STANLEY STORIES

Coming Sometime This Spring: A Look At Famous Studio's Little Lulu cartoons--and how they relate to John Stanley's work!

2012-02-26T10:58:00.001-08:00

When next I have a sane moment, I hope to assess the 26 animated cartoons, produced from 1943 to '47, by New York-based Famous Studios. Actually, the first few were among the last cartoons produced at the studio's Miami, Florida outpost. Most of them were created in New York, near where John Stanley wrote his entirely different take on the Marge Buell character for Western Publications.

Academic thrills beyond count! Coming sometime after the Carter Family graphic novel is sent off to the printers, and I'm sane again!

YOW!

PS: Fascinating that a post I haven't written yet has gotten more comments than most posts I've actually completed! Maybe I should just post teasers here from now on... ;)

Tootling Tubas, Iodine Indians and Fatal Cookies: Three Stories from the fourth Little Lulu one-shot comic, 1946: story and art by John Stanley

2012-02-13T09:15:00.001-08:00

This continues a series of posts that focus on an issue of the John Stanley-written and drawn "Four Color" one-shot Little Lulu comic book.
Here are three of the four stories that comprise Four Color #120, which bears a publication date of October 1946. As ever, it's preferable to read these stories in color, as they were originally intended.

With this issue, John Stanley begins to take chances with the licensed characters of Marge Buell. This is the most New Funnies-like issue of Lulu. The story situations are quite akin to his contemporary "Andy Panda," "Oswald Rabbit" and "Woody Woodpecker" pieces.

They're much less about character-driven comedy than broad, escalating situations. That said, Stanley's growing awareness of the potential of the LL cast further flavors these innovative stories. While Stanley the artist still struggles with the rudimentary/bad design of the Marge Buell characters, Stanley the writer cuts loose and tries for belly laughs and broader strokes.

The issue's first (and longest) story, "Tuba Trouble," anticipates 1950s sitcoms. The narrative centers around a wacky decision Lulu makes, and sees through to its absurd but logical conclusion. Stanley had a knack for this kind of story, and would return to this template more often in the 1960s.

Stanley's sitcoms have more depth and patience than is the standard. In this potentially I Love Lucy-style narrative, he is careful to keep character quirks in the foreground.

There is always a sobering moment in Stanley's work. For "Tuba Trouble," it is the sequence on the top half of page 2. Tubby's notion that parents own their children, and that corporal punishment is inevitable, even for the misdeeds of his friends, adds that note of gravity prevalent in the Stanley universe.

This early on, the kids' interactions with adults still have anarchic tinges. The Lulu cast would become conformists to social mores (with the important exception of Tubby) by the turn of the decade. Here, Lulu thinks nothing of hurling gravel through a window, or of stealing a neighbor's lawn mower to exchange for that decrepit tuba. Of course, she has her own logical rationale for each action.

In this sense, the early John Stanley Lulu character is more like the Tubby of his 1950s stories. Tubby is far more passive in these earlier pieces. Once Stanley figured his master plan out, and assigned the self-deluded, self-justifying persona to Tubby, Lulu becomes a steadfast, feet-on-the-ground assayer of logic and reason. This was Stanley's greatest alteration of the Marge characters, and what makes them so far superior to her gag-cartoon iteration.

The tuba--and its audio pandemonium--is akin to Stanley's "Andy Panda" stories. It's easy to imagine that series' upstart, Charlie Chicken, being obsessed with the windy brass instrument, and causing a public panic with its startling farts.

It is, of course, funnier to have a meek little girl behind this wind-breaking, and for her to be blissfully ignorant of the effect her tuba efforts have on the world around her. She simply wants to be included in her friends' pitiful music making. To the boys, music-making is an enforced torment, demanded of them by their seemingly irrational parents/owners. The beat cop's spiel about Sherlock Holmes may fortify Tubby and Eddie for the moment, but in the long run it's sheer hell for these kids, this music practice routine. The violin is a messenger of misery in John Stanley's world. Did he dislike the instrument? One wonders.

A half-page scene of public chaos highlights the penultimate page. Far funnier, though, is that page's second panel. We can only imagine the discordance produced by those kids. That Lulu's tuba-belching should outdo that cacophony is quite a feat.

Stanley aims for a dry humor in "Tuba Trouble." It succeeds in understating its turbid events. The effect is quite unlike his frenzied farces of the 1960s.

Next is "Indian Uprising." My apologies to any Native American readers of Stanley Stories. I have read all but three issues of John Stanley's output (and, thanks to Michael Barrier, I will soon have scans of those missing pieces). I have yet to see, outside of the notorious Li'l Eight Ball, a moment of outrageous ethnic caricature in Stanley's work.

After a gander at the opening image of the first Famous Studios Little Lulu cartoon, Eggs Don't Bounce, Stanley's Li'l Eight Ball stories seem much milder in comparison. The one ethnic group Stanley used in his work were Native Americans. Making light of "injuns" far outlasted other ethnic ribbings. Only in the last 10-15 years has mass media backed away from the "how! ugh!" vision of the "redskin."

No actual stereotyped Indians appear here--just their affect. The kids' fantasies are fueled by the Hollywood crap that encouraged these stereotypes. This vicious circle, whether consciously planned or not, fuels one of the most topsy-turvy stories in Stanley's Lulu canon.

Few of Stanley's Little Lulu stories are as riotously funny as "Indian Troubles." Sublime comedic timing and techniques abound--once again relayed with understatement. From Alvin's quiet defacement of a tulip patch to Lulu's word-for-word explanation (repeated for the authorities) of how her father got a mannequin head, instead of a cabbage, every moment is beautifully downplayed.

Tubby's boyishly vicious fantasy of the Old West, at story's beginning, gives further shading to his yet-unfinished persona. In this moment, this early Tub aligns with the mid-1950s model. As said, only the kids' use of iodine to darken their skin alludes to the "injun" theme. Notably, the kids are on the side of the Native Americans. They love the outlet to wreak havoc that the "redskin" persona provides.

Even so, the children never lose their mid-century suburban American-ness. The contrast of their attempts to break from the societal mold, and the irritation and embarrassment they cause the adults around them, is sublime. No need to push the PC Alert Button this time!

I've skipped the amusing "Newspaper Business" to conclude with an early instance of Stanley's meta-fairy tales. "Little Lulu and the Seven Dwarfs" is notable for its parody of the then eight year-old Walt Disney animated feature. With this cultural landmark as a compass, Lulu's selective corruption of remembered events and invented, personalized touches is laid bare for the reader to savor.

Notice, as well, the second of John Stanley's witches. The first appeared in this 1945 Oswald Rabbit story. While clearly based on the source material parodied, this ur-witch, who meekly appears in the story's denouement, roughly anticipates his 1950s creation, Witch Hazel.

From the start, Alvin is skeptical audience for Lulu's rewrite of "Snow White." It's fitting that the "rough kitchen boys" and the seven dwarfs resemble Alvin, who is the biggest thorn in Lulu's side.

Stanley indulges in a rare quotation from pop culture. He has the dwarfs singing their signature song from the Disney Snow White feature, "Heigh Ho." Litigation would ensue if anyone did this now, but in 1946, it probably passed by completely un-noticed.

Stanley's use of the song fuels a brutally comedic sequence in which Lulu is trampled by the dwarfs as they come and go from their mining work. This sequence ends with a sublime instance of discrepancy, via Lulu's understatement of the invented events of her imagination:

Lulu never strays far from her current reality in these on-the-fly fairy tales. Her inclusion of poison cookies, a reflection of a recent baking episode, informs her parody of Snow White, and tidily ties the story's events together.

This narrative decision ruins her appetite for the cookies she's baked--and thus the story ends, with story-teller berating herself for being too inventive.

As work concludes on the long-awaited Carter Family graphic novel, I will be away from the blogosphere for the next month or so. When I emerge, I hope to have some fresh Stanley material to share with you. In the meantime, be well and prosper!

John Stanley's World, Pt. VIII: A Walking Tour of Monsterville

2012-01-17T10:58:00.000-08:00

During my recent enforced hiatus, my only reliable entree to the internet was via an iPod. The effect is like watching a fishbowl through the wrong end of a telescope. It's nice--very nice!--to be back to the dimensions of my laptop.

While I couldn't access this machine, I read books and did other things once so common-place, pre-internet. Among these readings was a revisit to the three volumes of Drawn + Quarterly's complete reprinting of John Stanley's 1960s work, Melvin Monster.

I've found Melvin rough going, due to its intense emotional darkness. That darkness serves a purpose, as I've come to realize. It is a constant reminder that we're not in our world anymore. We're visiting a warped, refracted place that has recognizable aspects to us, but which is essentially alien.

Monsterville, the setting of Melvin Monster, is among John Stanley's most compelling fictional worlds. As was the case with too many of his personal projects, the series ended just when Stanley put most of its pieces in place.

We never get a complete sense of what Monsterville is like--as we do with the Northeastern city that the world of Little Lulu occupies. Certain locales are ritually revisited, but we're left with the sense that there is much yet explored or documented. Nine quarterly 36-page comic books are all we have. Much of their action occurs inside one home, or on its immediate premises.

Though they're sometimes just sketched in roughly, much is said via the series' dilapidated urban-suburban settings. They are a grotesque mirror of the world of Little Lulu, Thirteen Going on Eighteen and other Stanley series.

This curious societal shambles--an acute mixture of order and chaos--is the backbone of Melvin Monster. While it borrows from Charles Addams' magazine cartoons, and captures the zeitgeist of the mid-'60s TV monster craze (The Munsters, The Addams Family), the atmosphere of Melvin is more deliberate, logical and haunting. It helps us understand--and ultimately accept--the emotional minefield of this brutal-yet-orderly world.

The basic affect of this world is recognizable--residential streets with houses, sidewalks, lawns, fences and evidence of public utilities. There are apparent businesses, at least one schoolhouse, and outlying, off-limits areas, shrouded by deep woods, that insulate Monsterville from the adjacent world of "human beans."

In early issues of Melvin Monster, we see the "human bean" world quite often. Melvin, our identification figure in these stories, is curious about this more orderly, less chaotic mirror-world, and wants to be a part of it. He is a reluctant member of Monsterville--he's there by birth only, and he doesn't cotton to its prejudices and values.

Yet Monsterville seems patterned on the "human bean" world, and exists as a corruption of that equally chaotic society.

This recalls the awkward-but-fascinating "Tales of the Bizarro World" series which ran in the DC Comics title Adventure Comics in the early 1960s. Sometimes scripted by Superman co-creator Jerry Siegel, the "Bizarro World" stories set an impossible, petrifying standard. Everything "right" had to be wrong, and vice versa.

This abnormal-as-the-norm bias also informs the monster TV sitcoms mentioned above, and tinges Stanley's Monsterville. This comedy of free-wheeling anti-conformism seems apt for anxiety-packed Cold War America. Average Joe and his offspring/spouse could enjoy some harmless chuckles at the addled mirror this school of comedy offered.

While none of these commercial efforts pointedly mocks the conformism of early '60s American life, the intent is still there. By making light of the bizarro-type characters' conformation to bass-ackward rules of disorder, these mass media outlets poke polite holes through the fabric of what we call structured society. (Thank you, Vermont Ferret, for this photograph.)

John Stanley is an outstanding humorist, and a superb storyteller, but he was not Harvey Kurtzman. He does not set out to show that the emperor is buck nekkid. If anything, he's on the side of the sublimely deluded, and loves to wind them up and watch them go.

The main gimmick of Melvin Monster is that Melvin is the only "normal" figure in an abnormal world. He experiences Monsterville as you or I might, were we dropped into it, and expected to thrive. He is aware of his difference, and that he is an outsider. Yet he's not a Quixotic comical figure, like Tubby Tompkins and other signature Stanley characters. He seems to be the voice of reason in this dark wilderness.

Because of his otherness, he is exquisitely sensitive, and a moving target for the hostilities of the "normal" world of Monsterville. From his ill-tempered, risible "Baddy" and passive "Mummy" to the homicidal schoolmarm, Miss McGargoyle, to friends such as the witch-in-training, Little Horror, Melvin's daily life is filled with hostile encounters with supposed friends and family.

He might as well be a closeted gay teenager in 1960s Birmingham, Alabama. Only by pretending to follow the norms of a world he dislikes and fears can Melvin make it through a day in Monsterville.

In one telling sequence, we're shown a scene of domestic distress caused by Melvin's affection for "human bean" ways:

The last page of the last issue of Melvin touchingly plays upon this dichotomy:

On this heart-breaking scene of wish fulfillment thwarted, let's begin our visual tour of Monsterville...

The first page of the first story offers significant exterior and interior views of average life in the community of Monsterville:

Decay, disorder and visual chaos are established straight away. The landscape of residential Monsterville would alter significantly in later issues, while retaining these key assets.

Here, we see stock Gothic mansions crowded together in an overgrown, foreboding terrain. Inside these homes, if Melvin's abode is typical, are broken windows, cracked plaster, peeling paint or wallpaper and threadbare carpets. These visual clues give us a strong sense of dust, mildew, dampness and grime. This house would probably smell funny, and give allergy sufferers a sneezing attack.

Again, this is on par with contemporary monster-sitcoms, especially The Munsters, which premiered on American TV in the fall of 1964. Given the lag in production time for magazines and comic books, it's very possible that Stanley either saw The Munsters, or had it suggested as a possible springboard for an original comics series.

Like Herman Munster (played with gentle charm by Fred Gwynne), Melvin's "Baddy" has a night job. His vocation smacks more of the "Bizarro World" than the TV sitcom:

This scene, from the second issue of Melvin, offers a rare full view of the house's front yard, and its entryway to the street. As with the "Bizarro World" series, rules dominate the world of Monsterville. Order and disorder fight one another, and typically cancel one another out.

The same basic problem plagues both Melvin Monster and the "Bizarro World" series: there must be some sort of societal order, but how does a community that thrives on anarchy still have rules? These rules are strictly followed--especially in the "Bizarro World," which has its own, often-repeated code:

The logic-implosion of this Code is a detour I'm not willing to take in this essay. Suffice to say that Stanley's Monsterville is a more loose-knit community. Traditions and rules of monster conduct are often recited and referred to, but the stakes for a non-conformist are much lower here.

More street views of suburban Monsterville show evidence of public utilities, and thus societal structure. They have paved sidewalks, fire hydrants, telephone poles and power lines:

No cars, trucks or other engine-based vehicles are seen in Monsterville. Melvin's friend, Little Horror, has a variety of witches' brooms, but I doubt those would merit the civil inclusion of traffic lights, which nonetheless exist in this community:

Monsterville appears to have at least one newspaper, seen here:

Melvin's home has a television. Whether this is local programming, or "human bean" TV, picked up via aerial, is never made clear:

Though yard neglect is the standard here, property lines are denoted by fences and other markers:

We only see the more urban side of Monsterville once, in issue 8 of the series:

These settings are sketchy, vague and generic. They are akin to the similar environs of Little Lulu and Thirteen Going on Eighteen:

Stanley cares far less about detailed settings, as a writer-cartoonist, than do his collaborators. Irving Tripp (seen above, in the Lulu sequence) and Bill Williams (below, in an example from Dunc 'n' Loo) who endow the fictive-real worlds of John Stanley with solid, substantial detail:

To Stanley, the characters were the story. Though he does indulge in more atmospheric landscapes in Melvin Monster, he keeps the settings as low-key as possible throughout the series. The one aspect of Monsterville lushly detailed are its tangled, shadowy landscapes and woodlands. Those forlorn scenes of open fields and thickets, dense with overgrowth and neglect, are a haunting visual component of the series.

Stanley's scenes of the woods, in particular, achieve a sense of aching desolation comics wouldn't see again until the publication of Charles Burns' Black Hole:

Stanley had a knack for cartooned landscapes, seen in his 1940s work for Little Lulu and his original series "Peterkin Pottle" and "Jigger and Mooch." This sensibility informs many of the great 1950s stories he both wrote and drew, including the seminal story "The Guest in the Ghost Hotel." You can find this story elsewhere on the blog, or in at least two current reprints.

In the pastoral scenes of Melvin Monster, Stanley flourishes as an expressive cartoonist. The mood of those shaggy fields, and those clusters of trees and thickets, bring this fictive world to life.

Before Stanley abandoned the connection to the world of "human beans," he played with the contrast-complement of these two simultaneous universes, as in this four-page story from issue 3:

Melvin Monster is a blend of familiar John Stanley events and archetypes. A strong interest in horrific themes is evident throughout his career. An overwhelming amount of Little Lulu's improvised fairy tales have horror motifs. The most recurrent of these, Witch Hazel, has a doppelganger in Melvin's Miss McGargoyle.

This choice of subject matter was not unusual for Stanley. Shoved into the forefront of Melvin Monster, macabre elements become the norm, as seen through the eyes of a developing child who struggles to accept or understand them.

Despite the heaviness and harshness of its ritual events, there is a playful, lighter side to Melvin Monster. A key to appreciating this series is that we realize this is not our world. It looks somewhat similar, but it plays by different rules. Black is white and good is bad in Monsterville. Parents would tend to be gruff, abusive and moody; physical violence, bullying and other assorted assaults are the commerce of daily society.

Stanley doesn't make a big deal of any of this. He presents it straightforwardly, without much back-story or build-up. We aren't constantly reminded of the dos and don'ts, as in the "Bizarro World" series. Thus, we must make peace with the Medieval cruelty of Monsterville, and appreciate what good citizens its residents truly are, given their circumstances.

Monsterville is a slice of John Stanley's world that ended far too soon. The glimpses and passing scenes we get, in the nine issues of Melvin Monster, establish it enough that we can fill in the missing pieces--as Stanley surely would have, had the series lasted longer. It is a troubled and troubling world, but one worth our attention.

P.S.: This is a rare example of a John Stanley series that's been recently reprinted in full, via Drawn + Quarterly's lush hardcover three-book set. The reproduction in those volumes is far, far better than the motley scans seen here. If you don't own those three books, please consider buying them. Consider this essay a compliment to those D+Q volumes.

P.P.S.: RIP, Megaupload. The bad guys have won a big one here... The extent of how much this sucks will no doubt grow larger in the next few days. The Internet, as we once knew it, is rapidly changing for the worse...

Computer Fixed; New Posts In The Works!

2012-01-16T09:55:00.000-08:00

My laptop is alive and well once again. Coming soon to Stanley Stories will be a visual essay on the world of Melvin Monster. Look for it in a couple-three days. Until then, take care!

The Unseen Stanley, Pt. 2: John Stanley's Gag Cartoon Concepts

2011-12-20T11:11:00.000-08:00

As in this post, I am honored and pleased to present some completely unpublished, unknown work of John Stanley. The following pieces are roughs for magazine gag cartoons. I don't know if these were reworked into slicker published versions, or if they were gags written for other cartoonists.

This is part of the heart of a curious choice John Stanley made in his career. He placed a cartoon in the pinnacle market for such material. The New Yorker published apparently just one of his signed cartoons in their March 15, 1947 issue. You can see a lovely hi-rez scan of this cartoon here.

Stanley was evidently held in high regard by Jim Geraghty, the New Yorker's cartoon editor at the time. According to an interview done with a Stanley colleague by cartoon/animation historian Michael Barrier, Stanley let what most could see as a golden opportunity slide. I quote from a recent post by Barrier:

Dan Noonan, who knew John Stanley when they were drawing comic books for Western Printing, said of Stanley that he “used to send ideas to The New Yorker, and Jim Geraghty, who was the cartoon director there, was so impressed with Stanley he wanted to give him a contract. Stanley wouldn’t have any of it; he didn’t want to be tied. Although I can’t think of any nicer way to be tied down than under a contract with The New Yorker.” Stanley’s ideas were “very sophisticated gag ideas, all of them,” Noonan said.

Stanley apparently had no issues with being "tied" to Western Publications, where he worked for 30 years or so in a work-for-hire capacity. In this time, he mostly did (vastly improved) versions of licensed media characters, and his few original series of the 1940s, which he never signed as his work, were failures. Not until the July, 1952 issue of Marge's Little Lulu was Stanley (and his assistants) given clear credit. (You can see that rare instance in this post.)

One dozen years after that, an apologetic "Stanley" is scrawled on the cover of the 12th issue of Stanley's superb original creation, Thirteen Going On Eighteen, which featured his writing and cartooning. That dashed-off "Stanley," stuck into the corner of subsequent covers, was all the credit this creator allowed himself for all his hard work.

Being "tied" to a prestigious magazine like the New Yorker might have given Stanley a cache similar to that of Charles Addams, George Price, James Thurber, Roz Chast or Gahan Wilson. It would have likely been less work for the same--or more--pay. On the other hand, we would not have his large and important body of comic book stories.

Gag cartoons have their limits. They exist for the initial moment of surprise (and delight) of the reader. Their illustrations, usually tinged with ink wash, invite the eye to linger perhaps a bit longer than it might rest on a newspaper comic strip.

They are like a good joke: effective the moment you hear it, and to share with others who are unaware of it. After that, they cease to exist, save for those who enjoy the moment of the cartoon enough to either clip it out, or buy the eventual book collection of their favorite cartoonist's work.

The heft and depth of Stanley's comic book narratives is, ultimately, a far finer, more important body of work than almost any gag cartoonist's output, in my admittedly biased opinion. Stanley's stories invite multiple returns. Re-readings reveal details of character, stakes and narrative that grow richer in reflection.

Would the world be a better place, had John Stanley switched careers and become a full-time gag cartoonist? Would we, the world, be better-off with hard cover volumes of Stanley gag cartoons? The higher status and income would have served their creator well, but I wonder if he found the form, ultimately, as limiting as I do.

Stanley's sharp observational wit lent itself well to highly effective gag cartoons. His comic book stories often don't contain such explosive moments of comedy. The payoff of a gag cartoon is like an explosion--a trick cigar, if you will. The payoffs of Stanley's comic book narratives are slower, richer and more resonant. More like a fire, the effect of these pieces come upon the reader gradually, increase in intensity, and leave its aftermath (of one-upmanship, chaos and status shifts). These elements tend to linger in the reader's thoughts long after the impact of a sharp punch-line is gone.

Stanley was adept at the impact of a single panel cartoon. As these four rare examples show, his trick cigars often take a bit longer to burst. This first cartoon is an ideal example:

This gag is in line with many of Stanley's comic book stories that involve animals or pet shops. The resigned, blase expression of the shop's proprietor, and the radial arc of form and movement at his feet, are remarkably effective. Although this is clearly a rough, it keenly expresses its point.

Apropos with the holidays, the next two cartoons feature different aspects of jolly ol' Saint Nick--first as a swinger/lush:

and then as a pragmatist...

The concept of Santa at a self-service laundromat is gently incongruous, and settles into the reader's brain over the course of a few seconds. As with many of Stanley's comedic ideas, there is a palpable tinge of melancholy to this punchline.

The last of today's quartet is most typical of our gag-cartoon expectations, with a touch of black comedy:

Stanley's loose rough forms seethe with energy and personality. Even in this concept-pitch state, they're worthy of publication. These unseen examples give us an example of what might have been, and very likely could have been.

The loss of income and prestige Stanley had, by stubbornly remaining in the comic book field, may have contributed to his growing bitterness in the later 1960s. It was his decision, and it has ultimately given us a far greater reward in the work that remains.

A Clyde Crashcup Christmas: A Rambling Yuletide Epic From 1963

2011-12-11T11:26:00.000-08:00

I thought I'd used up all the Christmas-themed Stanley Stories. Hidden in plain sight, perhaps waiting for this moment, was Stanley's last, and longest, Yuletide-themed narrative. It occupies 40% of this uniquely schizoid holiday special, published in late 1963:

This 84-page book was illustrated solely by Bill Williams. The "Alvin" stories, which eat up almost 50 pages, are obviously not Stanley's work. They're talky, static and witless. Worst of all, they're written down to a presumed audience of Keane-eyed tiny tots.

The 34-page "Clyde Crashcup" Christmas adventure, with its myriad Stanley stylistic tells, augmented by Williams' lovely cartooning, is a lost bridge between their epic collaboration, Dunc 'n Loo, and Stanley's late auteur work.

Yes, I just did a post on this character. I hope the repetition isn't a bore. Irving Tripp, and other staff artists, did the finishes on the five issues of the regular Crashcup book. It's a real treat to see Bill Williams' animated, jolly cartoon style applied to these characters and their world.

Williams' artwork makes even the dull "Alvin" segments bearable, despite their absolute lack of narrative interest. When his energy as a draftsman meet's Stanley's as a storyteller, the results are always dynamite.

I have a sneaking suspicion that this story may have been created as a stand-alone 36-page comic book. No attempt is made to cohesively connect it to the "Alvin" sequences. The episodes are shuffled amidst "Alvin" material and kiddie activity pages.

Stanley's other giant-size comics (done with the "Little Lulu" and "Nancy and Sluggo" characters), which can be read elsewhere on this blog, weave subtly inter-related stories. The individual pieces can stand alone. Read together, they're a loose-flowing, understated narrative. Stanley does enough call-backs to prior stories, late in these books, that they emerge as a satisfying whole.

These come too late to have been potential candidates for Dell's Four Color one-shot series. Western Publications had long split off from Dell, into Gold Key Comics. The Four Color series expired with issue 1354, cover-dated April/June 1962. Post-Western Dell published a series of one-shot 84-page giant comics (including Stanley's notorious Tales From The Tomb). For a penny over the price of two newsstand comics, readers got an extra 16 pages of (usually vacuous) content. Such a deal...

As a last hurrah for the Williams-Stanley collaboration, this episodic comics novella has a certain wistful charm. As with his earlier Christmas comics, Stanley sneaks in some dryly amusing twists of irreverence--a much-needed alternative to the reverential quality of many such episodes. Here goes...

The most amusing moment in this piece occurs in its second chapter. Crashcup envisions Santa Claus as a person meant to take away unwanted things. In a rare moment of connection, Clyde listens to Leonardo, his voice of reason, and has a remarkable reaction, in the form of a Tubby-esque tantrum/rant:

This moment captures the essence of the attitude of John Stanley's favorite character type. The entire page brims over with playful anger, as Crashcup poo-poohs the notion of Santa Claus as a giver of gifts, and not a junk removal service.

In another recurring Stanley theme, a pair of criminal types, played for laughs, rock Crashcup's dreamboat and attempt to harness his redundant inventions for their own profit. These Ivy League thugs are a far cry from the criminals in an early Stanley masterpiece, "Little Lulu Is Taken For A Ride." A comparison of these two stories shows how Stanley's approach and comedic vision changed from the 1940s to the 1960s.

The 1947 story devotes more on-screen time to the ponderous fumblings of the Laurel and Hardy-esque crooks. They are depicted with more gravity. Despite their quirky personalities, it's evident that they mean business. The criminal element in this Xmas story is more stream-lined and Space Age-oriented. They dress like Madison Avenue junior execs, own a getaway helicopter, and have ambitions to nose in on Santa Claus' business, the better to make it turn a profit.

The bad guys are just as self-deluded as the good guys in John Stanley's world. To remind us of this, one of the two "Baby-Faced Bank Robbers" makes this sublime Tubby-esque utterance:

Williams' cartooning really works with the 1960s vision of John Stanley. Their body of collaborative work is a bright spot in an uncertain age for the American comic book.

I'm struck by the moment, on the second page of chapter 5 ("Polar Problems"), when Crashcup and Leonardo fall from their balloon to what seems like certain death. Crashcup does not attempt to invent a way out of dying. It's a rare moment when the pivotal Stanley character-type is jolted out of their self-immersed reverie, and is unable to function through the lens of their cognitive biases. Thank goodness for that chimney!

Which leads us to another subtle joy of this story--Stanley's depiction of a temperamental Santa Claus. I suppose anyone would be caught off-guard by two men in lab coats dropping down their chimney! The touch of crankiness in Stanley's Santa is a small but divine detail.

Such flourishes, including Crashcup's floridly alliterative speeches and Leonardo's body language, in reaction to Clyde's dithering self-delusion, are present in Stanley's work from his first stories. It's one of his strongest hallmarks as a writer and humorist--these little touches that don't necessarily call attention to themselves. They idly bob on the surfaces of his stories, and if you notice them, you're rewarded for your effort.

Next time, I hope to have something to share with you that I guarantee you've never seen before! Keep checking back here...

Self-Absorbed Scientist Invents Phonographs, Photographs; Fails To See Forest For Trees; Mute Assistant Suffers In Silence (two stories from Clyde Crashcup #5, 1964)

2011-12-02T10:11:00.000-08:00

As John Stanley reached the prime period of his finest original series, Thirteen Going on Eighteen, in 1964, he still found time to write and re-invent licensed properties. This comic book was his last such effort until 1969.

Today's stories are typical of John Stanley the world-builder. Given a licensed character, he would extract the best aspects of that entity, discard the rest, and set up a new, better world for them to inhabit.

The John Stanley versions of Little Lulu, Tubby, Woody Woodpecker, Andy Panda, Tom & Jerry, et al, bear only visual resemblance to their official mass-media counterparts. All these characters ended up richer, more compelling and fully realized in Stanley's hands.

Only with his adaptation of George Herriman's Krazy Kat did Stanley fail to raise the bar set by the creator. Admittedly, Herriman is a tough--if not impossible--act to follow. Stanley tried hard with the Kat, and produced a compelling rethink that somewhat successfully translated Herriman's characters, settings and language to the mainstream comic book page.

Clyde Crashcup, a secondary feature on The Alvin Show, was certainly no Krazy Kat. But the character had potential for personality-based humor that was right up Stanley's alley. He championed the Quixotic, self-absorbed oddball. He genuinely enjoyed winding this figure up and letting him loose in the usually urban playground of his comics.

This was a formula of Stanley's work before the end of the 1940s, but it clearly spoke to him. He continually refined and rethought both this archetype and its place in his expansive comics world.

Crashcup's shtick is worthy of Stanley's humorous sensibilities. Completely self-absorbed, Crashcup is Barks' Gyro Gearloose turned inside-out. With great self-importance, he creates things that already exist. His voice-of-reason assistant, Leonardo, is appropriately mute--at least to us. He attempts to keep Crashcup from expending effort in creating the already-there. Lost in his own head, Crashcup ignores his voice of reason, and sees the process to its logical end. Leonardo suffers discomfort and stress, but he sticks by the wayward inventor, knowing these schemes are fated to implode.

This was Stanley's meat and potatoes--a theme which could be mined for endless variations. This harks back to Herriman, whose Krazy Kat sublimely explored this territory earlier in the 20th century. I'd love to know John Stanley's opinion of Herriman's work. To judge by his more delicate treatment of the comic-book Kat, Herriman made a big impression on Stanley. He followed Herriman's lead throughout his comics career.

Typically, Stanley would futz with a new licensed entity, uncertainly at first, get his bearings quickly, and refine both it and his process within a year. Crashcup followed this pattern. Thus, in this, the last issue of the title, Stanley has developed the simple premise of the character far beyond anything its creators cared to do, in their official version. Stanley saw the potential for comedy in places which now seem obvious, but may have been unknown, unlikely or ignored by others.

In these two stories, Stanley has relaxed into the characters, and into their place in the "normal" world that surrounds them. The Crashcup character is not a true Tubby Type (or ASS). He is an adult, and in control of his destiny. His self-esteem is ridiculously high, as is his enthusiasm. These work against him--a serial fate that Leonardo vainly tries to stave off. By including the rest of the world into the Crashcup formula, Stanley improved the simple but clever set-up of the original character, and made him an inventor of comedic chaos.

The artist for this story must have laughed and groaned in unison as he surveyed the script. Epic scenes of pandemonium pepper this story, which starts in allegro and quickly moves to capriccio.

Crashcup's ability to literalize abstract ideas sets him apart from Stanley's other eccentrics. His apparently enchanted pencil is a wand of chaos, and it has profound effects on the inventor, his assistant, and (most importantly) the world around him.

Riddled with wordplay, "Invents Hi-Fi" is among John Stanley's most energetic stories. It shows his own "magic pencil" still in top form.

This issue appropriately ends with a story about Crashcup's excitable invention of the film camera. Leonardo is rightfully worried for his life...

Bah-da-DUMP! Thank you, ladiesangentlemen, we'll be here through Thursday. The rimshot-worthy punchline, Stanley's farewell to this brief romance, is entirely apt. The risible Crashcup is just the type to invent the already-invented camera, but forget that it might need film.

Assistant Leonardo's barely contained terror, on pp. 1-2, is a too-late breakthrough. One gets the sense that, had this series continued, Stanley might have done more with this mute sidekick.

The last tier of page three offers a rare piece of social satire. It pales in comparison to this scene from Harvey Kurtzman and Will Elder's Goodman Beaver, which offers the same basic message:

Kurtzman and Elder's cynical vision of urban America appeared two years earlier, in the August 1962 issue of Help! magazine. If Stanley kept up with the cutting edge of his peers' work, he may have seen this story, and taken inspiration from this jaw-dropping Breughel-esque spread.

This points out an important difference between Stanley and Kurtzman--two of the American comic book's finest writer-artists. Kurtzman was a social satirist, a teller of hard truths (until he was gelded by Hugh Hefner), and he unflinchingly pointed out, over and over, that the emperor was naked as a jaybird.

Stanley was a light comedian, not a social satirist, and his audience was mainstream American youth. By this time, Kurtzman consciously wrote for an older crowd. Most of the "chicken fat" in this spread would have made Stanley's editors nervous and/or outraged.

It's interesting to see this same general message delivered in the pastel-hued venue of the newsstand comic book. As it is the kind of moment Stanley assiduously avoided, throughout most of his career, it brings this sitcom-story to a temporary grinding halt.

The Formula Machine soon kicks in, and the remainder of the story takes place in one of Stanley's favorite spots for urban warfare--the public park. In Stanley's work, the park, a seemingly civil place, is a free zone for his characters to lose their cool, rebel against authority, fall into life-changing danger, and come to terms with their shortcomings.

Crashcup does all but the final, most important, step. To recognize the absolute folly of his existence would shatter him into a billion brittle shards. Though this story closes the book on Crashcup, one hopes that he eventually invents Fort Knox, and retires into a comfortable life of non-invention.

It's a pity that Stanley's tenure on this book ended here. It's evident that he had just scratched the surface of the refined version of this character and his world. This unfortunate event happened over and over in John Stanley's career.

In this case, Stanley was able to channel his creative energy into the brilliant, socially dysfunctional world of Thirteen Going on Eighteen. His triumphs in that series, in 1964 and '65, are among the mainstream comic book's rare moments of perfection. I hope our friends at Drawn + Quarterly will restore the remainder of that series to print soon.

Camping Expedition Incurs Casual Cannibalism, Skirmish With Bruin; Sandwiches Coveted By All: "Andy Panda," from New Funnies 86, 1944

2011-11-16T12:47:00.000-08:00

Here's yet another early John Stanley effort, written, drawn and lettered by him in 1944.

Stanley's work in New Funnies and Our Gang Comics, in 1943 and '44, helped him assimilate the vibes of his talented peers at Western Publications. It also gave him a crash course in establishing a voice as a comedic writer.

Little Lulu, from 1945 to 1959, showed an immediate, ongoing sophistication of his distinct comics/storytelling process. In these 14 years, he achieved sublime highs in narrative stakes, compelling characterizations, and the dangerous dance of light and dark that is the heart of his work.
After a few uncertain-ish experiments in the early 1960s, Stanley emerged as a full auteur cartoonist, creating three distinct original series--Dunc 'n Loo (a collaboration with the brilliant Bill Williams), Thirteen Going on Eighteen and Melvin Monster.

That's the Cliff Notes version of Stanley's career. There are many more details, and aspects of Stanley's work, in the overall arc of his time as a comics creator. Each period builds on the one(s) before it, and masterfully incorporates narrative themes and approaches from past work, while honing it in the present.

Stanley's earliest work is well worth studying for its larval versions of the themes that define his mature output. To his credit, Stanley never wrote down to his presumed audience. Nor did his esteemed peers Walt Kelly, Carl Barks, Dan Noonan and editor-writer Oskar Lebeck.

In the years of 1943-49, their efforts for Western, published by Dell, were textbook examples of how to create successful mainstream comics that impressed and complemented their readers. It was a constant learning process for all parties involved. The quality of their collective output strengthens from year to year. Thus, a Carl Barks story from 1948 is likely far tighter and more compelling than one from 1943. The ritual application of the tools and themes of comic-book storytelling gave these talented creators a constant arc of improvement.

Digging backwards, as we 21st-century readers can easily do, it becomes apparent that the earlier work, while sometimes sloppier and less apt, does contain the same kernels of personality and inspiration that informs the later, more mature work. Missed opportunities and 11th-hour crises aside, there is always something to appreciate in John Stanley's early work.

Contemporary readers (save the addled few who saved back issues of their favorite comics) could not trace this growth back to its roots. Nor, in all probability, did they care to. Comics were part of the Great American Horn O' Plenty, alongside radio shows, motion pictures, newspapers, magazines, novels and plays--fodder for daily entertainment; filler for wayward hours. No one intended for any of this to have permanence. It was created to sell, be consumed, and left in its wake by the next, newest iterations.

The average 1943 film director would have laughed out loud at the concept of a "director's commentary." Similarly, the average syndicated cartoonist likely didn't think beyond their next deadline, nor imagine that anyone would consider their work something of lasting value.

This lack of permanence, I think, relaxed the best of these mass-market creators and allowed them to confidently, constantly produce work that both appealed, in the dollars-and-cents sense, and contained a hint of who they were as human beings.

That spark of self is what we respond to, when we encounter these works in 2011. It can be a self-aware, somewhat arrogant self (Al Capp, Orson Welles, Billy Wilder), an intentionally experimental self (Will Eisner, Edgar G. Ulmer), or a self so unaware of itself that it exposes the darkest corners of its creators' persona (Chester Gould, Alfred Hitchcock, Harold Gray, Jack Cole).

The lack of self is what makes MGM musicals, B-Westerns, et al, so damned uninteresting to our eyes.** Then, as now, the majority of mass-market material was crap. No amount of nostalgia can disguise this. Some of it is bearable crap; most of it is depressing, if not downright suicide-inducing!

That a movie, book or comics piece from 70 years ago can still speak to us at all, with any currency and vitality, is remarkable. Although we, the American Public, continue to wolf down new mass entertainments, we have trained ourselves to recognize the threads from the past that still reach us, or have the power to reach us, if we stop, look and listen.

This is all a big build-up to a rather average early John Stanley work. Thank you for indulging me while I think out loud.

The most fascinating aspect of this fair-to-middlin' "Andy Panda" story is never directly addressed by characters or creator. It's something we're really not supposed to think about. More about this after our feature attraction.

This was the first John Stanley story to utilize the four-tier page--soon to define his style as a comics storyteller. New Funnies was the first of the Dell titles to slenderize, due to wartime paper shortages. Page counts, through 1945, would ricochet from 60 to 52 to 36 pages, with no consistency. The four-tier page was an effective compromise: it gave Western's staff a chance to create rich stories in less space.

It was the best thing that ever happened to Stanley--and to Carl Barks. Both men found their rhythms as storytellers with that extra per-page tier. After the war ended, and America wallowed in its surplus of luxury, Stanley and Barks stuck with that four-tier format and achieved greatness as comics creators.

Stanley is still finding his vibe with this story. 1944 was an erratic year for him. He did not go from strength to strength. He often follows a near-brilliant story with a gormless one, and misses several compelling story opportunities. He finds his way in and out of high-stakes narrative situations, sometimes without the apparent understanding of what he's doing.

By 1946, high stakes are the keystone of his skill as a storyteller--and this understanding only gets sharper and clearer over the following decade. By 1956, Stanley is utterly in control of narrative stakes, and they seep into his stories organically. They also help to define the quirks and triumphs of his more detailed, richly delineated characters.

Stanley's narrative energy, in this issue, went into the first long-form "Woody Woodpecker" story, a more accomplished, decidely un-PC but absurdly funny piece. At this time, Stanley hadn't yet fully committed to making Andy's co-star, Charlie Chicken, a full-blown "Tubby Type" (or ASS). Andy and Charlie swap the roles of screwball in the 1943/4 stories. This adds to the hit-and-miss quality of these early entries.

Once Stanley made Andy the long-suffering Voice Of Reason, and Charlie the Aggressive/Alienated Status-Seeker, he was able to write a brace of near-brilliant stories in 1946 and '47.

Back to the fascinating subtext alluded to earlier... twice in Stanley's 1944 stories, he has chicken characters eating chicken. In a "Hector the Henpecked Rooster" story, we see the browbeating wife tuck into a large plate of scrambled eggs. In this story, Charlie Chicken has prepared sandwiches as a contingency plan for Andy's bad cooking.

The contents of these sandwiches are revealed by a thieving, self-centered squirrel who makes with some prehistoric "Tubby talk" while editing the contents:

I suppose this is one of those things we're not supposed to think about, when reading funny animal comix. Barks' duck characters frequently eat chicken and turkey, but never dine on their own flesh. Twice, in Stanley's 1944 comics, chickens commit casual cannibalism.

I'm sure this was unconscious, and not intended to raise red flags. It's just one of those creepy comic book moments that seemingly invite the reader to lose his-her suspension of disbelief and exclaim a bewildered "hunh?"

Stanley's cartooning dominates this story less than other 1944 "Panda" episodes. His hand is clearly evident in the story's lettering. To borrow a technique of Jack Kirby blogger Harry Mendryk, I have assembled a 1940s John Stanley alphabet, from the "Woody Woodpecker" one-pagers he wrote and drew in 1947/48. The look and feel of the lettering in this, and other 1944/45 stories, is identical to the characters of this assembled alphabet:

Someday soon, I'll assemble a complementary 1960s Stanley alphabet.

This story's brush rendering suggests the finishing hand of another artist. Stanley clearly wrote, penciled and lettered these 10 pages. The body language of Charlie Chicken reveals Stanley's input as an artist here. Stanley's figures are never static, even when standing still. Like his lettering, Stanley's characters have great verve and vitality--even when his early stories fail to completely hit their marks.

________

**--I can always count on Thad K. to call me out on vague statements. This is one of them, and one I feel needs appending. While I am, by and large, immune to the charm of the Arthur Freed musicals, it wasn't those, in particular, I meant to evoke. I was talking more like Maisie Goes To Rio or other unambitious, formulaic filler material.

As for Westerns, I'm a Budd Boetticher and Andre De Toth man. I enjoy John Ford's Westerns, to be sure, but I prefer the rawer, higher stakes of Boetticher's work. By "B Westerns," I refer to the churned-out Gene Autry/Roy Rogers/Hopalong Cassidy pictures of the '40s--all more or less identical; all made with an aversion to personality, aside from the box office-enriching presence of their stars. These movies were the template for TV at its most mundane; same ol' same ol', dependably issued on schedule. There might as well have been a border collie in the director's chair, for all the impersonality of the movies themselves.

Masked Rodent Serial Thief Attacks; Jam, Cookies Heisted; Several Traps Thwarted--"Andy Panda" from New Funnies 85, 1944

2011-11-03T10:56:00.000-07:00

Thanks, once again, to that dauntless digital scanner known as "sooth." He/she has provided another early piece of the John Stanley puzzle.

I believe I have all of John Stanley's published comics work now, except for the following:

NEW FUNNIES #s 84, 87 and 88

If anyone out there has these comics, and is willing to do 300 dpi scans, please let me know.

Back to our scheduled broadcast...

Another early New Funnies issue = another snappy, high-spirited romp from the learning-curve days of John Stanley's comics career. Stanley appears to have cartooned this story, which teems with his tell-tale character designs, poses and, most vividly, his distinctive lettering.

This ultra-cutesy cover kinda gives me the bends, but it, too, appears to be from Stanley's hand.

And now, onto our main feature...

This story seems to be a sequel (or re-think) of the "Panda" piece from two issues earlier. This story has a sounder narrative shell, but exists only as a set-up for pratfalls, mishaps and as a laboratory for Stanley's development of the "Tubby Type" (or "ASS"-- Aggressive/Alienated Status Seeker).

Like the early 10-page "Donald Duck" stories of Carl Barks, this chooses to stay close to home. The first panel has an exterior scene. From then on, it's INTERIOR: BUNGALOW. This seems to help Stanley-the-cartoonist. He keeps his figures and set-ups simple and clear.

Charlie's emergent cowardice, and the a-hole personality of "Th' Boiglar" squirrel, are the most noteworthy aspects of this early effort. His comic book swearing in the last panel gives this story a final belly-laugh.

Note the p. 7 walk-on by what appears to be Jerry from the "Tom and Jerry" series at Our Gang Comics. I'm certain he was not paid for this un-billed guest appearance.

Chaser: a one-page "Woody Woodpecker" gag page also written/drawn by Stanley. I'm curious if there is a similar page in the previous issue. (The Overstreet comics price guide says no, but it's full of wrong information on lesser-known comics, so the jury's still out.) Woody's series inaugurated with this unforgettable story in New Funnies 86.

I don't think I've run the two-pager that also appeared in issue 86. Here 'tis:

Both pieces are nice examples of John Stanley's vivid 1940s cartooning style. Nothing great was intended, or expected of them.

Stanley's love of filling a panel with humorous information--a staple of his finest work on Little Lulu, Tubby and his 1960s series--is evident in the fifth panel. Woody's visits to the cracker barrel are frequent, from the irritation shown by grocer McBooble. The grocer's irked resignation, and Woody's blatant abuse of their relationship, provide a small moment of brilliance.

Note the mouse on p.1 of this filler piece. I guess times were tough for Jerry in early 1944.

Halloween Hoo-Hah: "The Spook Tree," from Little Lulu 34, 1951

2011-10-23T09:26:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the lack of postings here lately. In part, it's because I'm busy promoting one graphic novel and, with my friend and collaborator David Lasky, trying to finish the other, much bigger one.
As well, it's getting harder to find new material of interest, without resorting to the obvious. But resort I shall, today.

I'm sure many Stanley Stories followers have a modicum of patience for the more obscure material I present here. What the people want is more Little Lulu. Although her complete works have been reprinted, Lulu's pre-1955 stories have yet to be presented in accurate color versions. Like Harvey Kurtzman's self-drawn stories for EC Comics, Stanley and Irving Tripp's Lulu needs color to be complete.

I was recently gifted with super-hi-rez scans of "The Spook Tree," which is among the best of John Stanley's many stories with supernatural themes. Since it's Halloween and all (and since I've exhausted the available stores of horror-themed Stanley comix), it's time to put this one on display.

To read this story in color--even crappy high-speed press Dell Comics color--is preferable to seeing it in brutal black and white.

"The Spook Tree" is the rare Stanley supernatural piece that doesn't try to blur the boundaries of consciousness. Unlike "The Guest in the Ghost Hotel" or the untitled "Li'l Eight Ball" story from New Funnies #101, "Spook Tree" is, like one of Lulu's on-the-fly fairy tales, framed and contained.

Lulu's dream reflects her own social biases--that Tubby thinks only of himself, and that he patronizes Lulu, whom he thinks "hasn't got any sense." It includes a great deal of personal anguish. Twice, Lulu emits the wail of the lost and disconnected in John Stanley's world:

BAW! is the anti-YOW! These three-letter words convey the polarity of experiences in John Stanley's world. YOW can connote joy, anger, fear, surprise, irony, and other emotions. BAW is the banshee call when all is lost.

Both words were an established part of comics' vocabulary before Stanley used them. In his stories--particularly the Little Lulu pieces of the 1950s--these two simple words are the ultimate signifiers of his characters' well-being (or lack of same).

Stanley's most affecting use of BAW is in that "Li'l Eight-Ball" story from 1945:

As I commented in 2009, this is one of the most forlorn tiers in comic-book history. In the context of the story, it imbues the stereotyped Eight-Ball with raw, real feelings of sorrow. Due to the racial stereotyping, it's an awkward moment, viewed in a 21st-century perspective. But intense vibes of sadness come from these two panels.

The coloring of "The Spook Tree" is as harsh and flat as Lulu's self-fulfilling dream-fate. Earlier issues of LL with night scenes chose a softer, more atmospheric palette, as in this excerpt from issue #26:

The starker affect of the colors in "Spook Tree," whether intentional or not, support the jarring, edgy turns of the narrative.

Page Four uses a linear technique unique to this story. In panels three to six, radial black lines, with a yellow undercoat on plain pulp paper suggest the disorienting harshness of a street lamp on a dark night. The lines, connected to a sun-like disc of yellow, have a condemning quality.

As with most of her made-up fables, this fantasia seems self-punishing. In her waking state, Lulu is a sort-of authority figure. She accepts a great deal of responsibility, and enforces a kind of playground jurisdiction with her friends. She is called on to keep Tubby and Alvin in line (often by their parents) and speaks up when she sees them misbehave.

With the aid of her friend Annie, she often thwarts Tubby's elaborate schemes. In landmark stories such as "Five Little Babies" (LL #38), she subjects Tub and his clubhouse pals to epic public humiliation. Perhaps her role as victim, cast-out and put-upon, in her self-spun stories, are her tacit way of balancing her wheel of kiddie karma.

Little Lulu, though rooted in a recognizable, workaday reality, often excurses into the supernatural. Many of these instances occur in Lulu's improvised stories, or in her dreams (see "The Throw Rug", in issue #64, for another striking variant of this theme). "Haunted houses" recur in both dream and non-dream stories, with the children's imagination (and willingness to be scared) the crux of most instances.

Just beneath the benign surface of Little Lulu is the message that the world is a potentially frightening, harmful place. This notion, because it is real, carries more weight than the ghosts, goblins or spooks of Stanley's harmless fantasy sequences. This sense informs all of Stanley's work, and becomes more pronounced--and almost unbearable--in his Nancy and Melvin Monster stories.

In Little Lulu, this sense of unease, seldom stated outright, governs the stories, and gives them a gravity unlike any other mainstream American comic books. It's so deeply woven into the stories' fabric that it often flies below our radar. To notice this sense of unease is to read Little Lulu in an entirely new way.

The balance of light and dark is pitch-perfect in the Lulu stories of 1950-1955. It's easy to take these stories for granted. They lack flaws, and never rustle the reader's suspension of disbelief. By peeking under their entertaining surface, we see how complex these stories really are--and why they remain as potent in 2011 as they were in 1951--the year "The Spook Tree" was first published.

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SPECIAL THANKS to Thomas H. Buchanan, who tipped me off on how to disable Blogger's lightbox display. Now you can view the pages of each story without that annoying hassle. If you have a blog on this system, and are bugged by the lightbox, here's all you need to do.

In Dashboard mode, choose the 'Settings' tab. Then choose the 'Formatting' sub-tab. On the list of options in Formatting, change the lightbox setting to 'no'.

Art Gallery II--Luluzinha e Bolinha: A South American Sidebar

2011-10-14T12:13:00.000-07:00

This is not a "Little Lulu" blog--a fact that ought to be obvious by now.
This post is a rare excursion into the Lulu character, rather than the content of John Stanley's work.

I recently discovered some images and information about Brazilian reprints of John Stanley's "Lulu" and "Tubby" stories. They were apparently successful, and kept Stanley's work in the public eye long after it was gone in America.

Thanks to Kelly Shane for forwarding me this image. It asks more questions than it answers.

Note all of the John Stanley-created secondary and tertiary characters--including some that were seldom-used after the late 1950s (Gran'pa Feeb, for example).

The placement of these characters in balloons--many which don't seem to be tied to anything--adds to the Weird Factor. Tubby's deep suntan is another item of concern...

The title tune of the LP was something of a pop hit in Brazil in 1966. It can be found on YouTube [EARWORM WARNING: It's that type of horrid sing-songy kiddie record sound that will haunt your brain, despite your best efforts to fight it off. If you think you can handle it, seek it out. Otherwise, stay sane and safe...].

The evident popularity of the Stanley-created Little Lulu world in Brazil was further confirmed by the internet. Long-running Luluzinha and Bolinha comics reprinted Stanley written-and-drawn material. (Bolinha is a endearing diminutive of "ball" in Portuguese, just as Luluzinha is, obviously, what it is.

Paul Tumey, the go-to guy for Jack Cole information and critical writing, was present at this discovery. He turned up a Brazilian version of eBay, where many vintage copies of BraziLulu product could be found. For wont of a meatier topic, here's another art gallery. In no particular order...

The cover to Little Lulu #77, and its Brazilian reprint. Note how the latter eliminates the all-important info in the red arrow. Dig, too, how the Brazil version favored the old-school, thicker LL logo, which the American version abandoned with issue 72.

LL 95, with its Brazilian reprint (note the curious Comics Code knockoff--a fate the American originals side-stepped).

The cover to Little Lulu 45, with its Brazilian version. Note the different cropping of the two editions.

The most interesting items in our exhibit are two Brazilian versions of Tubby #10. The editors musta really loved this cover, as they created an alternate version where Alvin is replaced by Lulu! The second one is quite obviously light-boxed, with its dead traced lines.

Tubby #22: this cover ties with our prior Art Gallery installment. Here's an image of the original art by Stanley and Lloyd White, from that favorite post...

The cover to Marge's Tubby #5 (the first issue of the regular run, and you-know-what...

Tubby #6 and its S.A. twin...

Dangerously close to the end of John Stanley's tenure on Tubby is this cover from #34 and its gêmeo...

One example of the interior pages surfaced--from a Brazilian reprint of "The Hungry Goblin," among the best of John Stanley's Lulu-babysits-Tub stories. Above is the final page from its original American printing (LL 93) and the translated reprint. I didn't think comics could be colored less appealingly than 1950s Dells, but this Luluzinha sample page proves me wrong.

And that's all I've got! NOSSA!

Kickstarting the Carter Family

2011-09-28T09:36:00.000-07:00

I've completely forgotten to mention, here, that David Lasky and I have a Kickstarter campaign going right now. It's to help us raise some survival money so we can finish the big-budget full-color graphic novel Don't Forget This Song: Carter Family Comics.

This link will take you to our Kickstarter project page. Check out the beautiful Jim Gill-produced/edited campaign video, which was a lot of work but turned out well. Thanks!

John Stanley's World, Pt. VII: Stanley's Status-Seekers

2011-09-26T11:47:00.000-07:00

In my ongoing study of John Stanley's work in comics, I explore various Dell Comics publications, more or less at random. My hope is to find undiscovered Stanley work. Most of the time I come up empty-handed, and slightly depressed at the badness of the material I've scrutinized.

Stanley's 1940s work is easy to spot. At this time, his narrative and comedic tendencies still in development, Stanley's writing stands out from that of Walt Kelly, Frank Thomas, Gaylord DuBois and others in editor Oskar Lebeck's stable. (More about this talented group at the end of this essay...)

The 1950s saw the rise of a group of creators who, either by editorial command or from their own admiration, assimilated the surface quirks of Stanley's writing style. Dick Hall, Frank Thomas and various other creators saw a successful thing and did their best to meet it. Thus, '50s Western Printing-created comics (published by Dell) abound with stories that, upon a casual reading, might seem to be Stanley's work.

The superficial trappings are there: broad, brassy SFX, the use of "Yow!" and other Stanley-associated phrases, aggressive physical action and frenzied comedic finales. The affect is almost convincing, but that extra level of depth--the quality that distinguishes Stanley's work in comics--just isn't there.

The "Stanleyisms" I've written about are a sure thing when looking at his work of the 1940s and 1960s. In the '50s material, with so many homages by Stanley's peers, it is the quality of the characters that makes the difference. In particular, it is the central figure in all of Stanley's work--the character he takes the most interest in, and subjects to his wildest whims as a storyteller.

I've called this figure the "Tubby Type" here before. As Stanley's interpretation of the Tubby Tompkins character, from Little Lulu, is the richest, most well-rounded figure in his 30 years of comics creation, that's an apt title. Yet it's also limiting. Stanley's outsider figures embrace a dramatic and emotional range that goes beyond the boundaries of the child figure, Tubby.

At the risk of getting sneers and chuckles, I've named this figure the Aggressive or Alienated Status Seeker. Yes, I know what the acronym for this is--and I intend to use it throughout this essay!

The, er, ASS is the most vivid figure in any John Stanley story. He/she/it is the voltage that powers his narratives. This character was not Stanley's creation. It goes back to the earliest traditions of comedy, from at least the commedia dell'arte trend of 16th-century Italy. (I'm not well-read on Greek or Roman theater, and it's possible there are such figures in those traditions as well.)

This figure is not just a gadfly. The ASS needs very badly to belong to the world around them. That world doesn't necessarily want them among its numbers. Not having societal acceptance goads these figures to take desperate measures--always at the expense of their well-being and dignity.

Silent American cinema is full of comedic ASSes: Chaplin, Keaton, Lloyd, Langdon, Fields, Linder, Laurel and Hardy... Some comedians (W. C. Fields in particular) refined this figure and successfully translated them to talking pictures. Laurel and Hardy's characters became more domesticated in the sound era, but still displayed traits of the comedic outsider from time to time.

The 1930s brought a contrasting, more anarchic figure to American comedy: the screwball. This figure is a trouble-maker, a threat to society, and a trampler of affectations and conventions. The screwball is here to stay in American comedy. The Marx Brothers, Wheeler and Woolsey, The Three Stooges, Martin and Lewis, Sarah Silverman, et al, have no high stakes in mind. They enter a stock societal set-up, bungle and bicker their way into chaos, annoy and aggravate the high-status characters, take a look at the debris they've created, and scram.

These figures don't give a damn whether the world loves them or hates them. Depression-era audiences took to the screwball character, and it has remained in the trick bag of American comedy. Successively worse, more abrasive corruptions of this figure abound in network TV sitcoms and mainstream movies.

In its finest manifestation--the Warner Brothers cartoon character Bugs Bunny--the screwball is capable of depth, stakes and likablity. It takes a sure hand and a sound wit to make a Bugs Bunny work. Many have tried--and failed--to create such figures, especially in the American comic book.

This was John Stanley's first task, as a professional comics writer--to adapt screwball animated cartoon characters for Western titles such as New Funnies and Our Gang Comics. By the end of 1943, his first year as a comics writer, Stanley had assigned narrative depth to these flyweight figures.

His first notable screwballs are Charlie Chicken, in the "Andy Panda" short stories (visually based on a nameless character in the 1943 animated short, Meatless Thursday) and the diaper-wearing Tuffy Mouse in the "Tom and Jerry" series.

With the assignation of Marge's Little Lulu in 1945, Stanley again took screwball licensed characters and gradually imbued them with very real, and human, stakes and needs. By the end of the 1940s, Stanley had this down cold. With seemingly casual effort, Stanley spun hundreds of stories around the concepts of status (and its lack thereof).

Stanley understood that, for his stories to succeed, the reader had to care about the characters--even the gadflies in his cast needed something of value.

Thus, by 1948, his Little Lulu was no longer the cipher/imp of the Marge Buell gag cartoons (or the Famous Studios animated films, which had, by this time, ceased production). She was a reasoning, intelligent, aware being--able to see her place in the world and how to best protect it.

Stanley's Lulu, from the end of the 1940s on, understands the dichotomy of her life. She is a child, and is essentially powerless in the adult world. But within her sub-society of other kids, she is a leader, a figure of reason and wisdom. Mischief gets the better of her, on occasion, but there is always a reason for her behavior. She is not willfully malevolent.

Stanley gave his young readers a heroic figure in Lulu Moppet. She is in charge of her destiny (within the severe boundaries of suburban childhood) and cognizant of her peers' behavior. She makes a strong attempt to encourage her friends to do the right thing--even when the right thing ticks off adults and authority figures.

Famous' Lulu is much more passive than Stanley's refinement. She causes mayhem (sublimely, in the 1946 short Bargain Counter-Attack), but is deceptively gentle. Their writers were on the verge of finding a character similar to Stanley's version (which developed simultaneously in the ongoing Dell one-shot comics of 1945-47) when the series ended.

I don't know if John Stanley saw the Famous cartoons, or was even aware of them. It is fascinating that, at the same time, two creative teams worked at adapting the same licensed character, under more or less the same circumstances, and in the same place (general New York City area) and came up with such different interpretations.

Stanley's Lulu is never passive. Even in her first, tentative stories (among the most popular posts on this blog), she is forthright. Less aggressive than the Marge Buell original, Stanley's Lulu, in her pre-1948 stories, still conjures mischief and chaos for the adults in her life, but is never vicious or malicious. Her mis-steps are based on what little she understands of the world around her, and of her best attempts to cope with the great unknown that lies outside her house.

A hero needs a foil, and Stanley found his ideal in the character of Tubby Tompkins. In the Buell cartoons, Tubby contributes little; he's just window-dressing. Famous Studios' writers made an attempt to better integrate Tubby (sometimes called Fatso in the animated version) with Lulu--to play them off each other. But no one recognized the rich, innate chemistry between these two opposites until John Stanley connected the dots, circa 1949.

Stanley obviously is more fond of Tubby than of Lulu. Lulu is the necessity of the series--it's got her name, and she is the focus of every story. But the stories come alive when Tubby enters the scene. Lulu is a charming, in-depth character--neither a Pollyanna or an imp. Her stability and intelligence adds much to the stories. But without Tubby, Stanley's Little Lulu would lack its spark, stakes and significance.

Stanley attempted to fashion Ernie Bushmiller's Sluggo into a Tubby II, in his run on the post-Lulu Nancy and Sluggo title. Sluggo is too low-status to want anything better than what he's got. A passive figure, Sluggo stoically accepts his fate. He's a fascinating example of Stanley's low-end status character.

Stanley's second-best ASS (in a dead-heat tie with Woody Woodpecker) is Loo, from the eight-issue teen-slanted series Dunc 'n Loo. Gangly, graceless and guileless, Loo wants desperately to be respected and liked. He's less in-control than Tubby--chalk it up to those teen hormones!--and thus his falls from grace are harder and brasher.

To see a Stanley ASS in action, flailing for dignity in a world that will grant him none, here is a tossed salad of selections from the fourth and sixth issues of Dunc 'n Loo.

Drawn + Quarterly will reprint these, in time, in much better-quality scans than what I humbly offer here today:

"Dress Affair" takes place in an exclusive French restaurant--dangerous ground in Stanley's comedic world. Though Loo's more suave foil, Dunc, shares in the social humiliation of this story, Loo pushes himself farther outside his accepted limits than his world would like.

Although the Nat Hiken-esque antics of "Dress Affair"'s last half do amuse, it's the mockery and hostility shown Loo, in the first four pages, than hit their mark most fully. Loo is determined to be seen by his peers and neighbors as, at least, an equal of his buddy Dunc. His spray-can "cologne" and Jerry Lewis-ish "Ivy League suit" bring on catcalls and put-downs from everyone he encounters.

Once Dunc and Loo enter the no-man's-zone of "Le Chien Cher," the mockery of Loo vanishes from the story. It's a curious switch, and perhaps Stanley felt he was laying it on too thick for his anti-hero. The aggressive sitcom of the story's last half is an abrupt swerve away from Loo--although he has the last word, in one of Stanley's classic double-barrel endings.

"Readin' & Riotin'," from issue 6, shows a far harsher world in which Loo's only saving grace is his literacy. This barely exempts him from an avalanche of cartoon violence...

Stanley seems to have crossed an editorial trip-wire in this story. Notice that his Mickey Mouse parody was re-named after the story was finished. Each "Maxie" is crudely and hastily lettered. I'd love to know what the original spoof-name was--but it worried Dell editor (and Stanley adversary) L. B. Cole.

Stanley slips in some wry satire of the marketing of licensed characters that was rife, even in 1962. Strongboy Stoop's line on p.2, panel 4 is among Stanley's most sublime moments as a writer.

Loo is used and abused throughout this story. Though the violence is so extreme and cartoonish that even the characters don't seem to mind (as opposed to the all-too-real, usually implied violence in Stanley's Little Lulu), Loo bears much of its brunt.

He isn't seeking higher status in "Readin' & Riotin'," but he is on tenuous ground. Sid's soda shop is a touchy place for him. He and Sid are on dicey terms, at best, and subject to change for the worse at the whims of the risible merchant. Aggression and oppression zoom around Loo in this story. Only by his ability to read out loud to others is he spared the worst in Stanley's violent world.

"Tough Customer," also from issue 6, shows Loo's cheerful desperation to make good and find respect. Because he's a bit of a wise-ASS, and knows it, Loo brings on more woe to himself than he might otherwise receive.

Loo's punishment in "Tough Customer" is earned. Perhaps he jinxes himself by trying to out-aggress the superior aggressors he sees around him. His lack of expertise in being an alpha-dog sends him, literally, to the dogs. We are spared the episodes of stomach distress that surely follow those familiar words, "The End..."

Loo is a dress-rehearsal for Stanley's most poignant ASS character, Val, in his late masterwork Thirteen Going on Eighteen. Both characters frantically strive to transcend the status-card fate has dealt them. Both bring acres of stress and abuse upon themselves because they want more than they've been given. Stanley's core message seems to be that old country maxim:

Don't get above your raisin'!

Predestination drives his characters, and their struggles to change the game are a consistent agent in John Stanley's comedy, from the start to the finish of his long comics career.

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Michael Barrier recently made a fascinating post on his blog, revealing some of the fruits of his ongoing research on Oskar Lebeck and his editorial tenure at Western/Dell. Today's starter picture is borrowed, with kind thanks, from this must-read post. I look forward to Barrier's book, to say the least...

John Stanley's World, Pt. VI: A Violent Universe

2011-09-13T13:10:00.000-07:00

As John Stanley's 15 years of Little Lulu stories reach a new generation of young readers, via the reprints of Dark Horse and Abrams, parents may find themselves pressed to explain certain aspects of the work.

More specifically, they may find their children curious about the constant stream of violence, implied or real, inflicted upon the cast of children by often-unbalanced, comically flawed adults.

Whether these adults are parents, authority figures such as teachers, truant officers, dog catchers or shopkeepers, or random individuals, adults pose an ongoing threat to the kids in Little Lulu. This trend continues in Stanley's later works, such as Nancy and Sluggo, Dunc 'n Loo and Melvin Monster.

From episodes of corporal punishment (spanking) to the threats of death and suffering given by McOnion, the bi-polar neighbor of Sluggo in Nancy, Melvin Monster's Baddy and the unforgettable McGrouch in the infamous "Tubby" story, "Hide and Seek" (Little Lulu 79), children lead an uncertain existence in John Stanley's world.

As much as I admire John Stanley as a writer, cartoonist, comedian and master of narrative stakes, his attitude towards children, in regards to the threat of violence, puzzles me. Where did this impulse come from in his life and work? Why is it so prevalent in his work of the 1950s and '60s?

Stanley was not alone in this school of dangerous comedy. Grimm's fairy tales commonly place children in life-threatening (sometimes fatal) predicaments. Hal Roach's Our Gang/Little Rascals film comedies--especially those made in the early 1930s--often put their titular stars in the hands of perilous adults.

In comics, one has to look no further than Wilhelm Busch's Max und Moritz, and its American cousin, The Katzenjammer Kids/Captain and the Kids. In comic books, Carl Barks' Donald Duck often shows the adult Donald threatening his trio of nephews with a good switchin' and other physical assaults.

The children in these sources are often mischievous, with the intent of riling the adult figures in their lives. This table-turning comedy, in which the dis-empowered kids get the upper hand for a moment, often ends with them getting spanked, kicked or otherwise assaulted for their misdeeds.

These same characters are often cruel to each another. Exaggerated mistreatment and misfortune is the basis of Western humor. Events that we would recoil from in person (Moe smacking Curly; Fatty Arbuckle slamming Buster Keaton around like a basketball; Hardy back-handing Laurel) are met with our approval, via laughter, in the safe distance of the screen.

It can't be denied--we enjoy rough treatment in our popular entertainments. The American psyche responds strongly responds to it. It provides us a cathartic 'out' for our own, socially repressed, violent urges.

Little Lulu was originally an imp character in the Busch/Knerr/Dirks mold. The Marge Buell panel cartoons of the 1930s show a parade of knowing misdeeds perpetrated on adults by the allegedly angelic Lulu.

When John Stanley inherited the Lulu character in 1945, he at first cast her in typically Buellian shenanigans. His comedic sensibility, miles above Buell's, soon took over the character and her world. In the early "Four Color" trial issues of Little Lulu (many examples of which are elsewhere on this blog), Stanley conforms to Buell's formula. Lulu, Tubby and other kids constantly hassle their parents, without undue actions. Memorably, in one early Stanley-drawn story, an adult clearly shows her outright fear of the kids:

As the series became more controlled and owned by Stanley, this power dynamic subtly shifted. True, Lulu and Tubby still get plenty over on the long-suffering adults in their lives.

In his self-imagined role of the crime-fighter "The Spider," Tubby regularly proves Lulu's father wrong in his reflexive accusations of his daughter as wrongdoer. Lulu and Tubby also thwart the sputtering, slow-burning truant officer, Mr. McNabbem like clockwork.

In the "Spider" stories, Lulu is often wrongly spanked for a crime she didn't commit. Rarely--if ever--do her parents apologize for their unwarranted punishment. Any recognition of their own short-sighted prejudices are most often done in grudging, humiliated silence.

As the children of Little Lulu become more Stanley's property than Buell's, from 1949 onward, they are often mini-adults, like the cast of Charles Schulz's Peanuts. The stories are told from their perspective. They're often cast as righteous anti-heroes, their hand forced by stubborn, misunderstanding adults.

We read the stories because of the children. They are complex, interesting figures, and their tacit quest for civil rights in an adult world--a major underpinning of the 1950s Lulu stories--is compelling.

This is precisely why Little Lulu clicks so strongly with child readers, then and now. Modern children's fiction and non-fiction advocates for the reader's rights as bright, creative beings. I believe that 21st century kid readers appreciate the struggle of the Lulu cast. Stanley's intelligent, resourceful characters have few of the rights young 21st-century readers possess. As a near-50 student of these stories, I find the power struggles of the kids, at its best, finely wrought in its balance of broad comedy and a more serious phantom theme.

Was John Stanley a true advocate of kids' rights? Or was he just writing to knowingly please his demographic? If he was as pro-kid as the best Lulu stories suggests, why did he so often place them in threatening, disturbing scenarios with out-of-control adults?

My friend and comics-history colleague Paul Tumey offered this comment about the experience of his now 11-year old son (who is a huge Little Lulu fan) with this aspect of John Stanley's work: "It is interesting that, whenever I used to read the stories to Reid, I'd have to explain why adults were hitting and threatening to hit children in these supposedly lighthearted stories."

Paul's comment gets to the heart of the matter. Where does this current of violence against children come from? Is it merely in the service of narrative stakes--to give his readers something to root for--and for his characters to transcend?

Stanley was comics' master of status shifts, and of constantly rising narrative problems. In his finest Lulu stories, he can turn a situation, on a dime, from placid to perilous. We know and like the characters, for all their apparent flaws, and we want to see them succeed.

By putting them through rings of fire in almost every story, Stanley keeps his Little Lulu cast in constant problem-solving mode. There is, literally, never a dull moment in Stanley's mature-period Lulu.

A major component of the 1950s Lulu are the improvised fairy tales, told by Lulu to brat-next-door Alvin, in every Stanley-written issue, beginning with "Lulu In Distress: A Tragedy," in the third trial "Four Color" issue in 1946.

There is more violence against kids by adults in these 175-odd fairy tales than anywhere else in John Stanley's universe (with the exception of the constantly threatening Melvin Monster series).

Stanley clearly meant for this recurring feature to give him some relief from the ground-level domestic settings of all the other "Lulu" and "Tubby" stories. The best of these fairy-tales are among John Stanley's supreme achievements as a story-teller.

Moreover, Lulu, the narrator, relates these scenarios of peril with herself as the put-upon protagonist. In her stories, she is ridiculed, humiliated, ostracized, chased, hit, imprisoned, buried alive, handcuffed, tied up, lost in the desert or in the jungle, frozen, and otherwise regularly threatened with extinction.

The violence of these tall tales is always intended as a burlesque of pop-culture cliches--as was Stanley's unsuccessful 1949 series, "Peterkin Pottle." As in "Pottle," the violence often carries too much weight for a mere parody or nose-thumbing.

There is something deeper and more concrete behind Stanley's scenes of violence.

With the introduction of Witch Hazel, in Little Lulu 39 (1951), Lulu's fairy tales found a steady source of malice. Witch Hazel, an appropriation from the fairy tales Lulu has read, is an ill-tempered, manipulative betrayer. She is a symbol for every failing an adult can display to a child. Deceptions, entrapment, abandonment, verbal abuse and physical hostility rain down upon Lulu, via this imagined nemesis.

Stanley furthered this brand of dark self-fulfilling fantasy with the introduction of Hazel's equally berserk niece, Little Itch (in the giant-size LL and Her Special Friends, published in 1955).

Itch is a negative mirror of Lulu, melded with the assault and betrayal of Witch Hazel. Due to her age, Itch is a peer of Lulu's. Her cruelty is akin to a bullying child's--although with far greater potential for harm and humiliation.

Stanley really seemed to enjoy inflicting these two ill-doers on Lulu. In post Comics-Code America, he regularly got away with disturbing images and narratives, via these home-spun inventions of Lulu's.

Children love to be at the center of drama--the star figure of something exciting. This is clearly Lulu's intent as storyteller. She is, in every case, the victor of her encounters with these two malicious figures. There is, in these stories, a child's joy at overcoming an oppressive, cruel adult figure--just as in the "Spider" stories, when Tubby-the-detective puts the Moppet parents in their rightful place.

There is also a masochistic sense of self-punishment. These stories were created in mid-century America--an environment in which corporal punishment was condoned by leading authorities on children and their upbringing. They are very much a product of their time--and of attitudes towards child care in earlier American society.

Though Dr. Benjamin Spock eventually revised his standard work Baby and Child Care to overtly state:

I hope American parents can outgrow the conviction . . . that physical punishment is necessary to bring up well-behaved children. . . [T]here are parts of the world where it has never occurred to any adult to strike a child. I have known personally or professionally dozens of families in which the parents never lifted a hand--or otherwise punished or humiliated their children--and yet the children were ideally cooperative and polite. Children are eager to be ever more grown up and responsible...

earlier editions of this book completely side-stepped the topic. Millions of American kids in the 20th century were raised in the shadow of implied violence. One wrong move or word could send them over their parent's knee, with a hairbrush, yardstick or other household item applied to their rear.

Lulu, Tubby and Alvin constantly tiptoe around this tacit threat. They're never seriously injured, or emotionally scarred, by these unpredictable run-ins with imbalanced adults. That is, ultimately, the saving grace of Stanley's Little Lulu. The children do indeed have an upper hand, dis-empowered as they are financially and in terms of personal freedom.

Were Stanley's work only sweetness and light, it would hold no interest to us today. Readers of Stanley's work recognize the blend of dark and light in their own lives. Though violence is a constant presence in Little Lulu, it is leavened by the sheer likability of the characters and their concerns.

In Stanley's original creations for comics, the usage of violence is less well-balanced. I have already mentioned "Peterkin Pottle." Most of the stories in this short series are posted elsewhere on this blog. The series, as a whole, has undeniable virtues. The harshness of the world, in both physical and emotional terms, is often downright chilling.

One significant change from the formula of Little Lulu is that Peterkin is praised and admired by all adults in his escapist fantasies. Part of the series' chilling effect is the discrepancy between Pottle's real life and the violent but embracing world of his daydreams.

In almost all of Stanley's post-Lulu work, the violence poses a greater threat to all characters, child, animal or adult. Stanley's comedy became more exaggerated and arch after Lulu. This affected every aspect of his work. Stakes became bigger, characters became broader, and their reactions louder, harsher and more provocative.

In this sense, Stanley's post-1960 work can be exhausting. Its events are brash and intense, and its characters seem caught in a tornado of frantic movement and angst. It often proves too much of a good thing.

In Stanley's greatest mature work, Thirteen Going On Eighteen, physical violence is present, but the focus is more on the emotional stakes of its cast. Words speak louder than actions in this agitated social war front. Val and Judy's well-being hangs on the right words, the right thoughts, and the right reactions to situations.

The ultimate comedy of Thirteen is Val's constant self-demolition. Like Larry David, of the TV series Curb Your Enthusiasm, she can't leave well enough alone. She picks at her psychic scars, even as she acquires new ones from social mis-steps. We like Val, despite her train-wreck tendencies. Judy, while more balanced, and clearly Val's social guardian, also has her over-reactions and outbursts.

The bond of these characters is strong and well-wrought. Like his earlier characterizations of Lulu and Tubby, the Thirteen co-protagonists have a lot to say to us. They remind us of our best--and worst--tendencies as human beings.

Perhaps this is the key to appreciating Stanley's vision: it connects with what we often experience in our daily lives. When faced with high-stakes situations, we don't always win. We sometimes fumble socially, say the wrong thing, put our foot in our mouth.

Our lives are mostly free of the slapstick violence seen in Stanley's antic stories. We read John Stanley's work for its intelligence, wit and remarkable mastery of narrative stakes. We don't seek out the violence that lurks in all his stories.

Perhaps, in contrast to the sublime qualities of Stanley's work, this violence is disappointing. It is, on one hand, a necessary evil--a narrative tool used to keep the stakes high for his characters.

On the other, it is an agent of darkness, one that sometimes adds too many black strokes to the overall canvas of Stanley's comics.

At its worst, it cheapens the effect of Stanley's writing. At best, it is a convincing, dramatic agent that keeps his work from seeming trivial. Like it or loathe it, violence is at the heart of John Stanley's world. To accept and enjoy his work, the reader must make peace with its dark side.

(P.S.: No story this time. Readers with the time to do so may find many examples of the stories discussed in this essay, elsewhere on the Stanley Stories blog.)

Parachutes, Poltergeists and Pigeons: Three Stories from Little Lulu one-shot #115, 1946--story and art by John Stanley

2011-08-29T17:24:00.000-07:00

Have crowd, will please! Though I've just about exhausted the other John Stanley stuff, I still have the early Little Lulus to fall back on. I have bypassed these stories for a few years, as I've dug around in Dell/Western comics history, in search of unexplored Stanley stories.

My admiration for these stories is high. They represent an early plateau in John Stanley's comics career. After two years of sometimes-inspired knockabout comedies for the likes of New Funnies, Animal Comics and Our Gang Comics, Stanley had emerged a solid comedic writer and cartoonist, with a strong command of character, narrative stakes and dialogue.

Marge's Little Lulu was a prestige project--its source was not Hollywood animated cartoons. Low though Marge's comedy may have been, its publication in a national slick magazine gave it higher status than the likes of Andy Panda and Johnny Mole.

Not to knock those 1943-45 efforts! Stanley quickly proved himself the funniest creator on Western Publications' payroll. Carl Barks, on the West Coast, had yet to hone his comedic sense to the heights he would reach at the end of the decade. Walt Kelly and Stanley ran neck-and-neck as celebrators of comedic chaos.

Kelly can be devastatingly funny in these early comic book works. His more leisurely, wordy pace sometimes drowns his '40s comics in an excess of detail. Kelly would peak as a writer alongside Stanley, although in the higher-status world of syndicated newspaper comics.

John Stanley becomes an expansive, thoughtful writer via Little Lulu. Though the series quieted his more antic side, he gained much in terms of character development, escalating narrative stakes and the eternal balance of light and dark.

Stanley had free rein to vary his story lengths in these Little Lulu one-shots. Though he had written several long narratives for earlier "Four Color" one-offs, many of those stories seem breathless and over-stuffed when compared to his Lulu work. In his short stories for the anthology titles, which had a strictly regimented page count, Stanley the improviser sometimes wrote himself out before a story was over.

Lulu gave him the privilege to make page count serve narrative. If a story needed to be 24 pages, or four, that was fine. This was exactly what he needed to grow as a writer.

In the three selections from this 52-page magazine, we have stories of 16, 5 and 10 pages' length. The stories move at the speed required by their situations.

Early occurrences of classic Stanley themes appear in these stories. In the first, and longest, piece, "Fights Back With a Club," Stanley expands upon the gender-war of the previous issue's "He Can't Hurt Us." Added, this time, is the further stakes-raiser of cross-dressing. This introduces a whole new world of humiliation for the eternally proud, stubborn Tubby Tompkins... and brings peace to a war-torn world.

Obviously a connoisseur of fine typefaces, Stanley creates some successful hand-drawn Futura lettering on p.7 of this story. This stylistic garnish doesn't contribute to the rapid-fire comedy of bad manners between Lulu and Tubby. From trouser loss to unconvincing drag, Tubby fights in vain for his masculine dignity. That is, until he discovers that he kinda likes knitting doilies.

This is the first of many instances of cross-dressing by Tubby. A means to an end, this socially awkward action never really bore fruit for the self-deluded Tompkins. Did this stop him from donning dresses and ratty wigs? You already know the answer...

This cheerful act of vulnerability puts a kibosh on the boys v. girls business. In the unusual half-page panel that closes the story, males and females are joined together in productive harmony. While it's an amusing finale, the kids' comfort level in their united efforts is a smart, satisfying wrap-up to a story that bounces all over the comic/narrative map.

The anonymous child's closing comment, "I hope this here thing is washable!," anticipates the attitudes of Charles Schulz's early Peanuts characters. It's no stretch to imagine c.1952 Charlie Brown uttering this concern.

Today's second feature, "Brings Some Friends Home to Dinner," is a follow-up to the prior issue's "Stuff an' Nonsense," with its theme of animals that bring chaos to Lulu's barely-civilized life--and impact the status quo of her long-suffering parents.

The pigeons are antic aggressors in this short story, and they quickly become a threatening (and possibly permanent) element in Lulu's world. The story ends without resolution--a Stanley touch that would become sublimely refined by the 1950s. While it's not exactly The Birds, the avian threat in "Brings Some Friends..." is a mite unsettling.

Our last piece today, "The Haunted House," introduces a major Stanley theme: the supernatural. Stanley dabbled in the genre in a 1945 "Oswald the Rabbit" story, but it is more fairy-tale than spook-show. Here, John Stanley introduces supernatural elements into everyday settings. It's open to interpretation, as in his masterpiece, "The Guest in the Ghost Hotel," in that the ghostly goings-on may, or may not, just be products of over-active child imagination.

Equally important, in "The Haunted House," is the presence of a threatening, physically aggressive adult figure. Kebel is the first of many such figures in the world of John Stanley. Typically, Kebel's entrance is heralded by a fearful discussion of the threat he poses:

While Kebel is just a bad-tempered loud-mouth, his hostile personality is clearly a long-standing thorn in the ephemeral sides of Timmy and Gertie, child-ghosts who mirror Lulu and Tubby in girth and interests. Tubby is comfortable in Timmy's presence, and babbles banalities, including the sublime statement "I play third base good." Lulu and Gertie also find immediate points of connection.

Does any of this really happen, or is it just imaginative wish-fulfillment for Lulu and Tubby? Regardless, a-hole Kebel soon appears to disrupt this peaceful meeting. Unlike the flesh-and-blood "Ol' Mister Grump" of the terrifying "Tubby" story "Hide And Seek" (Little Lulu 79), Kebel shows no signs of being physically abusive. As the kid-ghosts are able to neatly hang up Lulu's and Tubby's hats on a hat-rack, it's possible that the older Kebel is capable of causing harm to our two human protagonists.

Kebel never gets a chance to warm up. Lulu is able to out-shriek him and drive him out of "Carson's ol' house"--perhaps for good. The story's open ending invites a sequel that never quite happened, although the Lulu cast would continue to haunt haunted houses for the rest of Stanley's tenure.

"The Haunted House"'s first page is beautifully written. As the kids approach the Carson house, Tubby proudly traces his personal growth, via the height of its windows that he has broken. This says much about Tubby's personality--and offers us this information without awkward exposition.

The story's final frame offers a lovely early example of a Stanley off-beat finale. Any other author would have been satisfied with the soothing farewell uttered by Lulu. Not Stanley; he focuses on Tubby, already lost in his personal myopia.

These Little Lulu one-shots were obviously a success. Three issues were published in six months' time, and within 10 successive numbers of this peculiar try-out series.

It may not have yet been clear to John Stanley, in 1946, that Lulu would soon eclipse all his other comic book work. With each issue outdoing its predecessor in narrative and comedic flair, the popular success of Stanley's Little Lulu was a rewarding response.

A Quick Plug For My New Graphic Novel!

2011-08-22T08:27:00.000-07:00

David Lasky and I are proud to present our first published graphic novel, OREGON TRAIL: THE ROAD TO DESTINY. We produced this book during a one-year period when we couldn't work on the Carter Family GN due to potential music rights issues.

Based on lots of research, this is a piece of historical fiction about an average urban family's decision to move to the Oregon Territory in 1848--right before gold fever crazed the nation.

While it's a serious story, I found moments to interject a little humor here and there. My study of John Stanley's work certainly informed this book. It's hard to avoid narrative stakes-raising when I've seen so many splendid examples of this technique in his work.

I strived to sidestep historical inaccuracies and cliches which have persistently plagued past fictional accounts of this grueling cross-country trek. First and foremost: the covered wagons were powered by oxen, not horses--as seen in a jillion Hollywood movies. Horses weren't sturdy enough to withstand the long, cruel haul of this journey. Oxen were also more affordable to the average emigrant.

I hope you'll consider buying and/or reading this graphic novel. David's drawings, which were based on my layouts, are superb. We're both happy with this project. We're back at work with a vengeance on DON'T FORGET THIS SONG, our big-budget, Technicolor GN on the life and career of the first family of country music, The Carter Family. We hope to have that book squared away before the end of 2011.

You can purchase (and browse) this book on amazon.com HERE.

Be sure to check out the official Oregon Trail graphic novel BLOG, which has tidbits of facts and artwork.

Thanks for looking!

"B-Be Careful of the Doll:" Three Stories from Little Lulu Four-Color 110, 1946--story and art by John Stanley

2011-08-13T11:22:00.000-07:00

We haven't had any Little Lulu material in awhile. Stanley Stories readers really like seeing the early stories in color. These stories were created with color in mind. The hues that fill the shapes really complete the pages.

In thanks for your kind indulgence, as I step down from my New Funnies fixation, here's another installment of the John Stanley-drawn Little Lulu.

This was Stanley's third Lulu one-shot, with a publication date of April, 1946. In these stories, created in late 1945/early '46, Stanley feels more at home with the characters and the turf. He begins to deviate from the Marge Buell formula--and to take chances with his stories.

Today's three selections range from an unsung gem of status-shifting and gender games ("He Can't Hurt Us") to elaborate screwball comedy ("Stuff An' Nonsense") to one of Stanley's earliest pantomime pieces ("Working Girl").

"He Can't Hurt Us" takes the battleground of childhood seriously, to best engage its readers, and then turns it on its ear. It is one of Stanley's first gender-reversal comedies. Tubby is a timid, lazy male, capable of self-defense, but too easily distracted by passing whims.

Lulu steps into a father/big brother role, in an attempt to "man up" Tubby. Her efforts to teach Tub boxing are in vain. Tub resorts to a different type of "boxing" to settle his beef with Willy. I wonder if this visual pun was intentional?

Tubby is not yet the divinely self-deluded Quixote of the 1950s. He seems less smart than his later self. Lulu's inherent superiority is under-stated and quite matter-of-fact. She is far wiser in the ways of the world than either of the two males she encounters.

"He Can't Hurt Us" is less developed and focused than Stanley's best gender-war pieces of the '50s ("Five Little Babies," et al), but, as the first of its kind, it's noteworthy.

Lulu suddenly seems younger and less savvy in "Stuff An' Nonsense." This early in the game, Stanley could revise the cast of characters to suit his narrative needs. Lulu's behavior in this story would be unthinkable by the end of the "Four Color" trial run.

"Stuff an' Nonsense" is more akin to Stanley's knockabout comic narratives for the Walter Lantz characters in New Funnies. In the Lulu-verse, Stanley is able to add a layer of comedic status-shifting--the embarrassment of proper adults at the free-form actions of a child.

This 1946 Lulu is still more like the Marge original than the wise, level-headed Voice of Wisdom Stanley's version would soon become. She's very much a naive little kid, and she follows the logic of the world as she understands it, based on what little she knows.

Her intentions are sincere and thoughtful; she wants to get her mother something special for her birthday. Lulu is not set on mischief, as she is in the Marge cartoon panels, on in the earlier issues of Stanley's Lulu. Her innocence and Tubby-like stubbornness to stay on task makes her an unconscious agent of chaos.

The idea of bringing a horse into a suburban household is right out of an Irene Dunne screwball comedy movie. Stanley is aware of the inherent humor, but he furthers the impact by contrasting Lulu's sober determination with the wrinkle it throws in her mother's social life. (She has the priest over, for goodness sakes!)

The three adults suffer shock, embarrassment and physical discomfort from the invasion of Edgar, the decrepit horse, into their civilized daily doings. Like Tubby, in "He Can't Hurt Us," Lulu is literally boxed in at story's finis. She loses her magenta frock and is given a social humiliation (near-nakedness) that she doesn't yet grok. She knows she's in trouble, but also that she's too young to really get reamed for her misbehavior.

Typical of Stanley's earlier Lulu stories, "Stuff an' Nonsense" ends on a note of self-awareness. Lulu may seem an innocent, but she knows how to work the system, based on the limited power she has as a kid. Stanley would hone this power-struggle to perfection in his early 1950s Little Lulu stories.

"The Working Girl," as said, is told without dialogue. It is fast-paced, and it invites the reader to consume it quickly. Details are almost diagrammatic, and nothing goes unsaid.

"Working Girl" is a straightforward chain-of-events comedy, told with only a handful of functional words. Stanley had a knack for these silent stories, but there are few full-length pieces such as this in his portfolio. He more often used pantomime for one-page fillers, such as these two, also from this issue:

The last piece makes clever use of page width. It also shows Stanley's trait for ending a story before it really ends. Most other comics creators would have added that last panel, in which the Scottie dog bites the phallus/weiner balloon, and both parties startle at the resultant BANG!

By eliding that obvious finale on the page, we're allowed to let it happen in our heads. This is far more satisfying and makes us readers feel plumb smart.

Stanley's cartooning is far tighter here than in the previous Lulu one-shots. A stronger, more assured pen line gives these stories more visual oomph. He seems not as hidebound by Marge's rotten character designs and breathes genuine life into his cast.

Animals a la Stanley are always a delight. Edgar, the obese, oblivious horse in "Stuff," is particularly funny and nicely cartooned. The sprightly, angular Scottie dog in the one-pager is also spot-on.

The sparse, functional interiors are akin to Charles Schulz's, in the early years of his Peanuts strip. Both artists were producers of slick magazine gag cartooning, and understood that the settings simply needed to be there, and be tidy.

Stanley's urban cityscapes and household interiors are more elaborate than Schulz's. He had larger panels, and longer narratives in Little Lulu. Such details counted for far more here than in the pint-sized newspaper strips of Schulz.

Stanley avoids the flat proscenium view in his panel compositions. There is a constant suggestion of depth and dimension in these simple drawings. Stanley varies his viewpoints, from long shots (to depict a comedic event in detail) to middle shots (best suited for conversational scenes) to effective use of close-ups.

He invests the elemental linework with enough depth to make its recognizable, inhabitable world come alive for the reader. As well, all straight lines are ruled, which gives the settings a solidity. Color, as said, was the final touch. Without it, these stories have a ghastly, under-nourished look.

John Stanley was a thoughtful cartoonist with strong attention to detail. Whether his work is tight (as here) or loose and free (his "Peterkin Pottle" and "Raggedy Ann and Andy" stories), it always has authority and a strong presence.

A Couple of Woodies For You: proto-Little Lulu items from New Funnies, 1945

2011-08-08T12:05:00.000-07:00

The above detail is from the cover to New Funnies 97, which isn't featured here today. The focus is on a pair of early "Woody Woodpecker" stories that remarkably anticipate the themes of John Stanley's classic Little Lulu narratives--in both story and art.

Stanley's version of Woody Woodpecker is the gateway to his single finest characterization: Tubby Tompkins, from Lulu. This comparison has been noted, in depth, already in this blog.

Today's first story, from New Funnies 96, has strong ties to the classic Little Lulu era. The use of snowball fights as a comedic status war is common in Lulu. Stories such as "The Big Snow Fight" (Four-Color 139, 1947), "The Snowball War" (LL 9, 1949) and "Prisoner of War" (LL 66, 1953), to choose just three, show Stanley's clever, vivid use of this childhood aggression-play as a ground zero of narrative stakes-raising.

Woody fights solo against "the South Side Gang," a cut-throat mob of dog-kids. Unlike Tubby, the woodpecker is a disenfranchised loner, and no mercy is accorded him at any point.

The theater-of-cruelty that would inform Stanley's Thirteen Going on Eighteen is evident here. Before Woody can perform his two acts of aggression, he has been repaid tenfold by the cute-yet-vicious humanoid tots.

After those two incidents, the South Side Gang literally attempts to seal his fate. They freeze him inside a snowball, then shove him downhill to his intended doom.

Woody's soliloquy, while the kids send him rolling, is almost chilling. "I must be SOMEPLACE... I can't be NO PLACE!"

Woody, in Stanley's hands, is forever "no place." Try as he may, he never fits into the world around him. He puts up a good fight, but the universe dishes out indifference all the same. Tubby never suffered anything remotely as bad--even in the clutches of the feared West Side guys!

Our second story, from New Funnies 104, is written and drawn by Stanley, in the style of his earliest Little Lulu stories. This story, cover-dated October, 1945, was drawn shortly after the first Lulu one-shot. Unlike the debut Lulu, which is crisply inked in pen, this story is finished with a brush. It gives the artwork a softer feel, and its style is obviously infected by the Marge Buell look.

It's worth comparing that first Lulu (there are two stories from that debut issue elsewhere on this blog) with this and other 1945-46 "Woody" stories drawn by Stanley. (Yep, you guessed it--many of those stories are also found deep inside Stanley Stories.)

Trainspotters will note an early instance of "ZAZ," plus moments of windmill action, a Charlie Chicken clone, one "YALP!" and a large, plump "YOW," as the 'pecker attempts to be helpful down on the farm. (Spoiler alert: he fails.)

Once again, the Thirteen-esque ballet of cruelty runs the show. Woody wants to please, to conform to normal routines. But he can't; no matter how carefully prepared, no matter how alert of conscious of his surroundings, objects living and inanimate are set to do him in.

For once, Woody is not an a-hole, and is genuinely sympathetic. The painful, humiliating battery he endures is, like some of Val's more awkward moments in Thirteen, almost too much. Stanley trafficked in such knockabout comedy, for his entire career, but he sometimes didn't know when to turn it off. But it takes someone going too far to know, indeed, how far "too far" really is.

At his best, Stanley pushed the boundaries of "too far" daringly, and endowed formulaic stories with a bracing comedic zest. This gives his stories an edge which makes them still relevant and funny.

Temper Tantrums and Crab-Apple Theft: Two Early Stanleys from New Funnies 89, 1944

2011-08-01T10:25:00.000-07:00

Praise be unto the anonymous scanners who post entire issues of old funny-books online. Via their tireless efforts, we can actually read vintage comics, and regard them not as investments, to be sealed in a lucite cube, but as examples of American mass-media.

Here's an early New Funnies issue I've been searching for, free of charge, thanks to the kindness of "Sooth." These early 1944 efforts show us John Stanley still working out how to do comic book stories. The results are hit or miss, but his hand is quite evident--especially in the first story.

Before that, a moment of time-worn patriotism:

Andy appears eager to obtain one of those war bonds! Does he have $100.00 in that piggy bank? We'll never know...

Stanley's cartooning enlivens this scrappy "Andy Panda" story. It proceeds, as do many of Stanley's early efforts, in a Carl Barks-ian fashion. The narrative stakes, as in Barks' early "Donald Duck" short stories, hang on the protagonist's ability to keep a promise or meet a clearly defined goal.

With his remarkable 1945 "Oswald the Rabbit" one-shot (found HERE and HERE), Stanley made his first foray into higher narrative stakes. Those two stories were a major step forward for John Stanley.

The stakes here are much lower. Again, as with the early Barks, 1944 Stanley stories stick close to the ground, and take place in a recognizable, habitable everyday world.

Stanley uses the time-honored ODTAA (One Damned Thing After Another) formula, in which the hero undergoes a pummeling series of frustrations. These take him from normalcy to anti-social isolation. This schematic was a mainstay of Barks' work, right to his career's end.

Stanley soon moved beyond this scenario, given his interest in richer characterizations and higher stakes. In this story, Andy and Charlie Chicken also swap status roles. Charlie is the anti-social rowdy at story's start. Andy, driven by his attempts to set a good example, despite overwhelming odds, ends up fuming behind bars, while his loose-cannon companion enjoys unfettered freedom.

This status swap would inform many of Stanley's classic "Little Lulu" and "Tubby" stories.

Stanley's cartooning is over-wrought in this early effort. His style would become one of under-statement and economy. The background details of the first few pages take our attention frequently away from the actions of the protagonist and antagonists. By story's end, Stanley uses simpler, more diagrammatic images.

The human figures in Stanley's early stories have a distinct look. The cat lady in this story is seen in many iterations, including the female adults in the earliest Little Lulu stories. These highly stylized humans are another reliable Stanley art "tell."

Notice the odd "Walter Lantz" signature on p.7, panel 4. What was up with that? It's worth noting that the signature appears in a panel in which Lantz's character runs in pain and terror.

Less refined is this issue's "Woody Woodpecker" story. Most certainly not drawn by Stanley, it shows little care or concern. Stanley's next "Woody" story would inaugurate a series of strong, high-stakes narratives in this series that would last through 1947.

Here, Woody is just an anti-social pest, dropped into a rustic situation where he encounters adversity and humiliation. He never eschews his gadfly status, bless his psychotic li'l heart!

As in Stanley's first Woody story (seen HERE), the world is very much against the woodpecker from panel one. He wants something that's not acceptable, or negotiable, to the world around him. Woody is a true "Tubby Type"-- see his self-justifying babble on p.1, panel 6. In his eyes, anything he thinks or does is A-OK. It's the failing of the world around him that it can't buy in to his desires.

This sounds exactly like Larry David's persona on Curb Your Enthusiasm. As I wrote in this somewhat controversial post, there is a direct link from Stanley's comics work to the recent trend of humiliation comedy on TV.

Even in his least significant stories--of which this is certainly is--Stanley's intelligence and comedic sense are evident. To read John Stanley's 1940s stories, with knowledge of what he would do in the '50s and '60s, is enlightening.

Stanley Stories the web app!

2011-07-27T09:48:00.000-07:00

Just in case you need Stanley Stories on the go, there's now a web app, thanks to the folks at Notice Orange. We're getting all 21st-century on your posteriors!

The Late Late Show: Selections From The Last Thirteen Going on Eighteen Issue, 1967

2011-07-22T15:11:00.000-07:00

I've focused extensively on the early work of John Stanley in this blog. It's been fascinating for me (and, I hope, you as well) to see early glimmers of Stanley's mature style in his work of the 1940s. (That much of this material will likely never be reprinted is another deciding factor.)

I've accorded less space to Stanley's 1960s work. I've avoided it because much of it has been reprinted (the entirety of Melvin Monster, for example), or is being reprinted.

It will be awhile before Drawn + Quarterly gets to the last issues of Stanley's 1960s original, Thirteen Going on Eighteen. Thus, I thought to examine the final issue of this series, which has a cover date of December, 1967.

In mainstream comics of the late 1960s, it was very rare for one person to do everything in the creative process. Sheldon Mayer wrote and drew his increasingly baroque Sugar and Spike for DC Comics, although he left the lettering to other staffers. John Stanley and Carl Barks (who would retire from comics in this year) were able to complete their comics from concept to final inking, lettering and drawing of panel borders.

In this light, they worked more like syndicated newspaper cartoonists (although, unlike comic book artists, newspaper cartoonists often had assistants and go-fers). The humble art of comic books had been long turned into a team effort, and, with the advent of "the Marvel method," more of an assembly-line process. Fans of Jack Kirby know the often-deleterious effects this comics-by-committee process had on his work.

Stanley, Barks and Mayer had the luxury of making their decisions (and acting upon them) alone, at their drawing board. Editors might demand after-the-fact changes, but these creators were trusted to produce professional-level, marketable comic book stories.

Though Mayer struggled with worsening vision, as his book-length Sugar and Spike stories became more byzantine and visually complex, Barks and Stanley strove to simplify their work. Barks was burned out on comics by 1967. To judge by the stories you're about to read, John Stanley may have been, as well.

By this time, Stanley had substantially slowed the tempo of the book. The frantic, addled physical comedy of earlier issues has mellowed. Stanley's drawings are much simpler and stiller than in earlier issues. By this time, he has written and drawn the series for over four years. His hand is confident and reserved. As a writer, Stanley had let a lot of his former determination go by this time.

I wonder if John Stanley knew this would be the final new issue of this series, while he worked on it. Nothing in any of its stories betrays a sign of a finale. It's business as usual, although with lower narrative stakes than usual.

Thirteen's world was hopelessly out of date by 1967. America had undergone enormous societal changes during the book's run. Youth culture, which was underground (and frowned upon) when the series debuted, was strongly felt, and had rent the status quo of American life, by '67.

Teenagers were no longer wannabe adults. They embraced a coded culture of music, movies, literature and visuals that often alienated their parents and other elders. While much of this material was callously manufactured by adults, eager to cash in on this lucrative youth market, it still caused a breach in American life. The youth market is stronger than ever in 2011, and, ironically, is now very much a part of the status quo.

That sense of societal change barely exists in Thirteen Going on Eighteen. A 21st century reader can intuit more of a sense of the 1960s' changes from the Archie Comics titles of the same era, which embraced topical themes to a fault.

Never one to exploit current events, Stanley felt most comfortable creating a world, detailing it, and letting it run in perpetuity. This strategy worked remarkably well for Little Lulu, his most successful series. Though his 1950s Lulu run embodies the general societal vibe of that anxious decade, the stories contain almost no nods to fads, fancies or new technology--aside from really general items like TV.

For much of Thirteen's run, Stanley's isolationist formula-world was viable and fruitful. The series' middle-range issues, with their enormous vitality and sweep, are Stanley's finest late work. You can sample the start of this period in the last third of D + Q's first (and, so far, only) Thirteen reprint volume.

Formulas, no matter how solid or thoughtful, eventually pall. While there's nothing bad about this final Thirteen Going on Eighteen, it does lack the sparkle of earlier issues. Perhaps Stanley was simply written out. He achieved an earlier brilliance with the series, via the deftly wrought characters of the series' twin protagonists, Val and Judy. They are Stanley's most fully realized figures, and inspired some of his finest writing and cartooning.

This would not be Stanley's final published work as a writer-cartoonist. He did the giant-size "Bridget" strip for Wham-O Giant Comics, and wrote/laid out two more books--the one-shot licensed property Choo-Choo Charlie and his final original creation for comics, O. G. Whiz. Dig around on this blog and you'll find all of these late works.

Here are five stories from this final issue.

As noted earlier, the narrative stakes of the stories are quite low-key by Stanley standards. No event has great import, or truly affects any of the characters. The first two stories are basically longish set-ups for a single punchline. There is little investment by the author and, thus, little reward for the reader.

The last two stories here present slightly stronger stakes, and are endowed with more spirit by Stanley the cartoonist. "The Waswolf," our final glimpse at the imperfect relationship of Judy and Wilbur, concludes with a display of comedic physical violence reminiscent of earlier issues.

In the otherwise throwaway "Judy" story "Downside Up," we get one fleeting acknowledgment of 1960s youth culture. The image of 'Ronnie Knowse,' in the story's second panel, suggests a furry cross of David Crosby and John Denver. Like the network sitcoms of the '60s, which struggled to recognize trends in the world around them, Stanley made a few awkward attempts to inject a sense of currency to this otherwise-hermetic universe. The image is jarring, and it's apt that it occurs in the final new issue of the series.

In this final issue, Stanley also chose to alter Val's hairstyle from her sock-hop ponytail to a more modern coiffure. The issue's lead story makes a big deal about this change, but the point of the story is about boy-next-door Billy's admitted shallowness.

What the heck--here's that story, too:

"Strange Girl" is more in line with the classic period of Thirteen. The longest story in this final issue, it has the most complex character interactions, and the closest thing to high narrative stakes, as we know them in Stanley's fictive world.

It is more satisfying to read that opening story as a closer. It makes up for the flyweight quality of the other stories. "Strange Girl" is Stanley's final burst of inspiration at the end of a long series.

I look forward to D+Q's second volume of the Thirteen series. Having these brilliant stories restored to currency will be a great gift to the comics-reading world.

From Our Gang Comics #18: Food and Fear in "Tom and Jerry"

2011-07-11T19:31:00.000-07:00

I thought I'd posted all the "Tom and Jerry" stories written (and sometimes drawn) by John Stanley. This one was still waiting rediscovery. It's a relief--I am seriously low on new material to post, after three years and over 200 posts.

This isn't the post I wanted it to be. While I've been recovering from appendicitis, I've viewed the first seasons of writer-director Nat Hiken's two brilliant early TV sitcoms, Sgt. Bilko and Car 54, Where Are You? Dozens of times, I was struck by the similarities of Hiken's and John Stanley's work. They truly seem to come from the same comedic channel.

To do this post idea justice, I'll have to prepare several video excerpts from these two programs. The first seasons of both programs are readily available on legitimate DVDs. Those curious to explore this territory on their own are directed to those DVD releases, which are available from Netflix, I believe.

For now, here's another example of Stanley's low-key, high-stakes sitcomics via this obscure, rushed-looking entry in the "Tom and Jerry" series.

This particular issue of Our Gang Comics, with a cover date of July-August 1945, is from the late doldrums of World War II. Like several Dell titles of the era, this one was suddenly conflated to 36 pages from the usual 52. Existing stories were crudely re-formatted to fit on less pages.

This story appears to have been created for the more cramped page-count. Its artwork is particularly slap-dash. Traces of Stanley's layout drawings peep through here and there. The artist's energetic, loose brush-based style brings much energy to the pages. (It looks like it may be Otto Feuer doing these chores--what do you think, Thad K?)

Despite some reckless rendering that betrays the story's hasty production, its five pages of crowded, claustrophobic panels are full of Stanley's trenchant wit. Its theme of hunger and the existential search for food is a common Stanley subject.

There's a lot of chit-chat in this story. Stanley's rapid-fire banter is the saving grace of this minor episode. As is typical of this series, Stanley is more interested in the relationship of Jerry and Tuffy, the mice, and only brings Tom Cat in when it's time to raise the narrative stakes.

The Tubby-like attitude of Tom is particularly noticeable in this story. Tom's self-congratulatory chatter is genuinely amusing. He's not the cardboard villain of the MGM theatrical cartoons. He is a grade-A asshole, but his deluded high state of self-regard redeems him.

The interactions of Jerry and Tuffy, in the story's first three pages, are typically sharp. This verbal tennis would serve Stanley well in his later Little Lulu stories and, particularly, in the masterful writing of Thirteen Going on Eighteen in the 1960s.

The story peters out peculiarly in its last tier. That final panel is an enigma. I have no idea what's going on, or what the import of it is. Perhaps I'm just missing something.

Admirers of Stanley's pet phrases will enjoy the multiple CHOFFs and CHOMPFs that grace page two. The search for food quickly turns dangerous in Stanley's 1940s stories. Those in need of nourishment may become another character's entree or appetizer.

Though the back-and-forth dialogue of the two mice is deft and amusing, a certain grimness lays just beneath its surface. As in Stanley's later 1940s series, "Jigger and Mooch," the outsider characters (the mice) must go through a lot of trouble to keep alive and fed.

Stanley would refine this concept in Little Lulu, via the frequent hunger (and soliloquies on this state) of Tubby Tompkins. Tubby's broad character helps leaven the fear-factor of hunger considerably. We never worry that Tub will starve. In one of Stanley's greatest stories, "The Gourmet," Tubby shows his mastery of hunger, and his ability to manipulate adults.

Stanley's mice lead a much less secure existence. It makes them compelling characters, but the sadness of their plight always hangs in the air around them.

Steamy Stanley--and a bit sloppy, too: "Oswald Rabbit" from New Funnies 121, 1947

2011-06-27T16:42:00.000-07:00

Apologies for the long absence, friends. I have been suffering from appendicitis for the last week or so. I spent four days in hospital (how I'm gonna pay for that is the $64,000 Question!), went through a lotta fever and pain, and am currently resting at home. I didn't have surgery. They elected to fill me with antibiotics and run all the bad stuff out of my system.

This seems to have worked. The antibiotics leave me queasy most of the time, and my energy level is much lower than I'd like. Things I took for granted two weeks ago now require enormous will and planning to get done.

That said, I didn't want to leave you kind folks waiting. I happened to have this story scanned and in wait for that rainy day--which is here today.

Lack of energy calls for a brief write-up today. This story is part of a small group of John Stanley post-war domestic traumas, in which the average schmo tries to attain a consumer item (suit of clothes, car, certain foodstuffs) only to find it impossible. He/she has to settle for the lousiest substitution, and attempts a cheerful facade, altho' it's painfully apparent this ersatz item is a complete failure.

Stanley did a couple of stories about the scarcity of new cars in 1947. This is unusually topical for him. As I've noted often, Stanley chose to avoid any current-events references--one reason his stories still read well today.

Stanley also wrote the "Andy Panda" and "Woody Woodpecker" stories in this issue, both of which are inspired efforts. He also wrote and drew a WW one-pager, which appeared, in one color, on the inner front cover.

This "Oswald" story smacks of "uh oh! Deadline's tomorrow!" It reflects Stanley's admitted write-as-you-go policy. No plotting, no planning--just put pencil to paper and go. This approach often gives his work a freshness and immediacy seldom found in Western's stale postwar comics. It also, as in this story, could cause narratives to peter out, despite a few moments of inspiration.

This untitled story falls squarely in that category. Stanley would quickly do a follow-up "Woody Woodpecker" story, in New Funnies #124, with the same basic set-up, but more comedic and stakes-raising oomph.

As Oswald and Toby are bland, goody-two-shoes types, they seldom have enough on the ball to carry a story. Stanley realized that the situations had to run the show. He puts some effort into Happy Mike, the used-car salesman character.

There is one transcendent moment on p.5, where a motorcycle cop stops the Squinch Steamer, formerly driven by Happy Mike, but now with a dazed Toby behind the wheel. Two panels later, Oswald also wonders how his seat got shifted around as well. This moment makes up for the general meandering of the rest of the story.

Well, that's all the commentary I have energy for today. Thanks for checking in, and may yours be good health!

More Early Stanley Cartooning: Two Stories (and cover) from New Funnies 92, 1944

2011-06-09T19:41:00.000-07:00

This 1944 issue of New Funnies has eluded me for years. Thanks to a complex series of events, I finally have it.
To my delight, it has two of John Stanley's most flat-out funny 1940s stories.

As well, its cover (seen, in inset version, to your immediate left) and its "Woody Woodpecker" story
are drawn by Stanley. The WW story is, to my best knowledge, the first strip in the series Stanley both wrote and drew. (I'm still missing issues 87, 88 and 89 of New Funnies, and, for all I know, Stanley may have some early artwork in those. Time will tell, as ever.)

Stanley's vivid, spiky pen line and his more streamlined approach to cartoon art make his work a pleasure to look at--and to read.

This post is an extension of my prior entry--it again focuses on the 1940s comic book art of John Stanley. These two stories also showcase his skill as a comics comedian. Stanley's knack, even in 1944, lay in heaping stakes-raising situations atop one another. This house of cards proves shaky shelter for his befuddled protagonists. Their uncertainty and discomfort feed into the growing dilemma, and fan the flames of Stanley's four-color comedy.

Stanley's approach to character is also streamlined. His best characters have less subtle shadings than, say, Carl Barks' ducks. Stanley was never prone to moments of reflection, as in this famous sequence from Barks' 1949 story, "Luck of the North"

Stanley's characters tend to lead such rich inner lives--or are intensely focused on managing the path of those self-centered "Tubby types"--that they have little time or space for such quiet reflection.

In general, Stanley's characters are slaves to his narrative whims. Things happen because they're there. Things happen TO Barks' characters--his narrative sense is much more built on coincidence and the random whims of fate.

Stanley's characters almost always WANT something specific. This desire--usually Quixotic, at best--drives them into the narrative. Barks' characters are goal-oriented, and often desire a certain state, or thing. Barks' sense of story and comedy often takes them AWAY from their goal. The comedic tension of his best stories involves their frustration at not attaining their ideals or intended ambitions.

Much more can be said about the Barks vs. Stanley topic. I'm sure that what little I've said here will irk some readers; so be it.

Up first is a very funny "Andy Panda" story. The finished art and lettering are not Stanley's. The finishes look much like some of the Stanley-written work for Animal Comics, at the same time in 1944. The inker sticks very close to Stanley's layouts.

Early in this series, Stanley didn't hesitate to swap the roles of Andy Panda and his domestic partner, Charlie Chicken. Here, Andy is the impulsive chaos-causer, and Charlie the woebegone voice of reason. This welcome trade-off creates some hard-edged screwball comedy. Read 'n' enjoy!

Andy and Charlie leave a trail of destruction in their combined wake. Their obliviousness to the cause-and-effect arc of their actions--and their good-natured attitudes--are worthy of several strong belly-laughs.

Andy's decision to attend the baking contest in drag, while a necessary stakes-raising plot wrinkle, throws another screwball element into an already heady mix. Their destruction of a streetcar (always a talisman of narrative complexity in Stanley's world) with their anti-cake is among the funniest moments in all Stanley's work. That Andy is dressed in high heels and a Carmen Miranda hat, while all hell breaks loose, and that he retains his momma garb at story's end, adds further shadings of absurd humor.

In the end, these agents of chaos come out winners. No recriminations for their reckless actions--it's cash and acclaim for the cross-dressing bear and his faithful, bemused poultry pal. The absolute lack of morality in Stanley's 1940s work (save for a few moments in his early Little Lulu stories) is refreshing. It gives his work a modernity that makes it still fresh and readable, almost 70 years after its creation.

I've saved the best for last. This beautifully cartooned "Woody Woodpecker" story seizes the comedic potential of the character far better than any of his contemporary animated cartoons. As in the Walter Lantz cartoon shorts, Woody is an agent provocateur, all too ready to grind an ax if someone or something offends him.

In Stanley's hands, this potentially abrasive character earns our sympathy, even as he wreaks havoc in an escalating war of wills with a pragmatic park employee. The urban public park, with its un-comfy benches, forbidden flower beds and fountains, rolling hills, winding paths and fluffy trees, is a familiar stage setting of John Stanley's world. This park turns up time and again in his Little Lulu and Tubby stories. It's an open backdrop for the rollicking chaos of this six-page story.

Again, hard-edged comedy drives this story--Woody's ass-prodding on page one, his anarchic alteration of the sign on page two, and, of course, his desecration of the statue of James J. Twaddle. Woody's a-hole tendencies get the best of him, and he goes too far. His silent, story-closing humiliation seems apt.

Stanley's cartooning seethes with energy here. His characters are constantly in frantic motion, and their poses and body language add a great deal to the story's effect. What could have easily been six pages of knockabout filler brims with comedic life. The more angular, stylized tendencies of Stanley's cartooning are on attractive display here--the Twaddle statue, for example, and the more propulsive running poses of the woodpecker.

Had Stanley focused more on being a cartoonist, we might not have the body of Little Lulu stories--the cornerstone of his reputation as one of comics' finest writers, past, present or future. The literature of comics would be the worse for the lack of Lulu. The published examples of his 1940s cartooning are skillful and expressive, and show a potential that would not be fully realized for another 20 years.

John Stanley's World, Pt. V: The Search for Stanley's Cartooning

2011-05-27T09:52:00.000-07:00

John Stanley had an impressive amount of cartooning and comic book work published in the 1940s, '50s and '60s. With two exceptions that I know of--his New Yorker cartoon of 1947* and the lone issue of Marge's Little Lulu (#49, published in 1952) that credited him and his staff--none of it is signed. Stanley's signature first appears--in comic books--on the cover of Thirteen Going on Eighteen #12, dated August-October 1964:

By using Stanley's known cartooning as a guideline, I have been able to determine his hand as a cartoonist in a great deal of other material. Stanley's linework and lettering are the two most helpful tells for me.

Of the two, his lettering is the most distinctive. Stanley was something of a chameleon as an artist. He mostly did his best to emulate the house style of the various licensed characters he handled. This conformation didn't come easily to him.

In his Little Lulu stories, and in some of the "Woody Woodpecker" pieces he drew for New Funnies, Stanley deadens his line, and surrenders a great deal of his personality as a cartoonist. The end-results are professional, but they lack the energy of his best cartooning.

(There are numerous examples of his cartooning work elsewhere on this blog. Use the SEARCH tool to locate them, if you're interested.)

Stanley absorbed much of Marge Buell's style into his mid-1940s cartooning. He seems to have tried his hardest to make good on Lulu. This effort paid off, at the expense of his expressiveness as a cartoonist. The lumpen human figures and stiff lines of his 1946/7 "Woody Woodpecker" stories are extremely close to his Lulu work. Ditto for the humans and urban settings of his original "Jigger and Mooch" series.

Before the stiffness of Lulu set in, Stanley created some remarkable cartooning in the pages of New Funnies and Our Gang Comics. My study of these early efforts, using his distinctive lettering as a compass, has revealed several stories in these titles as being written and drawn by Stanley.

We also have his Little Lulu and Tubby covers, with their bold, vivid brush lines, as a visual guide. Stanley drew many covers for Western Publications, before, during and after his 15 years on Little Lulu. Here is one example, from issue 98 of New Funnies, cover-dated April 1945:

This is a superb example of his pre-Lulu cartooning. Its sharp, buoyant brush lines, vigorous characters and strong, simple design are striking and highly effective. (Stanley didn't draw the character mug-shots to the left, but that's his lettering on the "Walter Lantz" signature.)

Stanley was a great comics letterer, especially in the 1940s. Here's a sample from the "Tom and Jerry" story he wrote and drew for Our Gang Comics #15, 1944:

Strong lettering skills were de rigeur for cartoonists and illustrators in the 1940s. Other strong letterer/artists who worked for Western at the time included Carl Barks, Walt Kelly and Frank Thomas. These three artists consistently produced work so visually distinctive that their lettering, while a tell, is a moot provenance.

In his cartooning work of the mid-1940s, Stanley seemed to strive to NOT stand out as a stylist. While his artwork has an undeniable character and energy, as seen in the above two examples, it only exists to serve the story.

The one notable exception is his work for the Raggedy Ann and Andy title, in the late 1940s. His original series "Peterkin Pottle," and his stories with the titular characters, are rendered in a loose, vivid brush line that seems much influenced by the postwar UPA/cartoon modern style. These two series are utterly unlike his other comic book stories in their uncontrolled, playful artwork.

I have recently identified several stories in 1944/5 issues of New Funnies and Our Gang Comics as being drawn by Stanley. In those titles, and in Animal Comics, are other stories that Stanley didn't ink, but clearly lettered.

This "Woody Woodpecker" story, from New Funnies #98, is a superb example of his low-profile, highly effective comics art, and is a fine showcase for his expressive lettering skills:

The Walter Lantz cartoon studio, in Hollywood, must have seen and liked this story. They produced an Andy Panda cartoon, The Wacky Weed, directed by Dick Lundy and released on December 16, 1946, that's quite similar to the plot and gags of this piece. The recurring bit with the weed strangling the flower is straight out of this story.

The cipher-like Panda is less effective in the role of harried Voice Of Reason. Stanley's ur-Tubby Woodpecker is a richer choice for this simple, lively humorous narrative. Woody's desperate attempts to cling to the margins of the respectable world make his stakes higher than the contented, dialed-in suburbanite of the Lundy cartoon.

Stanley conveys Woody's frantic angst in aggressive, highly amusing cartoon poses, each line infused with life. His visual take on the woodpecker is closer-than-average to the contemporary animated cartoons. (He does an even finer job of matching the screen Woody in his story for New Funnies #93, which is here.)

I'm still missing a few early New Funnies with Stanley-written WW stories (#s 87-89: do you own them?) I'm curious if any of those reveal Stanley's hand as a cartoonist. He was on a roll before the demands of Little Lulu tamped down his vibrance as a comics artist.

Don't get me wrong--his work on the series is fine. I feel he consciously hemmed himself in, in order to please Marge Buell and cinch his position on the series. This spiky vitality wasn't absent from his other work--particularly in the 18 one-page Woody gag fillers he did for New Funnies in 1947 and '48. (You can peruse these spirited, exciting pieces here...)

Some of that former liveliness returns in his work on the satellite Tubby title, in the early 1950s, and in a scattering of stories he drew for Little Lulu in the same decade. These 1950s stories form a fascinating bridge from his pre-Lulu work to his important 1960s auteur efforts, especially Thirteen Going on Eighteen, which contains his finest mature work as a cartoonist.

I believe I've uncovered all of John Stanley's 1940s work for Western Publications (save for five or six New Funnies issues yet to surface). A more thorough examination of these stories may reveal more pieces Stanley illustrated during his on-the-job training as a comics storyteller AND artist.
_____________________________
*: I'm not convinced the cartoon of the 3/15/47 issue--viewable here--was his only published work for the magazine. File under "Awaiting Further Research." I hope to be able to do some research in the New Yorker archives, if/when I get a book going on John Stanley's life and work.

For Art-Lovers Everywhere: John Stanley Draws Little Lulu in "The Hooky Team," from Lulu Four-Color 139, 1947

2011-05-21T10:07:00.000-07:00

I did gigantic scans of this, one of John Stanley's longer Little Lulu stories, for the Jon Haddock art exhibit at the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art, which opens May 21st. Lucky patrons-of-the-arts in Scottsdale will enjoy seeing these scans adorning gallery walls, alongside other John Stanley stories, and works by Basil Wolverton, Rory Hayes, Fred Guardineer and others.

For those of us who aren't in Arizona (myself included!) I dedicate this post.

These scans are substantially smaller than the ones I provided for SMoCA, but they're still hi-rez, and have that unbeatable blend of pulpy, aged paper and off-center high-speed printing.

Most modern-day Lulu-philes will only have read this story in pallid black-and-white. Enjoy the textural goodness of 1947 newsprint, and savor one of Stanley's funniest early "Little Lulu" stories. As well, this story offers a long uninterrupted chunk of pure Stanley cartooning--albeit filtered through the awkward lens of Marge Buell's primitive style.

This is high-functioning, character-enriched situation comedy, which benefits from John Stanley's gentler, more thoughtful approach of his later 1940s work. The Stanley of the 1950s seldom did such relaxed, ambling stories. As well, his tendency to give the humor a more brassy, aggressive slant resulted in shorter stories.

Stanley, here, is on the verge of defining the characters of Lulu and Tubby. They're still more kid-like than the final versions, which would emerge by 1950. All the rules and regulations which would soon govern the series aren't yet present. For example, Lulu freely enters Tubby's club house, which is not yet sanctioned a no-girl zone.

Their personalities, rather than the story's narrative events, run the show here. Stanley indulges his enjoyment in the characters of Lulu and Tubby. Thus, "The Hooky Team" is a suite of leisurely set-pieces. My favorite is the Tubby-led sequence on pp. 14-17. As with Stanley's version of Jerry and Tuffy Mouse, from "Tom and Jerry," the adult world is still one of mystery and exploration. His impulse to answer the Moppets' phone, in the guise of a stereotyped English butler, is a keenly achieved moment of character comedy.

The kids' destruction of adult property, usually without a clue of their actions' affect on adults, is an early Lulu device that was dropped as the characters got more distinct--and smarter. Lulu and Tubby's transformation of women's high-heel shoes into viable footwear is among the funnier examples of this soon-discarded Stanley strategy.

Stanley enjoyed the off-beat ending. He didn't employ this device constantly. It's used to great effect at this story's conclusion. In such endings, Stanley assumed that his audience were smart readers, and gave them the benefit of the doubt.

That's all I've got for this story. I wish the SMoCA a successful, well-attended show. If you're in Scottsdale, or nearby, go see it!

Whistling in the Graveyard: "Woody Woodpecker," from New Funnies 118, 1947

2011-05-14T11:30:00.000-07:00

Here's a so-so "Woody Woodpecker" story, from John Stanley's most active period on the New Funnies title.

Before we begin, I'd like to share with you an image from the back cover of this 1947 funnybook. '47 subscribers to New Funnies received a sub-standard picture of Andy Panda, suitable for framing, and 100 of these delightfully casual lickem-stickem labels:

I love how the characters just stand there, doing nothing. Their gaze suggests that they're watching a fascinating event that we don't get to see. Nowadays, they'd have to engage in visual multi-tasking--throwing a Frisbee while texting, or eating a hot dog while skateboarding. (And, of course, Li'l Eight Ball, and his disproportionally freakish feet, would be literally out of the picture...)

That diversion (and catchy image to attract new readers) out of the way, here's today's story. There are my scans. Because I didn't have access to Photoshop, I had to leave 'em their amber tone of ancient newsprint. If nothing else,these scans offer a solid replica of reading the actual funnybook.

This untitled story has a schizophrenic structure. It begins as a domestic comedy of frustrations, and ends as a spook-show, populated with typical Stanley graveyard-humor tells. Woody acts Tubbishly throughout. No one would choose this as an example of John Stanley's best work. But even his detritus has some value. Read 'n' see...

This story shows the merits and flaws of Stanley's spontaneous story-telling. I'm sure that he had no idea the story would shift locales from apartment building to graveyard as he started writing and sketching.

That improvised approach lends a giddy air to the events, tho' they lack the more solid base of a carefully plotted narrative. But a more tightly planned story might not have the remarkable ending of this piece. Indeed, those last two panels save this story. They reinforce the random-Dada aspect of Stanley's Woodpecker. He is a creature of impulse, coasting from whim to whim, not much caring where these abrupt decisions take him.

Stanley was fond of the comically portentous figures seen in this story from p.4 on. The bearded character turns up in several of his 1944-47 stories. They remind me of R. Taylor's 1920s Canadian comic-strip, The Mystery Men, which I doubt John Stanley ever saw:

Taylor later became a successful cartoonist for The New Yorker and Playboy. Stanley briefly cracked the New Yorker market, but apparently abandoned it (file under "Research, Further"). Taylor's creepy saucer-plate eyed characters were popular enough to be compiled in hardcover in the 1940s.

The cartooning in this 1947 story is fluent and pleasing. The artist (Dan Gormley, I guess) took pains to make Woody look more like his on-screen version. It's graceful, appealing cartoon art, in which Stanley's hand is less evident that usual.

Stanley returned to the graveyard locale many times in his classic run of Little Lulu and Tubby stories. Stanley's graveyards all look alike, with those cliff-like raised plots and rounded purple-grey tombstones. Background elements are as much as Stanley "tell" as the chompfs and yows.

Next time, you'll see one of Stanley's longest stories, and how it ties into a contemporary art exhibit! Check back on May 21st for the full story...

Nifty John Stanley Free Comic Book Day Item!

2011-05-08T11:06:00.000-07:00

I braved a Seattle comics shop, with great reservations, yesterday, to obtain a copy of this charming 36-page full color giveaway comic book. I had to step fast five people dressed in Star Wars costumes, plus a Black Spider-Man who was digging through his backpack for something.

I almost didn't do it, but I'm glad I pushed past my mortification. Your local comic-book shoppe may still have copies of this li'l beauty on hand. It includes never-before-reprinted material from Dunc 'n Loo, Choo-Choo Charlie and Stanley's mega-paneled "Bridget" strip from Wham-O Giant Comics. Stanley's cartooning is well-represented with selections from Tubby and Thirteen Going on Eighteen. (D+Q credits Stanley with the finished art on the "Choo-Choo Charlie" story. I don't think the inks are his, altho' his late style comes through strongly via his layouts.)

Reproduction, as with D+Q's John Stanley Library, is quite pleasing.

I procured my copy and got the hell out of comic-book Dodge, holding my coat over my face, mobster-style, to avoid possible paparazzi. Slip discreetly into your local funnybook venue and see if you can lay hands on this nifty freebie!

Famous Funnies: An Early Stanley Trifecta from Animal Comics 10, 1944

2011-04-30T09:47:00.000-07:00

As John Stanley learned comics writing on the job, he took on several licensed properties. Among them were a suite of characters from the newly-formed Famous Studios' attempt at a Technicolor roster of animation stars.

Famous (formerly the Fleischer Studios) tried hard to create a hit in their early, lavish Noveltoons. None of the characters really stuck, save for the Brooklyn-voiced Herman Mouse. The cartoons themselves are curiously compelling, and show a certain promise never quite fulfilled.

Western Publications apparently got a one-year lease on the rights to the Famous "stars." They plopped them into the random mix of Dell's Animal Comics, which played host to Walt Kelly's "Albert the Alligator" (later Pogo) and, in its last issues, to an early John Stanley comic-book original, "Jigger and Mooch."

Stanley cut his comics-writing teeth on the Famous characters, alongside MGM's "Tom and Jerry" and Walter Lantz's "Andy Panda," "Woody Woodpecker" and "Oswald the Rabbit." Here, he formulated his writing style, sense of dramatic narrative stakes, and first played with the three archetypal characters that dominate his finest work.

These Famous-derived stories were completed by moonlighting Famous animators. While they're hardly masterworks, they're of interest as examples of Stanley's early work and emergent sensibilities as a writer and cartoonist.

A helpful tool for identifying these Famous Studios-employed artists is the Nedor funny-animal title Ha-Ha Comics. Several Fleischer/Famous staffers have signed work in the early issues of this magazine--including Jim Tyer, who designed the title's distinctive logo. Thanks to recent access to the first seven issues (via the remarkable Digital Comics Museum), Thad Komorowski and I have been able to put some names to the art of these three stories.

Stanley appears to have lettered the first of today's three stories--all from a single issue of Animal Comics. I didn't spot any artist signature, but the layouts are recognizable as Stanley's work. Who knows? It appears that he had some hand in the finished artwork. I'd wager the inker was Bill Hudson.

This "Hector" story, easily the best of today's offerings, is infused with knockabout low comedy and jaunty chatter. It contains many examples of Stanley's windmill motion, lots of loud SFX and one well-placed YOW. Its dialogue is crisp and witty; Stanley seems to have enjoyed writing this story.

"Blackie Lamb" never really registered with movie audiences. This blatant Bugs Bunny knockoff has a certain horrifying wise-ass charm. Stanley's few stories with this character show more interest in the villain, Wolfie, than in the ostensible protagonists. This is a weak story, but Wolfie's self-absorbed musings show us an early glimpse into the "Tubby Type." Thad K. has IDd the artist as Gordon Sheehan.

In the manner of Carl Barks' earliest "Donald Duck" short stories, this ain't much to write home about. More vivid physical comedy keeps the pace lively, and, as said, Wolfie's desperate ramblings and ravings are always of interest.

Stanley lettered this story, as well. The artwork doesn't reveal as much of his input as does the "Hector" story.

The last, and shortest, of today's offerings riffs off one of Famous' most accomplished and atmospheric one-shot Noveltoons. 1944's Cilly Goose. Thanks to the doings of Thad Komorowski, you can see this little masterpiece HERE.

Western did a few "Cilly" stories, at least one of them written and drawn by Walt Kelly, who inherited the Famous characters once Stanley had either tired of them or was otherwise forced to remove them from his workload.

This story, according to Thad K., is inked by Otto Feuer--later a mainstay of DC's generally lack-luster funny animal titles.

This four-page story doesn't amount to much, but the anxiety of its title character, as she attempts to transport her goose-fruit to market, and to grapple with common superstitions, is at least peppy. It has that unmistakable "Uh oh! Four pages still open! An' we go to press tomorrow morning!" feel to it. Stanley also lettered this story. It looks remarkably like the "Hector" story, so I'll wager that he laid it out as well.

This is a one-pager's worth of material s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d into four.

Via stories such as these, John Stanley learned how to write for comics. His enthusiasm often outweighs his ability in these early pieces, but the potential that would come to fruition by 1945 is already visible.

From a Minor Story, a Major Change: "Andy Panda and the Police Pup," Four Color one-shot 216, 1949

2011-04-22T09:44:00.000-07:00

We begin today's post with some accidental Pop Art. This image, taken from the back cover of a 1949 comic magazine, contains a printing flaw that evokes mid-1960s Andy Warhol. Suitable for framing, no?

As the barrel of available Stanley Stories gets scraped clean, lesser pieces, such as today's presentation, surface. "Andy Panda and the Police Pup" is noteworthy as the final John Stanley long-form story sourced from the Walter Lantz characters. By the time this one-shot was published, in late 1948 (it's dated 2/49), Stanley had otherwise severed his connection with the Lantz characters.

Stanley learned the tools of writing comic book narratives via these licensed properties. This genial, loopy story--a pulpy adventure with tongue jammed visibly in cheek--is an apt farewell to a couple of the characters with which Stanley honed his craft.

"The Police Pup" was on the newsstands alongside Stanley's ill-fated original series "Peterkin Pottle," which premiered in the January, 1949 issue of Dell's Raggedy Ann and Andy anthology. This story has a similar spoofing of genre conventions. It also has a thematic link with Stanley's 1947 comics-noir, "Lulu Is Taken For A Ride."

Stanley's prior Andy Panda one-shot, "The Mighty Mites," is among his strongest book-length narratives. This shares a little of that story's high-stakes drama, but Stanley is more interested in deflating standard pulp-fiction thrills than sustaining them.

Dan Gormley's vivid, spirited cartooning helps "The Police Pup" along. Look for a reference to another Dell Dan--a name Stanley fondly dropped, with regularity, in his late '40s work.

A comparison of this story with Stanley's earlier Andy Panda one-shot "The Mad Dog Mystery" reveals his changes as a writer and comedian in four short years. That is, once you reach page 19 or so.

The first half of this story is, quite frankly, poor work. The setting of the waterfront hoodlum hideout recalls "Mad Dog Mystery" and other early Stanley efforts. The decision to give Presto, the pup, the power of exposition, via thought balloons, is a real cheat. It's uncharacteristic of Stanley's writing. (The baffling, wacko comics edited by Mort Weisinger for DC's Superman titles, in the late '50s and early '60s, would also use this narrative trope--to alarming and amusing extremes.)

[NOTE: The following is supposition--there is no basis in known fact for any of this.] Did Stanley step in and finish another, lesser, writer's script? Or was our man having a bad day when he began this script? At this time, he had earned the right to be sick of the Lantz characters, and might have been eager to distance himself from them. He was trying to establish himself as a writer-cartoonist, a creator of innovative, original series--not a faceless servant of other people's properties. [End of supposition.]

Whatever the case may be (and we'll never know for certain), by page 19, something clicks. Suddenly, it lives and breathes as a John Stanley story. It's infused with broad comedy, absurd humor, and a higher level of energy. There are a few Stanley tells in the earlier pages--but those could have been retro-fitted in eleventh-hour haste. As with his spoofs on pop culture clichés in "Peterkin Pottle," he refuses to abide by the rules at this crucial halfway point.

This is a significant shift for Stanley, and marks an important change in direction for him. Earlier long-form stories, such as "Mad Dog" and the yet-to-be-presented-here "The City of Ice" (1946) take themselves much more seriously, a la similar stories written and drawn by Carl Barks, on the West Coast, for Dell's Donald Duck one-shots.

Though still a lesser story, "Police Pup" has moments of inspired nonsense: the mass of squarish, clumsy cops (one named Noonan, of course); Charlie Chicken's contortive attempts to plug the bullet holes in the boat; Presto's repeated reconnaissance missions to the criminals' hide-out to steal a rifle and ammunition; and, most memorably, the loquacious, poetry-spouting pelicans whom Andy shoots down at the story's frantic climax.

This last half is rife with classic Stanleyisms (windmill motions, ha! ha! ha!, SFX in speech balloons, loud SFX in general). These also suggest a shift from phoning it in to owning the material.

From this point on, Stanley's long-form MO would pursue inherent comedy and absurdism, rather than play along with genre formulas. The seven Peterkin Pottle stories Stanley created in 1948/9 were vital in assuring this change of habit. Having savaged adventure-story banalities (Western, super-hero, caveman, pirate, et al), via this series, it was harder to go back to the old ways.

Stanley plays it more-or-less straight in the 1952 Tubby story "The Bank Robber," which he also illustrated. Two issues later, with "Tubby's Secret Weapon," Stanley achieves a perfect balance of genre thrills and absurd comedy. Shortly thereafter, Stanley abandoned this traditional long-form narrative.

With the Little Lulu and Nancy and Sluggo summer camp specials, starting in 1957, he created a fresh approach to telling a longer story. Loose chapters, composed of incidental moments, layered together to casually present the longest narratives of Stanley's career. (Those stories are posted here, but you're going to have to find them on your own!)

John Stanley was the master of the short-form comics story. No one wrote them with more intelligence, impact and insight. His longer pieces took him out of this comfort zone. In them, he sometimes rambles or loses his way. In a 1976 interview, Stanley admitted that he made up his stories as he wrote them, with no planned ending in mind.

As this lesser story demonstrates, this approach sometimes misled him. It is fascinating to see Stanley regain his composure, after a lackluster start, and drive this story to a farcical, bright conclusion.

A Stanley Masterpiece, Short and Sweet: "The Gourmet," Marge's Little Lulu 5, 1948

2011-04-10T11:18:00.000-07:00

Thad K. mentioned this story in a comment he posted on our previous entry. I think I posted this story long ago on one of the earlier incarnations of Stanley Stories. It's never been reprinted in its original color version. In six pages, "The Gourmet" helped Stanley define the character of Tubby Tompkins. It's also one of John Stanley's funniest stories...

Stanley's version of Tubby Tompkins is a direct descendant of his Woody Woodpecker. In many of Stanley's WW short stories, which appeared in New Funnies from 1944 to 1947, Woody is an agent of chaos who appears in the lives of others. He is accepted by them, devastates their world, and moves on--all without knowledge of his actions, or their tsunami-like effects. This Woody story from 1945 anticipates the vibe of "The Gourmet"--with one significant difference.

Stanley never owned Woody the way he owned Tubby, and the other cast members of Little Lulu. By 1950, Stanley had utterly made the "Lulu" cast his own creations. His efforts were apparently sanctioned by "Lulu" creator Marge Buell. They made her steady money throughout the 1950s. She finally sold the characters outright to Western Publications. Lulu is now the property of Random House and Sony Classic Media.

Stanley's versions of Woody Woodpecker, Tom & Jerry, Andy Panda, et al, seem more like acts of stealth than of ownership. Stanley significantly retooled these popular characters for their comic book appearances. He did things to them that (a) imbued them with recognizable human personalities and (b) went 100% against the grain of their more high-profile animated cartoon personae.

No one seems to have complained as Stanley gave these ciphers an extreme makeover. Carl Barks, on the other side of the continent, invested the Donald Duck cast with strong personalities, and found himself more consistently challenged by his editors for it.

Barks had several completed stories rejected. At least one of them is lost; others were printed in the flawed but essential Carl Barks Library in the 1980s. To my best knowledge, Stanley only had one story withheld from publication--"The Bogeyman," a nightmarish, freaky piece that was slated for the 23rd issue of Little Lulu in 1950. It, too, later saw print, and can be had via Dark Horse Comics' black-and-white reprint series.

Stanley had greater freedom with his licensed properties, and thus took greater risks. All of this work, from 1943 to '47, prepared him for the assignment of Marge's Little Lulu.

As can be seen in our previous post, Stanley took a long time to transform the characters into living, recognizably human entities. His first two years of "Lulu" sees the cast slowly osmose from chase-the-dog-with-a-hatchet imps to solidly defined, distinct characters.

By the time of Little Lulu's debut as a regular title, Stanley had the characters' traits pretty well defined. He would hone them further through the end of the 1940s. The Tubby we see in this story, while fully recognizable, is still not 100% set. He retains much in common with the Tub we recently saw in "The Kid Who Came To Dinner."

The early Tubby is much more of a user than he'd soon become. By 1950, Tubby became both user and victim, and was thus more sympathetic. He was still guided by his wild id and enormous ego, as seen in "The Gourmet" and in our previous post. But he now had a conscience. This further enriched his character. His sense of right and wrong was now filtered through the lens of his considerable cognitive biases.

Tubby, from 1950 onward, has the unflappable sense that he is right in his thoughts and actions, despite alarming evidence that he isn't. This is the crowning touch to John Stanley's finest creation.

"The Gourmet," in six pages, significantly defined Tubby's still-changing character. Like Woody Woodpecker, Tub wanders into the lives of Henry and Mabel. This young couple are clearly outside their comfort zone, as they dine at The Ritz. In the invisible back-story that we're free to imagine, Henry and Mabel have probably saved for weeks to afford this meal. They're a bit nervous in this posh bistro. They don't know which fork to use.

As characters of lower status, in Stanley's world, they have bigger hearts. They don't realize that Tubby is the worst possible thing that could happen to them. They do the right thing by asking him inside and giving him food. It's too bad that they chose Tubby, who is merely window-shopping, and viewing their meal as a kind of street theater.

Getting inside The Ritz is, likely, the last thing on Tubby's mind, as he hovers at the window, fogging up the glass with his anxious breath. His fixation is mistaken for genuine need. Henry and Mabel are about to have their lives shattered, and Tubby to have his ego--and stomach--further fortified.

What follows is a breathless episode of gluttony--beautifully timed and presented. Stanley's use of time-specific captions are riotously funny. The bewildered, big-hearted young couple sit back in mounting astonishment/horror as Tubby packs away a four-course meal. As he has been invited to eat, on their dime, Tub chooses from the menu with zeal. He takes the opportunity to try new things--and to get as much as possible while his meal ticket remains open. Henry and Mabel seem to have barely touched their spartan entrées.

The young couple is punished for their kind actions. We don't see their punishment, but it is acute social embarrassment for them, outcome regardless. It will be years before they dare show their face again at The Ritz.

As their woes increase, Tubby drifts out of the scene, innocent of the havoc he's wreaked. In the story's poetic conclusion, the presumably-stuffed Tubby stops to admire a hot dog stand. This suggests, ala the ending to Chuck Jones' cartoon One Froggy Evening, that the scenario may soon play itself out again. Tubby's curiosity, openness and appetite are bottomless.

As a chaser, here's a one-page strip from the same issue. It can be seen as an epilogue to "The Gourmet."

Stanley Draws Lulu: "The Kid Who Came to Dinner," Little Lulu Four-Color one shot #146, 1947

2011-04-04T09:19:00.000-07:00

I recently consulted with the Scottsdale Museum of Contemporary Art, and provided some John Stanley material for an upcoming exhibit which will feature work by artist Jon Haddock. He names John Stanley as one of his influences, as well as other comics creators.

Since I did these hi-rez scans, and pretty much trashed an old comic book in the process, I thought it prudent to share them with those of you who can't make it out to Arizona to see this exhibit. (Ditto for those who only know the black-and-white version of this story, via the Dark Horse reprints.)

"The Kid Who Came To Dinner" was one of a few "Little Lulu" stories personally chosen by Mr. Haddock for the exhibition.

Doing these scans (along with "The Hooky Team," the third-longest "Lulu" story, also published in 1947) gave me a fresh look at these long-familiar stories. It reminds me how easy it is to take Stanley's Little Lulu for granted. In '47, Stanley's Lulu was still a work in progress. His take on the characters continued to evolve until the end of the 1940s. Their actions, reactions, motivations and frustrations remained essentially the same until later in the 1950s.

At this time, John Stanley did the bulk of the artwork for this series. His somewhat spikier, more animated style is muted by the need to conform to Marge Buell's near-primitive look and feel. The awkwardly designed characters wouldn't really look right 'til Irving Tripp became the inker, circa 1950.

Stanley's hand emerges when the characters themselves are agitated. Flashes of his 1960s work can be glimpsed through the cracks. He acquits himself well in the consistency of character proportions, from panel to panel. This is hard work, especially with poorly-designed cartoon characters.

This need for discipline takes most of the life out of Stanley's work. I wish his Little Lulu work of the '40s looked better. Compared to his loose-limbed work on "Peterkin Pottle," "Raggedy Ann and Andy" and his series of "Woody Woodpecker" one-pagers (all on display elsewhere in this blog), his Lulu cartooning seems stymied.

Stanley was a talented, expressive cartoonist, and it's hard to see him tamped down so much on these '40s Lulu pieces.

This story's title is an allusion to a popular play (made into a hit 1941 movie) by George S. Kaufman and Moss Hart, called The Man Who Came To Dinner. The play gave Monty Woolley the role of a lifetime as a-hole/art critic Sheridan Whiteside.

The story features an early version of Tubby Tompkins--the most essential John Stanley character. Stanley's Tubby was still a work in progress. As with Lulu herself, Tub seems more a genuine kid in this 1947 piece. Here, he's more arrogant that Quixotic.

The most important thread to the finalized Tubby is his unwavering sense of self-rightness. Like Larry David's persona on the TV program Curb Your Enthusiasm, Tubby makes aggressive, eagerly expressed statements that ripple the calm waters of mid-century American civility.

Stanley sets this story at a familiar familial Ground Zero--the dinner table.

Tubby's anti-social antics steal the show in "The Kid Who Came To Dinner." In this still-developing state, his brash, larger-than-life persona overpowers the intended calm of the Moppet household.

Stanley had yet to refine his interpretation of the Lulu character. She is not the wise voice of reason we see in the 1950s stories. She still retains some of her spitfire quality from the Marge Buell gag cartoons. The Lulu of, say, 1952 would never be this mouthy or impulsive. It's clear that she resents Tubby's usurpation of the family dinner table routine.

Lulu's parents do their best to maintain proper decorum, despite the series of challenges hurled at them by Tubby's presence and personality. Lulu's father cracks under the stress. Her mother retains her cool, altho' it's clear to see her bewilderment at Tubby's presence.

Tubby's love of food often leads him to physical discomfort. Here, as in Stanley's masterpiece-level "Great Day" (Little Lulu #23), Tub has a rapt audience for his theater of nausea. By the sign of one Stanleyism--spots before the eyes--we have evidence that Tubby is indeed queasy. He seizes this opportunity for higher status, and flaunts it for all it's worth.

I'm impressed by the subtle layering of the last page--which ends on a note of quiet melancholy. Those last two panels are masterful. The doctor, meant for Tubby, begins to examine Lulu's harried father. As this happens in the background, we see Lulu's mother reach for the note Tubby scrawled.

That final frame is amusing and sad-making, in equal measures. Lulu's mother has no expression on her face. In the wake of Tubby's anti-social visit, the note's vague, convincingly childlike accusation is a jarring coda. I would imagine Mrs. Moppet was subdued and glum for the rest of the evening.

Although John Stanley's Little Lulu was still a work in progress, in 1947, his emergent sophistication as a writer, shaper of characters, and status-tician is strongly felt in "The Kid Who Came to Dinner." This story is a great choice for the walls of an art gallery.

"Adventures of Tom:" Stanley's Other Fractured Feline, from Our Gang Comics 49 and 50

2011-03-25T19:27:00.000-07:00

I am sad to say that I'm exhausting my reserves of John Stanley material! It is a reminder of how much of his work is currently back in print--the entirety of his Little Lulu (except for the six giant-size specials of the '50s), a good deal of Tubby, all of Melvin Monster and, eventually, the remainder of Stanley's post-Lulu humorous comics.

The only open territory is the 1940s and '50s material that doesn't feature Marge Buell's properties. There's still some of that to go. That will involve some serious scanning on my part.

For today, here are two delightfully perverse stories from the "Adventures of Tom" series in Dell's Our Gang Comics. These are the last two Stanley wrote, from his short second term as the writer of "Tom and Jerry" and this feature, in 1948. (Many of Stanley's stories from this second run are posted on the blog now, including this alarming double-feature.)

By this time, John Stanley was dialed into the character of Little Lulu's Tubby Tompkins--easily the most complex and compelling figure in his comics work. Tubby's self-delusional personality, and his refusal to face reality or conform to societal expectations, rubbed off handsomely on Tom Cat. For the first and only time in the character's long mass media career, Tom was endowed with a neurotic, believable persona in these Stanley-written stories.

Tom is a hapless soul, and could benefit from some intense therapy sessions. But, like Stanley's colorful losers, he is fascinating. He does the wrongest things with the highest fervor and we sit back and watch it happen, unable to change the flawed course of his behavior.

Much like Tubby Tompkins, Tom is obsessed with an unobtainable romantic partner. Toots, a svelte white cat seen in some of the MGM animated cartoons, has him constantly crawling on his knees, in a mode of unending humiliation and torment over someone he'll never really have. He's cut short by a better-off rival, Bob Cat, who is clearly making more money than Tom, is a snappier dresser (Tom chooses to "go native" in his grey-and-white birthday suit) and a far more aggressive asshole.

In Stanley's world, the Bob Cats always get the girl. The Toms are doomed to dream and make repeated failed attempts at a prize they'll never, ever win. Does this keep them from making this conquest their life's goal? You, of course, know the answer to this question.

From OGC #49:

Tom's low social status, his cruel treatment by Toots and Bob Cat, and his near-death-by-drowning experience make this a particularly disturbing story. In anticipation of Stanley's more distanced, omniscient tone of his 1960s comics, Tom is adrift and helpless in a world that really doesn't want him around.

His poverty forces him to cut corners in his doomed romantic quest. We see him hitch a non-paying ride on a streetcar (clearly not the first time he's done this, given his familiarity with the position). More sadly, we watch him squeeze under the beachside dressing room in order to avoid the 50 cent entry fee.

Tom's almost-death scene, which occurs on pp. 4 and 5, is as intense as Stanley's horror comics of the 1960s. As he struggles to hold his breath, his tail entombed in a giant oyster shell, his mind plays out probability scenarios in which Toots and Bob are married, have children, and have clearly forgotten about Tom. Tom's enormous ego saves his life. He can't stand these thoughts, and they upset him enough to not succumb to the sleep in the deep.

This sequence, which ends with an ignoble Tom emerging from the sea, the huge oyster trailing behind him, is downright grim. He is greeted with contempt by Toots and Bob. Yes, he finds a huge pearl inside the oyster. And, yes, Toots is swayed by Tom's sudden wealth. But do you honestly think anything good will come of this?

Tom resolves to play it cooler towards Toots, as he hitches another non-paying ride home, but the writing's on the wall. We don't see the scenes that follow, but we can imagine them. Pure cartoon noir: Tom wines and dines Toots until his money runs out. When he's poor again, Toots rebounds to Bob, and Tom is again an agitated outsider.

And there's more! This remarkable (and final) "Adventures of Tom" story brings Tom's rich cognitive biases to the fore. Again, his ego drives his actions in this story, aided by his enormous fantasy life, which blurs the lines of reality for the poor addled feline.

This is another disquieting story. Some of Stanley's wittiest writing graces its dialog. Tom's "Tubby Talk" reinforces his characteristic belief that he is right in all things, and that it's obvious everyone should regard him as a brilliant, charismatic being.

Stanley shows us the dichotomy between Tom's deluded self-image and the harsh reality of his life. He prepares for an abysmally failed chat with his would-be GF, Toots, as he bubbles over with optimism, self-assurance and wit.

The call fails, and he flies into a rage. His resolve to become a hermit is simultaneously amusing and heart-breaking. Tom's inventory of his "chattel" is one of the most sublime moments in the John Stanley catalog.

His waking dream of revival, 40 years in the future, pushes the envelope of Tom's character and motivation. He sees himself almost half a century hence--bearded, toothless and cackling. He, of course, has to look up Toots, who is older, fatter, and, of course, married to Bob Cat. Tom gets an eyeful of Toots' shapely daughter and makes a Larry David-worthy decision. If you strike out with the mother, why not go for her daughter?

This is a perverse stroke of Tom's hyperbolic imagination. Of course, Tom's fantasies play out exactly like his real life. He wakes from his dream, again enraged, and returns to the real world for more suffering. The story ends on a characteristic off-note--while the conclusion is funny, it seems incomplete. Given how fragmented and frustrating poor Tom's life is, this finis is appropriate.

I don't know if Stanley knew this would be his last "Adventures of Tom" story, or if he cared. These last two installments, among the darkest of Stanley's pre-1960 work, are bracing chapters in a troubled, unhappy comic-book existence. His Tom, as I've commented before, is far more sympathetic and interesting than the Hanna-Barbera version. I can't imagine anyone allowing a modern-day cartoon character to be reshaped so darkly and carefully as is John Stanley's Tom Cat.

Well, now to get back to writing some Wacky Packages gags...

Koupla Kokonino Konvulsions: stories from Krazy Kat #548, 1955

2011-03-13T11:23:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since we looked in on John Stanley's version of Krazy Kat. Thus, here are three stories (and a cover) from one of the mid-1950s one-shot KKs. These were published in Dell's "Four Color" series--a 1300+ issue run that proves the utter validity of Sturgeon's Law as refers to funny-books.

I detect some of Stanley's hand in the finished artwork of these stories--perhaps it's just the influence of his layouts, more strongly felt than usual, in the final versions.

In this later run of Krazy Kat, Stanley embellished the original love-hate triangle created by originator George Herriman. One notable change: Krazy, him/herself, has become more of a loose cannon than in the 1951/2 run. He/she often competes with Ignatz Mouse for the "Tubby Type" role in these stories.

Ignatz still triumphs as the Tubbiest of the lot, but in having two unpredictable figures playing against a staunch authority figure (Offissa Pupp), Stanley gives himself more license for character-driven comedy.

Here's the cover...

Today's first selection explores a typical Krazy Kat situation: the constant imprisonment of the anarchy-minded Ignatz, for crimes of brick-hurling. We also see aspects of Ignatz' relationship with his primo victim/enabler, Krazy. This comic-book Sid and Nancy romance is barely tolerated by Pupp, who realizes he is ultimately unable to run interference in this love-hate affair of cat and mouse...

In this second run of Krazy Kat, Stanley has relaxed into the characters, and is more confident about adding personal touches to a forbiddingly private world. John Stanley was of the right age to have been enormously affected by George Herriman's original version. To hip readers of the 1920s and '30s, Herriman was the comics' godsend. To the average reader, Krazy Kat was a migraine source--best skipped en route to "Tillie the Toiler."

Walt Kelly's Pogo attracted a similarly adoring, fervent fan base in the 1950s. Kelly's work made a bigger impact on The Average Joe, circa 1952, than Herriman's did in its prime.

While comics scholars and more adventurous readers still see plenty to love in the work of Herriman and Kelly, the average reader of 2011 is hard-pressed to find a point of entry into either man's work. Both creators' intensely playful use of phonetic language does not scan well in an increasingly less literate world. Kelly's contemporary political references, especially in the 1950s daily strips, while enlightening for those who know history, can be baffling to uninformed newcomers.

By 1955, Stanley had fully honed his sensibilities as a writer and storyteller. In the 1951/2 Krazy Kat, Stanley handles the characters timidly, as if they might bruise easily. A few years later, he more forcefully blends his ideas with Herriman's creations. His wordplay dominates these later KK stories--in a way that, coincidentally, ties them with Kelly's contemporary Pogo.

Kelly and Stanley were colleagues, and obviously admired each other's work. I think Stanley was trying to do a Pogo with these Krazy Kat stories--not an imitation, but an attempt to connect rich elements in a similar manner.

Back to the comics: Ignatz attempts to enter the world of commerce, with vexatious results, in this untitled solo story.

Like Stanley's version of Woody Woodpecker, Ignatz is an agitated outsider. His attempts to mesh with the everyday world end in frustration and disappointment. Here, the mouse is victimized by various species--he forgot to remember that his clientele tends to be predatorial!

His only potential paying customers--the elephants--freak out due to that old elephant-fears-mouse business. Even stalwart authority figure Offisa Pupp refuses to pay a dime for an apple.

Ignatz admits defeat soberly, without a temper-tantrum or other destructive urges. One genuinely feels sorry for him, at story's end.

I've saved the best for last. Anytime a John Stanley story involves a creative act, such as painting, poetry or sculpting, an odd reflex kicks in. His creators are typically suspect figures--and their admirers and financiers deluded, decadent fools.

The naive, sweet-natured Krazy defies Stanley's general attitude towards artists. His/her creative impulse is applauded and supported by the self-important Pupp. Krazy's kreative kwalities are only thwarted by the jealous, resentful Ignatz--who simply can't stand for the kat's attention to stray from him for too long.

The disastrous unveiling of a sculpture is a repeated comic trope in Stanley's work. It was, apparently, a moment he savored in his stories. The unveiling of a comatose Pupp-as-statue elicits a genuine YOW! from Ignatz.

While Stanley does not condemn the artist as a phony in this story, he gets comic mileage from the piece of art itself being deceptive. Krazy's cheerful myopia allows him/her to mistake the KO'd, prone Pupp as her handiwork. Pupp makes the most of his shock-value unveiling, and nabs his usual suspect in the resulting fracas.

It's a clever touch, but the story's last page again reinforces Stanley's apparent belief that artists--and their admirers--are absurd. Stanley made a living from his own relentless creativity and problem-solving. It seems odd that he had such an apparent axe to grind about artists and their world.

This situation shows up far too often in John Stanley's work--from start to finish in his career--to be a coincidence. Is this some kind of self-hatred, creeping into his work?

John Stanley isn't around to answer this question. The dark side of his work stems, I believe, from this apparent self-loathing. Stanley was dismissive of his efforts, in the one or two interviews of his that I've read. Although his muse came through for him like clockwork, he seemed not to have much faith in it.

In a August, 1965 interview for his local paper, the Peekskill, New York Evening Star, Stanley, then hard at work on his auteur series Thirteen Going on Eighteen and Melvin Monster, confessed to reporter Dorothy Krumeich:

Right from the beginning, I always felt ‘I can’t do another’ at the completion of every book—there never seemed to be an idea left in me.

Stanley's best work appears almost effortless. Like Harvey Kurtzman's artwork, it appears spontaneous to the spectator, and does not betray the blood, sweat and tears that went into its creation. Was creativity a constant struggle for John Stanley? If so, it was a battle he successfully fought for 25 years.

Stanley was a heavy smoker and drinker. His son, James, in an interview for Alter-Ego magazine in 2005, matter-of-factly states: "He suffered from depression and alcoholism." Jim Stanley speaks more about his father's state of mind in this fascinating and honest interview. Both this and the 1965 newspaper piece on John Stanley can be found in issue 54 of Alter-Ego magazine.

This is a sobering note on which to end this posting. We know so little of John Stanley the person. His work leaves behind apparent, tantalizing clues that it did not come easily to its creator. Creativity can often be a difficult, demanding process, as any writer, artist or musician can tell you. The golden moments, when one seems to be merely the messenger of inspiration, are gruesomely outweighed by uncertainty, confusion and those sad moments of I-got-nothin'.

We are fortunate that John Stanley could consistently set his demons aside to write, and sometimes illustrate, transcendent comics stories. Knowing that they apparently did not come easily to their creator gives us more to savor and appreciate about the work itself.