrey Bogart got that I ain't got?" Furthermore, Daffy's reference to "Elderberry wine and old lace" will be spot on to anyone who's ever sampled the former, which tastes a lot like an arsenic shake.
Many viewers have tended to confuse this animated short--
--LOUVRE COME BACK TO ME! With a Doris Day\Rock Hudson vehicle from a year earlier, simply titled LOVER COME BACK. While it should go without saying that the cartoon has a five-word title, while the truncated feature's heading adds up to just three words, astute consumers will note that the latter marquee headline lacks any punctuation whatsoever. Lastly, these cinematic offerings can be differentiated by their Roman Numerals (that is, the five-digit approval codes assigned to them by the Vatican film censors). Ms. Day's 1961 feature sports the stamp-of-approval digits "19927," while 1962's LOUVRE COME BACK TO ME! Was signed, sealed and delivered as "19859."
"Everyone should have a hobby; mine is making . . . "
" . . . Love," serial stinker P. U. blurts to a smothered Penelope midway through A SCENT OF THE MATTERHORN. University entomologists have voted this title to be one of the ten looniest of all time. Actual mountain climbers make "ascents" of the Matterhorn. Get it? When you come right down to brass tax, visuals of the titular bump are strangely absent from this six-minute animated short. It's as if the European Union had imposed some sort of a rights fee, to be extorted from artists any time a natural or man-made feature of their old countries deemed to be "iconic" made it onto the screen. Obviously this financial penalty was not imposed for use of the Proper Noun itself, or the studio behind this cartoon would not have incorporated it into the opening credits at all.
Have you ever thought that it would be fun to have a squirt gun fight . . .
. . . using the nozzles of a milk cow in lieu of a plastic "gun?" That's exactly what the title characters do midway through FATTY AND MABEL'S SIMPLE LIFE. Because plastic was yet to be invented when this film was released in 1915, movie stars had little alternative to the natural approach when they were called upon to give each other a little on-screen spritz. In Real Life, of course, Roscoe took this reliance on Mother Nature a little TOO far, when he anticipated our Modern 21st Century's booming trade in oblong "marital aids" by allegedly inserting an icicle into a tender orifice. Three murder trials later, America decided to allow Roman censors to truncate what U. S. citizens could see on film for the next 80 years.
Back around 1939 or so the most famous version of a Foreign Legion yarn titled . . .
. . . BEAU GESTE was released. Google says that this foreign lingo phrase is supposed to mean fine gesture (though many cannot see how THAT should rate a commemorative, First Class U. S. Postage stamp). One of Mother Goose's fairy tale characters was named "Little BO Peep" (though who pays any attention nowadays to Isaac Goose's second wife, Elizabeth Foster Goose--not to be confused with that impostor, Mary Goose, later buried in Boston's Old Granary Cemetery). Of course, blue collar working stiff Revolutionary War Hero Captain Henry Livingston has been irrefutably proven to be the author of "The Night Before Christmas" (aka, "A Visit from Saint Nick") and NOT that senile unprincipled plagiarist Tory traitor dullard Clem Moore, but that's another story of an even bigger stinker than LITTLE BEAU PEPE.